I rub my hand over the back of my neck, suddenly feeling the unmistakable grip of tension. "She was his assistant. She handled those new promotional shots that the label wanted of me."
"She's a photographer?" He straightens. "That's different for you, isn't it? You're more the supermodel type."
I'm more the 'whoever is available for a night type.'
"That's not my scene." I hesitate. "I dated one model. She was great but it ran its course."
"You like this girl, don't you?"
I give him a smile. "She's fucking beautiful, Caleb. I can't get her out of my mind."
"What are you doing about it?"
Other than pissing her off yesterday when I pulled back, nothing. I spent most of last night back at Hugo's place, working on that new song. It was useless. I couldn’t concentrate knowing she was out with someone else. I had my chance. I fucked it up royally.
He doesn't wait for me to answer. "I've never heard you say a girl is beautiful, Asher. She's special, isn't she?"
"I barely know her," I say honestly. "There's just something about her that's different."
"Don't waste time debating whether you should make a move." His gaze drops to the water bottle in his hand. "I did that with Bell. I wasted years."
I know he did. We all do. Caleb fought everything he felt for Bell for most of his adult life because he was scared he'd damage the friendship they had since they were kids. They're happy now, but it wasn't easy for them to get there.
"I didn't say I wanted to marry her, Caleb." I laugh. "I met her two days ago."
I watch as he pushes himself to his feet. "I know exactly what you want to do with her. If she's like all the other girls who throw their panties at you at your concerts, you're gold. You're Asher Foster, for Christ's sake. Go see her. I'll bet you a twenty she wants you as much as you want her."
I'd make money on that wager. After yesterday, I doubt like hell Falon wants me to shine her shoes, let alone fuck her.
"You're taking off?" I stand too. "You just got here."
"I need to run." He taps the palm of his left hand on his bare thigh. "I mean literally run. I'm working towards a marathon. I dropped by because I forgot my water bottle and because Bell wants you to come over for dinner before you take off again."
I scan his frame, realizing for the first time, since he got here that he's dressed in his running clothes. It's a new passion of his, one he took up to balance the stress of the family business. "Tell her to call me. My schedule is up in the air right now."
It's not. My life is. There's no way I can sit through a family dinner this week, or anytime soon. I'm too fucked up to hold it together around Bell. She's one of my closest friends. She'll know something is wrong the minute she sees me.
"Will do, Junior."
The nickname hits me with the brutal force of a punch in the gut. He didn't start calling me that until a year ago. It came out of nowhere and stuck. I've never complained. I never will. He'd stop if he knew. Everything between us would change if he was aware of the secret our parents have kept hidden from us.
"Call the photographer." He slaps me on the back. "Do it before it's too late and she meets someone else."
I watch him walk out before I pick my phone up off the table, pull up Falon's number and call her.
***
It's near ten when I finally see her round the corner. I've been sitting here, on the stoop of her building for more than an hour. The baseball cap and sunglasses I'm wearing make me look more mugger than singer. The sun has dropped but I know that if I show my face, someone is bound to ask for a picture or an autograph. That invariably draws a crowd even if the people gathering don't know who I am.
Everyone wants a picture for their Instagram or Twitter of someone famous, or for that matter, infamous. They think it buoys them in the eyes of their followers. My face has become a token of other people's self-worth. It's all kinds of fucked up, so if I can avoid it, I do.
It's easier for me in New York than it is in L.A. Most people here are just trying to get where they need to be with as little stranger interaction as possible. In California, too many people want a short cut to notoriety so they'll hang out where celebrities do and they'll scan each face they pass on the street or pull up next to in traffic, hoping they'll see someone they can tag in a photo they post online.
It's surprising how often I can get away with telling the person approaching that they've got it wrong and I'm not Asher Foster. Once the flash of embarrassment on their faces gives way to disappointment, I know I'm free to go.
I did it this afternoon on the sidewalk in front of the gym. A woman, who expertly darted through four lanes of traffic to catch me, wanted anything I was willing to give to her. The touch of her hand on my forearm as she studied my tattoos was aggressive. Months ago, I would have taken her up on her unspoken invitation to fuck.
Today, I wanted a workout so I told her she had me mistaken for someone else. Her brows peaked as she opened her mouth, I assume to tell me that she knew I was bullshitting her. Then her hand dropped and her head turned when Tyler Monroe hopped out