Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

I've pretty much fucked this up as royally as I could have. I thought I was doing Falon a favor by asking her to come to Philly with me next week to take some photos of me and the band performing. Dita brought up the idea of hiring Falon last night when she called me to tell me that I was playing there. She didn't ask if I wanted to do the show. She booked the venue, spoke to my band behind my back and then she arranged for the tickets to go on sale before she bothered to pick up her phone to call me. I was stuck, yet again, in a web she'd woven for me. She billed it as a surprise thank you show for my fans, but I know what it is. It's punishment for me backing out of those European dates and it's her way of making sure I'm ready to take center stage on the world tour. Philly is a chance for her to see me in action. That's what it really is.

I don't give a shit at this point. The break from New York may actually be good. My dad still hasn't called me back, most likely because he's chasing after another money hungry model. My mom is basking in the attention she always gets from her friends in Los Angeles. Gabriel is fussing over his wife, Isla, and Caleb is training to be the next Olympic gold medalist judging by how often he sends me selfies of himself running at five in the morning.

All of their lives are moving forward without a missed beat. Mine is stuck back at the moment I heard that goddamn voicemail. They're all Fosters, even my mom, who still has the name because of all the invitations to private parties it gets her. I took the name for granted. Now, whenever I sign my name to anything or see it written in a headline, I die a little inside. I don't know who the fuck I am anymore. If that wasn't enough, I've gone and pissed off the one person who has kept me afloat through this.

I expected her to jump at the chance to come to Philly to shoot pictures of me while I perform. She didn't respond the way I thought she would. She just crossed her arms over her chest and tensed her jaw.

"Dita showed me some of the shots you took of me in your studio." I rub my palm on my thigh, hoping the denim will absorb the moisture that's settled there. "I know there are other photographers who could handle the concert, Falon, but your work is impressive. You'll capture me the way I want. I have no doubt about that."

I know, from my limited experience with her, that appealing to her creativity is the way to go. The woman is beautiful, she's the most sensuous lover I've ever had, but beyond that, she's talented. It's fucking amazing how talented she is.

"I'm glad you liked the shots, Asher."

I can't tell her that I want her to take on the job because I'd rather she collect that fee than some guy in Philadelphia who doesn't need the money the way she does. She's young. Her studio is in the heart of Manhattan. She has a one bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. If I can help lessen her financial load by sending work her way, I'm going to do it.

"I want you to be there with me, Falon. If you're not interested in the job, that's fine, but I want to know you're near the stage when I'm performing and I want you in my bed at the end of the night."

Her stance softens slightly, her shoulders lower. "I'd need to see the venue to understand the available light or where I can position lights. If you have the name of it or a link I can look at, that will help. I can go over that tomorrow and let you know if I'm comfortable taking on the shoot."

She's all business. This is the woman people bear witness to when they book sessions with her. It's the same woman I went toe-to-toe with the first day I met her. She didn't back down from me then. She's confident in her craft, as she should be.

"I'll get Dita to send you all that and a proposed contract." I look down at my guitar. "That's the business part of the trip, Falon. I want to talk about the pleasure."

"Pleasure." The word rolls off of her tongue. "Does that happen after the concert?"

"That happens tonight, the night of the concert, hopefully a lot more nights after that."

Her mouth curves. "Are you asking if you can come home with me tonight?"

Leaning forward, I kiss the tip of her nose. "I want you to come home with me tonight."

***

"I don't have anything other than water or juice to offer you." I stand behind her as she gazes at the view of midtown Manhattan. "I don't drink alcohol. You might have noticed that."

"I don't either," she says softly without moving. "I don't like the taste of it. I never have."

"I like the taste," I a

dmit as I move to stand next to her. "It's a gateway for me. It opens the door to other things. Things I need to avoid."

She turns to look up at me, her eyes catching mine. "I understand. My sister has addiction issues. I've gone to my fair share of Nar-Anon meetings."

"You probably saw my brother, Gabriel, at a few." I turn my head towards the window. I shouldn't feel ashamed. I've used my recovery as a tool to shape the life I want. Gabriel helped me with that by attending dozens of Nar- Anon meetings when I was using. It gave him the insight he needed to offer me a guiding hand. I never would have recovered without him.

"I can't say." Her chin tilts up. "There's a reason it's anonymous, you know."

I laugh. "Maybe I've seen your sister in some Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Does she look like you?"

She pauses. "She's never been to a meeting. She's not where you are. She still uses."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say honestly. "Are you close to her?"

She takes a quick, deep breath, her hand jumping to touch her forehead. "She's not close to anyone. Her pills are her best friend."

CHAPTER 29

Falon