Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

"You'll need to turn that off," she calls across the space towards me. "I'd appreciate if you silenced your phone."

I raise my index finger in the air, motioning that I need a minute. It's going to take longer than that. This call could change everything for me. I'm not going to miss it because some executive at my label thinks I need a new, edgier set of headshots. Falon, and every other person in this room, can wait until I'm done.

"That's not go

ing to work for me." She marches across the floor towards me, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

I tug my phone from where it's vibrating in my back pocket. I glance down, my breathing quickening at the sight of the incoming number.

"My assistant will hold the phone for you." Falon's hand reaches towards me. She catches the edge of my phone's case between her index finger and thumb. "We should be done in thirty minutes. You can call whoever it is back then, can't you?"

I calmly pull the phone back towards me. "I can't. It's urgent. I'm taking this."

She says something under her breath but I'm too preoccupied to decipher what it is. I feel an unexpected rush of disappointment surge through me knowing that I've pissed her off. I'll probably never see her again after today but I don't want her to view me as the arrogant asshole who doesn't respect her creative process.

I shake off the thought as she turns on her heel to walk towards her assistant.

I swipe my thumb over the screen of my smartphone, bring it to my ear and try to level my tone as I say a harsh "hello" to the man who holds the key to my family's fucked up secrets.

CHAPTER 3

Falon

"Why did you clear the room?" I finally ask. I'd stood silently in confusion as he ended the whispered phone call before turning to order everyone, including my own assistant, out of my studio.

No one had moved an inch at the first request but when he barked the order out again, the room had quieted before most of his entourage gathered around him. Their discussion was muffled but it was clear that whatever he said to all of them was enough to drive them towards the exit in a hurry. They'd left, in single file, before he calmly asked Remy to follow them.

Her raised brow was a mute question about whether she should listen to him or stay put so she could do the job I'm paying her to do. I shrugged my shoulders before tipping my chin towards her. She'd taken it, as it was meant, and when she closed the studio door after she walked out, I wondered if I should have fallen in step behind her.

Do you want me to leave, Asher?" I ask, with the hope that he'll point his finger at the door and wave me away.

It may be my studio but I don't want to be alone with him right now. I might have wanted it five minutes ago when I was taking his picture, but everything has changed. The boyish grin on his face has been replaced with a vacant stare. His shoulders have stiffened and his left hand has balled into a tight fist. Whoever was on the other end of that telephone call stole his carefree spirit away and replaced it with anger, or maybe despair. I can't tell.

"Take my picture, Falon." He walks quickly back to the spot in front of the canvas where he was standing just moments ago when the music was pounding through the speakers and the room was abuzz with the frenetic energy that comes with a photo shoot like this.

I'd offered minimal direction as he'd flexed and moved, granting me the best angles of his toned body. I'd heard the appreciation in the words of the other women in the room when he lifted his arms above his head to showcase his biceps. That's when a phone had signaled an incoming call with a generic ringtone.

I'd stopped shooting to glance around the room, disappointed at the jarring end to my concentration. I have one rule when you walk into my studio and that's no cell phones, or at the very least, I expect my clients and anyone accompanying them, to silence their ringers. It's a small sacrifice for an excellent end product, in the form of stunning photographs.

When Asher had tugged the phone from the back pocket of his jeans to answer it, I knew instantly that something was wrong. I doubt anyone else in the room heard the hushed curse that escaped his lips or saw the way his jaw tightened as he spoke to whoever was on the other end of that call.

He hung up after what seemed like no more than two minutes. It was then that he signaled for one of his assistants to quiet the music. No one else noticed his frustration but it wasn't lost on me. His eyes locked with mine briefly before he made the first announcement to clear the studio. It was only moments ago, yet it feels like an eternity has passed since then.

"Why?" I detach my camera from the tripod and cradle it in my hands. "Why do you want me to take your picture now?"

"Just do it." His chin moves forward as if he's coaxing me. "I want you to do it."

Since I'm technically still working for him, I don't hesitate. I bring my camera up to my eye. My sight trained on his face.

He glares into the lens. His eyelids blinking shut twice before he levels his gaze on me. The intensity is alarming. I take a photograph, and then another, desperate to capture the raw emotion that's staring right back at me.

I step closer. He's showing me parts of himself that I know he keeps hidden from the world. I studied dozens of images of him before I laid eyes on him today and in each of those pictures, the same orchestrated smile was there.

That's not who he is right now. Not one thing about him is rehearsed or staged.

His lips have thinned into a straight line. His brows are furrowed as if he's still struggling to absorb something, or trying to solve a riddle that is eluding him. His expression is telling. I see everything he's feeling in the corners of his eyes and the slight tilt of his chin.

"I used to be a weak man."