by Claire Adams
There was also the fact that neither of us had suggested drinking—and I certainly wasn't going to bring it up—so it seemed things were safe for the time being.
“Would you like some chai tea?” I asked him. “I usually have a cup every evening.”
“Sure. Sounds good,” he said with a smile. “I do enjoy a good cup of chai.”
I made my way to the counter and started brewing the chai as we continued talking. If I were to have guessed, it seemed that Asher was just as much at ease as I was.
Somehow, as we were drinking the tea, the conversation turned to family matters—a subject I had previously touched on briefly with him, but that he had yet to open up about. A strange look crossed his face as we broached the topic. A flicker of something I couldn’t quite place—anger, regret, or merely pain, perhaps. However, as quickly as it appeared it was gone. I wondered if it was a good idea to continue with the topic of family considering how private Asher always seemed to be, but curiosity edged me on.
“So, Asher, there's something that I've been wondering for a while,” I said. “I’m curious. Control of the Sinclair Agency was given to you when you were 20, right?”
“That's right.”
“Why did it go straight from your grandfather to you instead of to your father?”
His face tightened and he looked away. I could tell it was a sensitive subject, and I quickly started to regret asking the question.
“I apologize, I’m prying, and I shouldn’t have asked,” I said hurriedly. “It's not important. I'm sorry, let's just forget—”
“You're right. It's not a subject I'm entirely comfortable talking about, but it's a subject I do actually need to talk about, as unpleasant as it is. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. It does me no good to keep these things bottled up inside.”
“Are you sure? I mean, we really don't have to discuss this.”
He looked up at me with an intense look simmering in his eyes. A look that churned every emotion inside of me.
“Actually, I’m not sure. But I want to talk about it with someone I feel I can trust, and I do feel like I can trust you, Lilah.”
His words seeped into my soul and warmed parts of me I’d forgotten about. I smiled faintly as I sipped on my tea and he began to speak in a slow, calm tone. I could sense he was doing his best to keep things together and remain collected. The story was obviously stirring some deep-seated, emotional pain. Despite that, I could also feel that he needed this, that he needed a little catharsis from the pain.
“My father . . . Well, he was not what I would call a good man,” he stated. “He was a drunk, and he was violent. I was too young when everything happened to remember, but what my father did is why I don’t have a relationship with him. It’s why my grandfather took me in and raised me. That's why I always look to my grandfather for inspiration. I modeled myself after his example when I was growing up. He was everything my father wasn't—good, noble, disciplined, hard-working.”
Asher paused and took a breath. I tried to wrap my mind around all he was saying. I couldn’t help but wonder what Asher’s father had done to cause him the chance to have a relationship with his son. As my mind was spinning with the possibilities, Asher continued his story.
“My grandfather grew up as the ninth child in a large, dirt-poor family of immigrants. When he and his family came to the United States, they literally had nothing but the clothes on their backs. And as the youngest of nine children, my grandfather rarely had anyhing but hand-me-downs from his siblings.
“But, this instilled a sense of ambition in him. He was absolutely determined to build an empire, to rise high above his humble beginnings. And, he did. He joined the army during the second World War, rose through the ranks, and left the army a war hero. Then, he started the Sinclair Agency and, through sheer grit and determination, he turned it from a two-man operation run out of a single, run-down, rented office in a slum into one of the greatest marketing firms in this city.
“He got married young. They wanted a big family, but having children proved difficult for him and my grandmother. In the end, after many years of trying, they finally had a child—my father. My grandmother considered it a miracle after all that they’d been through.
“As an only child, she spoiled him. He had little to no discipline at home because my grandfather was so obsessed with his work and always at the office or flying off somewhere on business—his only failing, I think—but a failing that turned out to have significant consequences.
“My father grew up in an entirely different situation than my grandfather. He only knew the comforts of a wealthy lifestyle and didn't have to work for anything. My grandmother, so happy that she finally had a child, lavished him with attention and gifts. From what I understand, my father grew up lazy and arrogant and, in his teenage years, began to develop a violent streak.
“My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and died suddenly when my father was a young man. According to my father, he took it hard and turned to alcohol to ease the pain—and quickly became addicted. My grandfather was stricken with grief and became even more distant from my father. He told me once he wished he could do it over again, but life doesn’t give you that option. You have to make the most of it and do the right thing the first chance you’re given.
“The only times my father and grandfather spoke, they quarreled. My father left home with all the money he had inherited from my grandmother and essentially became estranged from my grandfather. He met my mother and married her after only a few months. Shortly after that, they had me. I never knew my mother, though—she died shortly after I was born.”
“Oh, Asher,” I breathed. “I'm so sorry to hear that.”
His face had taken on a dark, intensely pained expression.
“I appreciate that, Lilah. But, that's not the end of the story,” he said softly. “I didn't tell you how my mother died.”
I reached over and placed my hand over his instinctively. The agony in his eyes made me want nothing more than to comfort him, to shoulder the burden of the pain I saw there just so that he wouldn’t have to carry it any longer.
“He killed her.” The words drifted out in nearly a whisper, and his gaze fell to the cup in his hand. “In a fit of drunken rage, my father murdered my mother.”
“Oh my God,” I nearly gasped. I knew that Asher’s mother had died when he was young, but I hadn’t done that much research into his background. I was shocked and horrified for the hurting man sitting across from me.
“I was too young to remember, thankfully. But he robbed me of having a mother. The only times I've talked to my father have been the few times I've visited him in prison. I still can’t seem to bring myself to fully forgive him. He's going to be there for the rest of his life.”
“I don’t know what to say. I'm so sorry.” I squeezed his hand, and his gaze turned up to meet mine.
“It's a sad story, I know. But—” a slight smile pressed over his lips. “Thank you. For listening. I feel better talking about it, as dark as it is. I’ve never told anyone about it. It feels as if a weight has been lifted off my chest.”
I offered a faint smile in return, still not sure what to say. “So what about your mom’s family?”
“She was an only child. Her parents had her later in life and passed away before she graduated college. So, the only relative I had after my mother died and my father went to prison was my grandfather. He raised me—he made me the man I am today. And, of course, now that you know the story, you can see why he refused to give his company to his son. He bypassed him entirely and left it all to me.”
“That's just tragic, Asher,” I said. I could feel tears starting to burn the corners of my eyes.
“It had a happy ending, though,” he said. His lips were smiling, but I could see there was a deep aching bubbling in his eyes. “I do miss my grandfather terribly. Not a day goes by that I don't think about him.”
“I can understand. I feel the same way about my mo
m. And, I don’t even know much about her. I imagine it’s stronger when you have so many memories.”
Something passed between us when he looked at me—something powerful, something I couldn’t explain if my life depended on it. But whatever it was, it was intense. I looked away and Asher stood and stretched.
“Thank you, Lilah. For dinner, for listening, and hanging out,” he said, his tone different—more business-like. “I enjoyed it, but it's getting late, and I need to have a productive day tomorrow. I think it's about time to call it a night. Keep those ideas about the French campaign rolling around your head, all right? I'll see you in the office on Monday.”
“I enjoyed it, too,” I said as I stood to walk him out. “Thanks for the company.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said with one more smile. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
And then, he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Asher
I drove home in silence. Unusual for me, as I always liked having tunes playing in the background when I drove unless I was in one of my more vocal cars, like the Lamborghini, in which I preferred to listen to the sound of the motor. Tonight, however, I was lost in thought and contemplation.
How had I opened up so readily and completely to Lilah? I'd just spilled the beans about deep family secrets, about my father and mother and grandfather, and told her things that, well, I don't think I'd told anybody before. There hadn't even been alcohol involved.
Part of me immediately regretted saying such personal things and exposing myself like that. However, another part of me was completely at ease about it. It had been liberating; there was no other word for it, really. I suddenly had gotten the burden of carrying those secrets off of my chest.
She'd seemed surprised, shocked even, when she'd learned the truth about my family. But then again, who wouldn't?
I'd wanted to tell her more—and there was much, much more, even beyond the shocking details I'd revealed to her—but I'd felt my walls creeping back up again, fortifying the protective barriers once more after temporarily letting them down.
I pulled over to the side of the road, a little overwhelmed with it all. I'd always been immensely strong and stoic in the face of the quiet adversities I'd faced behind closed doors—but everyone needed to open up once in a while, to be vulnerable. Only, I had never allowed myself to do that until tonight—and with someone I couldn't get off my mind.
What the hell was happening?
I couldn't just go home. I needed to come down from this ledge and unwind about this situation with someone—with a friend.
I opened the folder on my Maserati's media center labeled Contacts and started scrolling through it. I soon saw a name that jumped out at me—someone I thought would be able to help, to give it to me straight without pulling any punches and offer some decent advice: Bryce, my personal trainer.
I tapped on his name and waited as the dial tone rang through the car speakers.
“Sinclair! What can I do ya for? I hope you're not going to tell me that tomorrow morning's training session is off!”
His raspy bark was as harsh as it always was.
“No, not at all, Bryce. I was just wondering if you'd like to grab a beer with me?”
“Beer, huh? You know you'll have to work extra hard tomorrow to scrub them extra calories off, right?”
“I realize this, yes.”
“Fine. As long as you're willing to pay your dues, we can bend the rules a bit. But we have a beer where I like to have beers, got it?”
I couldn't help but chuckle; he’s ever the drill sergeant.
“Sure, Bryce. Where would that be, the usual spot?”
“Billy's. See you there in 20 minutes, soldier. Don't waste my time!”
“Twenty minutes it is, Bryce.”
“Over and out.”
I cut the call off, turned the car around, and headed in the direction of the western outskirts of the city. Nineteen minutes later, I pulled up to the parking lot of Billy's, a biker bar. It certainly wasn't the kind of place I'd usually frequent but when Bryce and I did things together they were always on his terms, so there I was.
I parked the car in an empty spot near the door and stepped out, still wearing the semi-formal attire I'd had on at the office earlier. I always believed in dressing impeccably (I got that from my grandfather), so even though I hadn't gone the full business suit route today, as it was a Saturday, I'd still worn a smart button up shirt and a sports coat. I shed the coat and tossed it on the passenger seat. I was going to get enough odd looks as it was. In an effort to look as casual as possible, I rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt. Not that it made much difference; I still prompted a few stares and chuckles from the leather-and-denim-clad bikers gathered around their Harleys in the parking lot.
I strolled in and was hit with an aural assault of heavy rock blasting from the bar's speakers. I weaved my way through a couple of pool tables and saw Bryce sitting near the back in a corner at a small table, two mugs of beer already situated on it.
“Evening, Bryce,” I said as I pulled up a seat.
“Sinclair, you're two minutes late,” he said, his expression cold and severe.
“Traffic man, traffic.”
He stared at me in silence for a few seconds, and then his frown abruptly broke into a warm smile.
“I'm just messing with ya. Lighten up, it's Saturday night! But, ya are two minutes late,” he added with a grin.
We picked up our beers and clinked our glasses together.
“So, what's happening in the world of Asher Sinclair?” he asked. “When you called, you gave me the impression that you’ve got a lot on your mind. What’ve you been up to today, dressed like that?”
“Yeah, you’re right. I guess I do.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, there's this girl—” I began.
“Ah!” he exclaimed after raising a knowing eyebrow. “That shouldn’t surprise me. You can have all the discipline, ferocity, and strength in the world and all it takes is one of them, and you're a man down.”
I nodded. “Yeah, you got that right.”
“But not with you, Sinclair—not usually, anyway. I actually am a little surprised. I mean, hell, you've had girls that most of us regular Joes just fantasize about! Models, actresses, dancers, pop stars—and none of them ever seem to get your panties in a twist. So why now? How come one of 'em is getting to ya?”
I sipped on my beer before answering. Mainly because I didn’t know why myself. “I wish I could tell ya, Bryce. But she's not like the rest of them. Not like any of them . . . at all.”
“What about her is so different?”
“She's just . . . Well, she's beautiful for one thing, although not in a way that you'd call conventional.”
“I’m not sure how to interpret that, based on what I've observed in your taste in women.”
“Well, she's also highly intelligent, madly driven, ambitious, fiercely independent, and radically creative. She's got an absolutely fantastic mind. She pretty much single-handedly turned around a failing campaign we were working on, and made it a raging success in less than two weeks.”
“I thought only you were capable of such things.”
“I thought so, too—but she seems to have a spark of genius in her.”
“Now step back a second there. You said, 'We were working on.’ You working with this girl?”
“She's one of my personal staff members, yes.”
Bryce sipped slowly on his beer and shook his head. “Hmm, well, now. Listen soldier, you ever heard the saying about not shitting where you eat?”
I sighed. “I know, I know. But there’s just something about her. She's different, Bryce. I can't pinpoint the specifics about it beyond what I've already told you. I've just come back from her place and—”
“Oh really, cowboy?” he interrupted with a wink and a smile.
“No, no, it wasn't like that. Hell, nothing at all happened—exce
pt, that everything happened.”
He swigged on his beer before responding. “Okay, now you’re just not making sense.”
“I spilled my guts, man. I told her all of my family stuff, stuff that I haven't told anyone before. I spilled the beans like a cheerleader in the locker room.”
“I see.” He nodded slowly, and his face took on a more serious expression. “Well, maybe there's something there worth pursuing, then. But, here's the kicker, kid: does she feel the same way about you?”
I picked up a straw from the table and stirred it absentmindedly in my beer. “That's the thing that's had me confused as hell, Bryce. I don't know.”
“And that's particularly tough for you, isn't it? I mean, I've known you all these years, kid, and you're always the one who's in charge, who's in control. You’ve always been the one who had the women under your thumb. You’re used to being the one to take charge, go after what you want and get it. Everything has always been on your terms for as long as I've known you. Hell, you've even got me under your thumb—even though we go with the illusion that I'm in charge, for the sake of your training. I know where my paychecks come from,” Bryce grinned.
“I know you're right. But you do know I don't just consider you an employee—I consider you a friend above all else.”
He smiled and clinked his beer against mine. “Thanks, kiddo.”
“And to prove that, here I am talking to you about, of all things, feelings on a Saturday night. Bet you didn't see this coming!”
He laughed out loud. “I certainly didn't! But hell, every guy goes through this at some stage of his life. I sure as hell did.”
“And, what came out of it?”
“Twenty-three years and counting of marriage to the best damn woman I've ever met.”
I nodded. “When did you know? That she was the one, that is?”