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Asher
Asher stood off to the side of the stage, peering out at the gathering crowds. People of all walks of life came filtering down the aisles of the Greek Theatre. It was a large, atmospheric outdoor arena with stadium seating—more than five thousand seats to be filled with singing, cheering fans. There was a line forming at the front entrance of the white building, which fed through to the other side. The rows of red seating were split into three sections, one to the left, right, and center of the stage. They extended out and upward, making the performance space feel truly enclosed and separated from the world. On all sides, the tops of lush green trees waved in the breeze. Behind the great stage loomed the light-drenched hills of Griffith Park, covered in shrub and trees. The Theater looked like it had been scooped from the middle of the city and transplanted into the center of some wild forest. The surrounding greenery lent even more magic to the ambiance there. Fresh air, beautiful scenery, and the promise of a rockin’ good show.
Asher found the whole setting quite inspiring. He loved to soak up the contagious excitement of the crowd. His serene green eyes focused closely on their big smiles and uproarious laughter. But he also took note of the brushing of two hands together, fingers intertwining as a lovey-eyed couple found their seats. He saw the way three young teen girls formed a chain of linked hands, their faces alight with shimmery makeup. They all wore outfits in the same vein as Giselle’s distinct style, except for their merch shirts with the black, blood-dripping lettering of TORTURED HEARTS across the chest. Below it was an anatomical heart, in a deep purple hue instead of the usual red, with an arrow shot through it. Asher counted several variations of the same shirt throughout the growing crowd, and it made him smile.
Every part of the industry intrigued him. Of course, he had a talent for the technical side and the poetic angle, but he was entranced by the mythos built up around the musicians themselves. Giselle was not just a talented young songstress to these folks. She was a legend of the stage. She was a blueprint for style, dress, and attitude. She was their soft-rock priestess, here from the netherworld to bring them songs from the soul. Asher had no doubt that her music really spoke to them on a heart-to-heart level. Giselle’s fans didn’t just admire her, they related to her. They found little pieces of themselves reflected in her, and it made them love her even more.
Not that she was exactly difficult to love. Even when she was at her maximum brattiness, Asher couldn’t help but watch her with the gentle fascination of a gardener tending an especially thorny but beautiful rose. She was so utterly touchable, from head to toe. Asher turned back to see her deeper in the recesses of the backstage area, being pruned and plucked at by a team of stylists. Her frame was adorned with a shimmery nude bodysuit, the bodice of which was a laced stay. With the laces tightly wound at her back, the stays pressed her breasts together, creating a dramatic deep vee of cleavage.
Asher’s hands twitched. He craved to feel the weight of those tits in his palms, grope and squeeze them while he flicked his tongue around her perky nipple. He wondered how silky that bodysuit would feel under his fingertips as he traced the slope of her narrow waist. He wanted to grab her the way Blaze grabbed her at Escondido Canyon when he lifted her onto his Harley.
Asher hadn’t been able to push that image from his mind since it happened two days ago. He still felt a twinge of regret that he wasn’t the one to drive Giselle home when her tires went flat. Strangely, it wasn’t envy that made his heart thump at the memory. He felt no ill will toward Blaze, only a simmering, ever-present desire to be closer to Giselle. He thought about how intimate they looked, with Giselle wrapped around Blaze from behind as the motorcycle rumbled off into the desert distance. Asher wanted that. He wanted to feel her heat against his body, breathe in her spicy feminine scent, and listen to her heartbeat at his back. His drive home in the Cadillac was long and contemplative. He had spent the ride thinking about all the beautiful things he had seen: trees, mountains, desert dunes, flowers, a waterfall—and how none of it compared to Giselle. Even here, in the amphitheater filled with people and bright lights and a vibrant stage setup, Asher was most intrigued by her.
“Okay, guys, that’s enough. Any more hair spray and my lungs will give out,” Giselle said to her team, shooing them back with her dainty hands.
They stepped back, hair curlers and makeup brushes in hand, to reveal their finished product. Asher’s jaw dropped. Now that he could see her clearly, he was in awe.
Giselle’s bodysuit clung to every inch of her petite frame. The nude material gave the split-second impression that she was naked, but a second glance proved otherwise. The bodysuit clung to her every curve and swell, and the tiny jewels glittered in the light when she moved. A sheer, shimmery drape of fabric hung around her hips, open in the front to reveal her long, shapely legs. She wore her trademark ripped fishnet stockings, as well as a pair of transparent, four-inch-tall platform shoes. Asher wondered how she could even stand up in them, much less parade and dance around the stage like she usually did. Especially tonight. Performing at the Greek Theater was a massive step up from the small-stage show at the Maroon Room.
While Asher’s eyes were locked on Giselle, he felt a looming presence sidle up next to him. Blaze leaned in to murmur, “Doesn’t leave much to imagination, does it?”
Through the noise offstage, Giselle’s voice punctured clear as a bell.
“How does the crowd look?” she demanded, staring at Asher and Blaze.
As though summoned by some supernatural force, both men fell in perfect step to reach her quickly. Asher wondered how she managed to wrap them both around her finger so easily. He and Blaze were teetering on the edge of professionalism now, and they knew it. But how could either of them think clearly when Giselle was in front of them, looking like that?
“The amphitheater is filling up fast,” Blaze said.
“It’s going to be a full house,” Asher agreed.
Giselle let out a little squeal of excitement and bounced up on the balls of her feet. Her platforms thumped on the wooden stage, and Asher couldn’t even pretend like he didn’t notice the way her breasts jiggled, as well. Again, he felt that twinge of white-hot desire. He wasn’t supposed to want her, but damn, he did.
What was wrong with him? Asher had never struggled with this before. No matter how beautiful and willing his former clients were, he never once allowed his professionalism to slip. He knew better than to get involved with a coworker, even one as delicious as Giselle. He was here to support her, observe her in her natural habitat, and brainstorm songwriting leads.
“I love a packed arena. The bigger the crowd, the bigger the thrill,” she whispered to them. Her amber eyes were wide with elation.
Asher wished he could press his hand to her chest and feel her heart racing. Her enthusiasm was catching. Asher and Blaze found themselves grinning back at her.
At that moment, Matt and Jimmy finally emerged from their own style team cocoons, looking put-together and shined up for the show, but still greatly subdued in comparison to Giselle’s over-the-top ensemble. They each wore grayish faded jeans with black t-shirts, plus a red flannel for Matt and a white one for Jimmy. Far from glassy platforms, they wore artfully beat-up high-top sneakers. It dawned on Asher once again how hard Giselle had to work. Her words at the Canyon echoed back to him.
“I can do all the same things you can do—but in heels.”
She was right.
“Griffith Park, my dudes!” Matt exclaimed as they sauntered up, already strapped with his guitar. He held out a fist for Blaze and Asher to gently bump.
Jimmy was rubbing his hands together, anxiously glancing out at the stage. He didn’t say a word. Asher recognized that drive—he was downright salivating to get his hands on those drumsticks and feel the rumble of percussion at his fingertips. It was the same compulsion that drove Asher to the piano keys night after night until the wee hours of morning.
Matt stopped and made a big show of looking Giselle up and down. He shook his head and laughed, “No mistaking who the lead singer is here.”
“Are you looking to trade outfits?” she teased back, with a flounce of her sheer skirt.
Matt shrugged and said, “I think I’d pull it off.”
“What do you think, Asher?” Giselle said, and suddenly the hairs on the back of Asher’s neck stood up. Hearing his name in her voice, the way the syllables looked on those lips.
Time stood still for just one crystallized moment. Asher’s heart stumbled and missed a beat. He felt like the wooden stage was going to give way beneath him. Blaze, Matt, Jimmy, the stylists, the crowd—none of them existed.
