My mother got me into old movies, and I was always fascinated by Chaplin. I studied him in one of my art theory courses. Actually, I’m fascinated by all silent movies, especially those without subtitles. To be able to express your emotions without the use of words is incredible.
The next feature is a film called The Dictator. Charlie Chaplin made silent films well into the period of sound films, but this was his first talking picture. He starred, wrote, produced, and directed this film, which became his most commercially successful film.
I can’t say I care for its content, but I’m fascinated to see what the museum has from Chaplin on his thought process going into his first major talking film.
I take a seat, placing my bag and the program on my lap, and hope not to fall asleep during the two-hour showing.
The screen lights up and my eyes start to dim.
I don’t know if its been two minutes or two hours, but my body startles awake. I lift my head from its slumped position and remove my knuckles from my chin. There is a tiny bit of drool coming from my mouth so I wipe it away. How embarrassing.
Looking down at my phone, I see only twenty minutes have passed. There is no way I am going to enjoy any of this.
I run a hand through my hair and wipe under my eyes in case any mascara leaked during my power nap. Grabbing my bag, I stand and leave the room and make my way to the main lobby.
Taking my compact out of my bag, I take a better look at my appearance. My reflection tells me to go home. Smart woman.
There is a beautiful couple to my side, talking with a curator. The woman has long blonde hair and an enormous rock on her finger. Her body is svelte in a curve-hugging crimson dress that lands just above the knee. The dress is long-sleeved but sexy as hell. You can see her perky breasts bursting out the V-neck and every muscle on her glutes through the fabric. A gentleman is resting his hand on her lower back, and they look the epitome of refined. Middle-aged with a slightly round stomach, the husband’s face is rosy in the cheeks and his eyes are kind, especially when they look toward his wife.
At least some people can make time for date night.
My thoughts are interfered as an intense energy comes over me. I don’t feel heat; I feel chills, as if someone opened the door on a blistery winter day. A tingle runs down my spine and the hairs on my neck stand up.
I rub my hands on my forearms to calm the goose bumps. Its an odd feeling to have on a warm June evening. My nerves spike at the feeling of this new energy, and it pulls me from my thoughts in the form of a deep melodic voice.
“It’s not appropriate to stare.”
I close my eyes briefly before turning around to see the source of my nervous energy.
And then it’s heat. Nothing but heat.
Alexander Asher is standing not ten feet behind me. His hands rest in his pockets and he has a grin on his face, amused by his own comment. His body seems casual, but his eyes glare… no, they pierce daggers straight into mine. I take a moment to appraise him again. He is just as tall and well built as I recall. His shoulders wide with clear definition you can see even in a suit.
He is wearing a deep charcoal-gray suit with a platinum tie over a crisp white shirt. A Patek Philippe watch glistens under the pin lighting of the museum, as do his eyes.
Those golden eyes are wide and mesmerizing. It’s like looking at the sun. You know you shouldn’t stare directly at it because it’ll hurt your eyes, but just knowing you shouldn’t makes you want to do it more.
I wish there were magic sunglasses that could protect me from his gaze. They are serious in contrast to the unnerving curve. It’s not wide or even a smile. It’s a dare. A dare to enter his world.
I look down for fear of being pulled in. He is an arrogant son of bitch, and I have to remember that. Staring at the floor, I look for something, anything else, to focus on. His feet are pointed slightly outward as his legs are spread wider than most, as if to accommodate a large…
Get a grip, woman!
“Good evening, Mr. Asher.” My voice is courteous and professional. He is, after all¸ my boss’ boss.
“Good evening, Mrs. Monroe,” he says.
I choose not to correct him. Our exchange the other day was intense and, honestly, I don’t know the appropriate thing to say.
Yet, as if on cue, he opens his mouth and leads the way. “You’re a voyeur. I would have pegged you for an exhibitionist.”
I lift my head. The comment catches me off guard, as with everything he does. I don’t know if he is alluding to the fact that I was caught staring at the couple, which would easily make me a voyeur, and I don’t know if I can really deny that. Or perhaps he’s just acknowledging I am at this exhibit. It’s a harmless thing to say.
But the look in his eyes and his shit-eating grin alerts me he is shrewder than that. I follow his eyes as they trail down the bridge of my nose, past my lips, and watch them slowly trickle down my neck and farther south until they stop, ever so slowly, on my breasts.
Oh, for the love of God. He’s staring at my breasts and the bastard is easily recalling my “exhibition” last week in my wet white shirt!
Of all the inappropriate…
My eyes are wide and my mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but I stop myself. I can’t make assumptions. And, more importantly, I cannot give him the satisfaction of affecting me in any way.
I am a professional woman, and he will treat me like one!
I hold the program for the exhibit in my hand over my cleavage and block his eyes from their current entertainment. “Chaplin fan?” I ask, satisfied when his eyes rise again to meet mine. They might affect me when they’re staring into mine, but I’d much prefer it over his staring at my chest.
Asher doesn’t miss a beat. “Not particularly, but I have come here quite a few times to see other films.”
He’s a man who likes the arts. I shouldn’t be surprised now that I know a thing or two about him. He has a strong connection to music through his acquisition of a music company and his charities. He bought Marks Communications so he has a vast interest in production. Makes you wonder why someone with his interests would go into mergers and acquisitions.
I guess that’s what you do when Granddaddy is footing the bill.
“What do you particularly like about this exhibit? Seems a bit redundant to come back more than once.” My curiosity is peaked. It would be nice to have some common ground with this man. I’m supposed to be working with him, yet I’m petrified to be around him.
Did I finally just admit that to myself?
Asher takes his hands from his pockets and holds them in front of his body, his heavy footsteps inching toward me.
“It’s the auteurist approach to film that intrigues me,” he says, closing the gap between us, his eyes steady and never losing their grip on mine. “Many people believe the writer is the author. They create the characters, give them names and words to say. Others feel it’s the actors who portray the lives lived onscreen. They breathe life into the words.”
He is only feet from me and closing in. My eyes, my ears… my soul is mesmerized by the mere presence of him.
“But the auteurist…” He continues. “The real author is the director. He has the power. The puppet master who controls the strings.”
Asher is now just inches from my face. The heat from his body and that wicked, intoxicating aroma that enveloped me before is now drowning me in a sea of Asher.
My mouth is dry and I can do nothing but breathe out in small, shallow breaths.
“I like control. And more than that, I like people thinking they hold the power when I was the one holding the strings all along,” Asher declares. He isn’t angry or crass as he says the words. They are merely a declaration.
I study his eyes, which at this proximity allow me to see the flecks of brown in them you would easily miss if you weren’t really looking. There is nothing sinister in them. Just pure, unadulterated determination.
I like organization an
d control. Most successful people need it in order to achieve. But to crave that kind of power, to have the need to manipulate the world around you, means you lack complete trust. And with no trust, there’s no faith.
“Faithless.” The word escapes my mouth in a whisper.
His pupils dilate, and if it weren’t for the small vibration of his chest, I would have missed any reaction at all. Asher inches back so we’re standing about two feet apart. The space gives me the breathing room I desperately needed.
I cross my arms in front of my body and turn away from Asher to take inventory of my surroundings in an attempt to get my bearings back.
When he stands this close to me, I can’t even think straight. There is a chemical and psychological component to attraction, but in this case, it is purely geographical. I think it’s a business strategy he enforces: the art of domination in a conversation to intimidate the other. It must be how he’s become so successful so quickly, money aside.
The lobby has grown particularly quiet with a few people lingering about. The stark-white walls of the museum remind me of my office. And the white walls of my office remind me of the white roses Asher sent me last week.
The roses.
Those damn flowers remind me every day of just how he affects me. I just wish they’d die already so Trish can throw them out and I’d be rid of the circadian reminder of our horrific encounter. I may have to see him sporadically at meetings, but the daily onslaught of white roses is more than my nerves can stand. I have to say something about them. Even if it was a peace offering, I can’t have my boss sending me gifts. Even Trish noted how extravagant they were. It’s not just me.
I turn back to face Asher. My lips part to launch into a speech about the gifts, but halt when I turn to see an empty space in front of me. I look to the left and right and see no signs of Alexander Asher.
He disappeared.
My fist squeezes in aggravation, crumbling the program I’m holding. I toss it in the trash and walk to the restroom to freshen up before heading home. I have no doubt he’s watching me from afar, laughing at the dimwit standing alone in the lobby. How rude can you be to have such an intimate encounter with someone and just walk away? What an asshole!
I hate cursing. I really do. He just makes me so fucking mad!
After washing my hands and straightening my hair, I take a few deep breaths to gain my composure. When I’m fit to make an appearance, I push back my shoulders and head into the lobby as the confident and unaffected woman I am.
I walk outside and opt to take a taxi home. It’ll cost more than the train, but it’s faster and I want to go home and get into my bed.
The warm night air feels good on my skin. I raise my arm and wait for a taxi to drive by. 53rd street isn’t the busiest of streets, but hopefully an open cab will pass by quickly.
While I’m ready to crash in my bed, the city is still vibrant with people just starting their evenings. It’s only a Wednesday night, yet New York didn’t get the memo. It thinks it’s Saturday night and is ready to party.
The couple I was gawking at earlier is standing about twenty feet up the street from me. The husband is standing on the gravel, inching into traffic with his arm held up at an angle outstretched from his body. If a cab is coming, he’s going to get it first.
A taxi comes barreling down the street, almost hitting the husband as it pulls up to the curb. He opens the door and instead of escorting his wife inside, he kisses her on the mouth and says good night. I hear her tell him she’ll meet him home in a few hours. Apparently, he’s as tired as I am, and she wants to stay out.
The wife closes the door behind her man and watches the car drive down the street away from the museum.
Man, I am a voyeur. I really need to stop staring at people.
Beyond her, I see another taxi coming down the street and flag it down, waving my hand in the air. The yellow car stops and I open the door to climb in. The seats are clean and the taxi TV is playing clips from the local news. I wait until I’m halfway in the car to tell the driver we’re going to Long Island. Cabbies hate to leave the city, but it’s part of the “Passenger Bill of Rights” to be driven wherever I ask within NYC, Westchester, and Nassau and not be refused. Seriously, there’s a list in every cab.
I lean over to grab the door handle to close it. I’m just about to pull my arm toward me when I see a familiar black SUV pull up in front of us. The back door opens and no other than Alexander Asher steps out. For a second, I think he’s about to go back into the museum. Instead, he walks toward the wife. Yes, the wife of the couple I was gaping at earlier.
She’s not surprised to see him. In fact, she acts like she’s been waiting for him. Her face is welcoming, her eyes letting him know she’s ready for some fun. Asher takes her hand and helps her climb into the SUV, cupping her ass as she climbs in.
I shouldn’t make assumptions, but come on!
After the woman gets in the car, Asher pauses just outside and turns his head in my direction. It feels like slow motion, yet not slow enough for me to duck down or hide from that penetrating gaze.
I gasp and pull the taxi door closed quickly. I tell the driver to drive, and just as we’re pulling away, I look up.
Just in time to have Asher wink at me as we drive away.
Waking this morning, I noticed Gabriel was already gone. His side of the bed pulled down as if he slept in it. He must have gotten up with Jackson last night. I don’t even remember whose turn it was.
I got to the office on time and had a pretty good day. Sure, I spent a good portion of it bouncing back and forth from being mad at Gabriel for bailing on me last night and Asher for being the rudest human being on the planet.
But two things happened today to make me happy. First, I had a kickass meeting with Erik and Richard the stage manager as we discussed what was needed from the production design firm we hired to decorate the set. Second, there was no sign of Asher.
All in all, it was a very productive day.
Now, I am home, sitting in my favorite room in the house: The family room. Most people love the kitchen, but I could spend hours in our back room. Just off the kitchen, in the back of the house, is where we spend most of our nights, lounging on the couch and watching TV.
Painted a deep cocoa, the room is accented with floor-to-ceiling ivory curtains hanging from pewter rods with metal grommets.
In the center of the room is a brown leather couch and loveseat, set in an L-shape, with a small wooden side table between the two. In the center of the room is a wagon wheel coffee table that is usually covered with Jackson’s toys. All around the room are frames of various sizes with assorted pictures of my family, Gabriel’s family, us throughout the years, and quite a few new photos of Jackson.
At the far end of the room is a wood-burning fireplace with its original brickwork. I’d love to update it, but we haven’t had the budget to do renovations. To the side of the fireplace is a TV placed on a low wooden table. The room is small but homey. It’s where I can usually find my husband when he’s home.
Gabriel surprises me by coming home at a reasonable time tonight. After putting his briefcase down by the front door, he comes into the living room where Jackson and I are playing and gives each of us a kiss hello before marching straight upstairs. A few minutes later, he returns wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt with his iPod in his hands and earbuds in his ears.
Jackson and I watch as he jogs out the front door. Gabriel will run any time of day, but he prefers to go out when it is still light out.
I lift Jackson into my arms and head into the kitchen to make dinner. I have become the queen of the quick and easy meal. Tonight, we’re having baked tilapia with roasted vegetables, since it only takes twenty minutes.
I place Jackson in his highchair and take out plates and forks to set the table. Carmen fed the baby dinner before I came home, so I place Cheerios on his tray to occupy him while I finish setting the table.
The timer on the oven g
oes off and I remove the dinner and set it on top of the oven and wait for Gabriel to return so we can eat.
Twenty minutes later, Gabriel returns. His shirt sticks to his chest from the sweat he accumulated on his run and his hair is sticking up a little on the sides.
“I’ll be right back,” he shouts over the music only he can hear from his iPod. “Shower,” he states while running up the stairs.
Am I annoyed at him still for last night? Yes. Am I perturbed as all hell he’s been home for forty minutes and has yet to truly acknowledge us? Yes.
Am I going to let it ruin my night? No.
I stare back at Jackson, who I swear gives me a little shrug as if to say, “What are you gonna do?”
I shake my head and shrug right back at him. He returns my shrug with a rub of the eyes. Poor kid has to be in bed soon. Looks like we’re forgoing the bath.
Another fifteen minutes goes by before Gabriel reappears. He lifts Jackson out of his highchair and places him on his lap while I get up to serve the now cold fish. I would heat it up, but part of me wants to leave it the way it is just to make a point.
My point is lost because Gabriel eats it up and doesn’t say a word. Instead, he talks to me about how the front porch light is out and he has to change it.
I nod and tell him my mother left a voicemail that she wants to come back for a visit in a few weeks.
He nods back and turns his attention to Jackson, telling him about the different types of fish you can find in the Atlantic Ocean.
When dinner is over, Gabriel takes Jackson upstairs to bed while I clean up the kitchen.
When he comes back down, he finds me in the living room, seated on the loveseat with two glasses of wine poured and placed on the coffee table. He walks around the large sofa and takes a seat in the middle of it.
He looks down at the wine on the table. “For me?” he asks while grabbing one of the glasses and taking a large gulp.
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