“Why bother? I just want to go back to sleep. So let’s get this over with.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, handing me a phone. “Just press send.”
I press the tab and the phone starts ringing. She picks up on the third ring sounding incoherent. “Hello?”
The bitch has the audacity to be asleep? “Carey Keefe? I hope I’m not waking you.”
She clears her throat. “Mr. Asher. Why”—she chuckles sleepily—“I had assumed you’d forgotten about me.”
“Nope.”
“Do you have a time to meet that’s good for you?”
“Now. My house. My security man will pick you up one street over. Here he is. He’ll give you directions.”
I don’t wait for an answer, just hand the phone to Ray. He rattles off the street and tells her twenty minutes. I’m not sure if twenty minutes is reasonable or not, considering I’m up in the hills. But who cares. I’ll be here if she’s late.
After Ray hangs up he leaves to go wait it out. We have a path that goes down to the street below. I own four lots on the street just below my home. Most people don’t know that. I’m a paranoid fucker when it comes to my privacy at home.
Public sex on Saint Thomas is one thing. Stalkers on my property in LA is something else entirely. I used to get stalkers often, photographers hanging out by the end of my gate when I lived in Trousdale, but ever since I moved here, things have settled down.
Part of that was my obsession with never being seen in public with girlfriends. Only dates. And dates were business deals. Negotiated with contracts and signatures.
The sex came from other places. The subs. But they had contracts too. I tried to leave them satisfied, if unhappy. Money does that.
When Felicity and I first moved here, I had some paparazzi hanging out in front of the gate. Mostly it was the Buzz assholes. But I never did anything interesting. I never brought girls home. I never got drunk and made scenes. I grew up the son of Adam Asher and he taught me well.
Keep your head down and work. That should be our family motto.
Of course, not all child stars have such guidance and power behind them. I knew there was stuff going on behind the scenes—hell, I saw it at the release parties from a very young age. But every time a star fucked up, my father was there to point out how they get what they deserve. You want to party, Vaughn? he’d ask me. You want to go out and have fun? Just know, nothing you do is private.
That was the lesson drilled into my head. And I heeded it. I never got into any trouble as a teen. But like most kids who go off to college, you get that first taste of real freedom. Couple that with the money I had in the bank, and well, I did a few things I regret.
But money… it might not fix everything, but it fixes most of it.
I go back up to the main backyard and walk over to the pool, then wade in up to my knees. God. I love this backyard. Felicity thought it was an extravagant luxury to put in the river and spend so much. But I love it. And Grace loves it. And even though we technically met in a bar, we met properly on that lazy river in Saint Thomas.
Just thinking about that day makes me smile like an idiot. I stunned her, throwing her dirty words back in her face. All I wanted at that moment was to possess her. Like a thing.
But even then I had this feeling about her. Like she was different. Denying my drink offer in the bar. I shake my head and smile as I recall that morning. Mr. Buttinski, she called me. Silly girl.
I sigh as I picture her back then. So carefree and happy. So sure of herself. So feisty.
And now? I’ve been in her life a matter of weeks—not even a month has passed—and I almost can’t find the old Grace anymore.
Did I do that? Did I force that change? Do I still make her sad?
I like the old Grace. No, I love the old Grace. I love her dirty mouth and her sassy self-assurance. I never wanted to tear that down.
You lie, Asher. You lie. That’s all you thought about. Taking her in the way that pleased you. Making her submit to your contract and your fetishes. Corrupting her sense of wellbeing to knock her down and keep her wanting.
I’m a sick fuck.
My phone buzzes a message in my pocket. Coming up the path, the text says.
Well, the bitch must live close, because that was only fifteen minutes.
I make my way back to the security building and then keep going right past it, down the hill a little ways.
The plan was to take her through the backyard of one of the houses below, and then leave her waiting next to an empty pool. So that’s where I’m heading. I’m quiet until I enter the gate that separates this path from that yard, and then I make a lot of noise on purpose as I wind my way through the overgrown tropical trees until I find the pool area.
She’s standing and on high alert when I enter the open space. There’s no light back here so I imagine she’s all sorts of freaked out.
Good. Bitch.
She lets out an audible breath of relief once she recognizes me and I take a lot of satisfaction in that.
“Ms. Keefe, I presume?”
“Yes, Mr. Asher.” She stretches out her hand but I ignore that gesture and take a seat in the old webbed lawn chair across from her.
“Hmm. Well,” she says as she sits back down. “This is some place you have here.”
“Yup. I love it. It’s the perfect place to have midnight meetings.”
“It’s three AM, Asher.”
“Discretion, Keefe. It’s all about discretion.”
“Perfect. Then I assume we’re going to make a deal here?” She fishes through her bag and comes out with a small digital recorder. “Mind if I tape this?”