Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

I've always wanted to learn to speak a language other than English. It's all I know but I want to change that. It's part of my plan to move to London within the next ten years. I envision a studio there where I can take pictures of families, children and maybe some celebrities while I use some of the money I earn to travel to Paris, Rome and Madrid. I'd like to pick up at least a passing understanding of Italian so when I go there, I'll feel like I belong.

"Bragging rights," he chuckles. "You'll forever be able to tell me that you found the best pizza in the city."

Forever. He doesn't really mean forever.

"Then I win." I cross my arms over my chest.

He dips his chin towards me. "You got sauce all over your shirt. Maybe I should call you Spot."

I look down at the streak of pizza sauce that trails across the entire front of my shirt. I'm wearing white again. When will I learn that I need to invest in some clothes that are either black or so full of colorful patterns that my messy eating habits won't be broadcast to the entire world?

How the hell did this happen again? He's going to think I need a bib when I eat.

"Fuck," I whine, as I try and wipe it clean with a napkin, which only makes it worse. "I've ruined another shirt."

"It's not ruined." He drops the pizza in his hand onto his plate and moves to the chair next to me. "I can get it out. Sit still."

He dips the corner of the napkin in his water glass and gently rubs at the stain. "I kind of like the random stains. It only adds to who you are."

"Who I am?"

He stops then to look me in the eyes. He doesn't say a thing. Instead, he leans forward, closes his eyes and brushes his lips against mine.

"You're the girl I want to go home with," he says as he breaks the kiss. "But first I want to take you somewhere important to me."

***

"This isn't what I expected at all." I run my fingers along the edge of the wood. "It's so complicated. Does each one of these make a difference in the sound of your voice?"

"Yes." He points to all the buttons on the recording equipment. "I record a lot of stuff on my laptop when I'm just experimenting. When it's time to get serious, I come here."

I nod, even though I have no idea what the difference between experimenting and getting serious is when it comes to making music. Maybe it's akin to using a smartphone to take a picture as opposed to the expensive camera back in my own studio that I covet. I make my living with that. The iPhone pictures I post on my social media sites are fun and aren't meant to pull in any serious business.

"It's impressive," I say. "Is there something I can hear? Do you have a new song recorded?"

"I do." I hear the smile in his voice as he turns his back to me to touch a few buttons on the large panel we're standing in front of. "It's just a melody now, but I'll be adding the lyrics soon."

I shift back on my feet so I can sit on the brown leather couch. My knees feel wobbly. They have since he kissed me back at the pizza place before he said he wanted to take me to his recording studio. I didn't say anything. I just held out my hand to him so he could bring me here.

The soft lull of a guitar playing fills the room. I lean back, crossing my legs as I listen. I don't want to tell him how beautiful it is because he's lost in it. His eyes are closed, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans as he sways back and forth to the music.

He's dressed differently tonight. He's wearing a light blue dress shirt, open enough at the collar that the hint of color from one of the tattoos on his chest is visible. The arms of the shirt are pushed up to his elbows, revealing his toned forearms. The right one is covered in tattoos, the left bare except for the three beaded bracelets he wears.

His hair is messy again. He rakes his hands through it constantly. I can't tell if that's from anxiety or just habit but it makes him look even more tempting than he would if it were neatly styled in place. His beard is filling in. It's only been a few days since I met him but his face is different with the growth of hair. I like it. I like him. I like everything there is to like about Asher Foster, even though I know that one day soon he's going to walk out of my simple life and back onto the stage.

CHAPTER 26

Asher

I glide my lips over the back of her neck as I circle her with my arms, pulling her tighter against my chest. We're back at her apartment now, in bed. We came here after we listened to the new track I recorded earlier this week. I could tell that she liked it. For some reason her opinion matters more to me than anyone else's right now. Maybe that's because with her there are no pretenses. I know she doesn't expect anything from me. She even tried to pay for the taxi that we took back into Manhattan tonight.

I'd watched her take off her clothes after we shared a bottle of water. She put her shirt in the small kitchen sink to soak out the pizza sauce stain. I didn't bother to tell her that I'd buy her another just like it or ten more, if she wanted. I won't do that to her. I won't make her feel inadequate by shoving my money at her.

She takes care of herself. That's obvious by how busy she is. She's not one to take hand-outs or expect things from me because my songs have been downloaded millions of times. She just wants to spend time with me.

"Can I fuck you now?" I whisper into her ear. "I can't wait much longer."

I'm not kidding when I say that. After we got on the bed, I sucked on her nipples, pulling them between my teeth while I touched her pussy. I slid my finger inside of her, curving it until I felt that sensi