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Asher
It was a balmy, radiant evening in West Hollywood. Asher gazed out the window of the bus, watching the clouds slowly bend and twist around the setting sun. Pink and purple streaked the sky over the apartment buildings and storage facilities on Santa Monica Boulevard. The big box stores shrank down to mid-sized shops and cafes as the bus rolled through the more popular, scenic stretch of the main thoroughfare. It was a Sunday night, and the streets were already filled with people shopping, chatting, and stepping into restaurants for a froufrou cocktail and an expensive steak. One thing that could always be said about Los Angeles: it was prime real estate for people-watching.
Even inside the bus, Asher had a lot to focus on. He could easily afford to drive one of his restored Cadillacs and pay for the overpriced parking, but he loved to mix things up and take public transportation when the mood struck him. Certainly, his parents would have something to say if they saw him riding around LA on a bus. A lot of questions, at the very least. His family was never obscenely wealthy, especially compared to the one-percenters living in the very same city. But growing up, Asher never really had to worry about where his next meal would come from. He never stayed awake at night staring at the ceiling, wondering where his family would go once rent was due. His parents were highly educated and successful. His brother was even more educated and arguably even more successful. Asher had been given all the tools he needed to succeed in life, too, from a very young age. During his childhood, he wanted for nothing.
Most of the people around him seemed to have come from the same background. In the music industry, it was inevitable to run into nepotism cases, kids who had simply tripped and fallen into their parents’ preordained wealth. Los Angeles was a city of excess, and the people here who did have money tended toward hedonism. Everything was over the top. Everything was unnecessarily trendy, aesthetically pleasing, and luxury-oriented. It made sense, of course, for Tinsel Town. Living here was akin to living on a film set sometimes. It was easy to be swept up in the rat race, the instinct to hoard wealth and live the high life. But as a born-and-raised Angeleno, Asher saw no reason why he had to conform to that stereotype.
He looked around the inside of the bus at the other passengers, doing his best not to be too obvious about it. Asher kept his notebook on his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear, partly obscured by his blond hair, which kept falling across his forehead, only for him to sweep it back. He took down notes, just little things, like the way an old woman with a sour face brightened up for a split second when she looked at her phone. He wondered what she saw there, who it was that made her smile. A grandson? Her husband? Maybe just a lifelong friend who always tells it like it is?
A young woman sat toward the front of the bus, her leg jiggling as she bounced a sleepy, drooling baby on her lap. Behind her, a man swiped through a dating app at breakneck speed. Standing up in the aisle across from Asher was a woman bogged down with at least six shopping bags, and her husband who kept trying to get her to offload the bags onto him, but she was too proud. Asher smiled softly to himself. The woman reminded him of Giselle—too stubbornly independent to let anyone share the burden.
His heart skipped a beat when Giselle’s beautiful face swam to the front of his mind. His hands fidgeted in his lap. He looked out the window as the bus rolled down Melrose Avenue, toward the stop he was waiting for. Soon, he would get to see her again. He was desperate for more face time with Giselle, even though he had just spent the day with her yesterday at the beach. There was no such thing as too much Giselle, as far as Asher was concerned. No matter how sassy her attitude got, it was a thrill to be around her. That chaotic, sensual energy was intoxicating. Addictive, almost. By the time the bus squeaked to a wobbly halt at the side of the road, Asher was raring to go. He gracefully slipped through the obstacle course of standing and seated passengers and hopped off, thanking the bus driver in the process. The adrenaline coursed through his veins as soon as his shoes hit the sidewalk.
He peered down the street, following the seductive scent of fresh Italian food and soft music emanating from a small, chic restaurant. As he walked, he shed the oversized blazer he was wearing to reveal his casual wear beneath. He straightened his posture and his tie as he approached the entrance, where a group of young women were babbling and drinking bubbly together, waiting for a table to open up. All the girls fell silent and stared with alcohol-tinged lust at Asher. He simply smiled and gave them a polite nod.
“Ladies,” he said gently.
They giggled and nudged each other, whispering in each other’s ears while Asher walked up to the maître d’ podium. The restaurant dining room was a-buzz with conversation and soft laughter. Upbeat instrumental music played underneath it all, adding a sense of lightheartedness to the sumptuous interior. The walls were hung with velvety tapestries, layered over printed wallpaper with floral and animal motifs. Small golden lamps emitted amber light, matching the sconces along the walls. People sat at intimate little tables with white tablecloths and satiny armchairs that would’ve looked equally at home in some stately mansion from the 1800s.
“Benvenuto a Isabetta,” greeted the maître d’.
“Buongiorno. I have a reservation under Tate,” Asher said.
The maître d’ scanned his clipboard and looked up with a smile. His eyes quickly raked up and down Asher’s body, as well, and a faint look of approval crossed his face. Just like the young women at the door, this guy liked what he saw.
As much as Asher appreciated the implicit compliments, he was only interested in what one woman in particular thought about him tonight. And seeing as she had a tendency to make a big entrance (a few minutes late, as a rule), Asher was eager to get their table sorted.
“Ah, yes. Eight-thirty, Tate. Come with me, sir,” the maître d’ said, coming out from behind the podium to lead Asher through the crowded dining room to a slightly moodier, less populated side room.
It was decorated much the same way as the dining room, but this section of Isabetta also had a bar counter, as well as some tucked-away booths for more private dining. This room seemed to attract a more romantic, serious crowd. People leaning in close to whisper sweet nothings alongside business meetings over a shared bottle of top-shelf pinot noir. He hoped his own evening would be a delicious mix of both. The maître d’ led him to a corner booth, circular so that one could sit at any angle. Asher slid into the plush seat from the left.
The menu was short and sweet with elegant lettering and, in typical fancy-pants fashion, no listed prices. But that didn’t ruffle Asher in the slightest. He was not only successful, but a shrewd steward of his small fortune. He worked hard for his money, and he was deliberate in how he spent it. He was happy to live frugally, but he didn’t shy away from opportunities to be wildly generous. He loved to leave big tips, to spoil the people around him. Tonight, he was ready to go all out.
Just as he was ordering a bottle of red, one of the evening’s guests came sauntering through the restaurant, led by the ecstatic-looking maître d’. Asher grinned at Blaze, who looked a bit like a shark out of water, with his black leather jacket and his dark jeans. His hair was windswept from his motorcycle ride, and he peered around the Italian restaurant with bemused interest. He turned heads as he approached, just like Asher. He slid into the booth seating from the right, almost directly across from him.
The maître d’ seemed overwhelmed with the combined sex appeal of the table he’d just sat. He lingered for a few moments at the table, fussing over the menus and cutlery so he could ogle the guys a little longer. Once he finally retreated to his podium, Blaze let out a sigh he had been holding back.
“I thought he’d never leave,” he groaned quietly.
“We seem to have an admirer,” Asher replied. “But don’t worry, our waiter is discreet.”
“I hope I’m not expected to order my food in Italian,” he murmured.
Asher chuckled. “Don’t worry. The benvenuto is just for show.”
“Good, because the only word on this menu I can pronounce with any real confidence is ‘spaghetti’,” he answered. “Which is probably what I’ll order.”
“I guarantee most of the people in this room can’t say the words right, either. Angelenos like to think they’re very worldly, but that world cuts off right around ‘Topanga,’” Asher joked along with him.
“And where does that leave Tennessee?”
Asher and Blaze looked up at the sound of Giselle’s distinct voice. To their surprise, she was standing there with a big smile on her face, the maître d’ looking even more excited behind her. Clearly, he knew who Giselle was. But he played it cool and slinked away, his eyes bulging out of his head.
“How did you sneak over here like that?” Blaze asked, stunned.
“Yeah, how the hell did we miss you?” Asher wondered aloud.
It was a good question. Giselle was nigh unmissable.
