Authors: Callie Harper
“All right then,
Anika. I’m delighted to have met you.” He took my hand again,
holding it in his warm, large palm. And what do you think the bad boy
of rock did next? He took a page out of a turn-of-the-century
etiquette book and kissed the back of my hand, his stubble, his lips
leaving my skin tingling. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me
tonight. I’m looking forward to it.”
I managed a response,
some blend of “Yes” and “Oh!” and “Great.” And then I
stood there and watched him pull the brim down on his hat, zip up his
jacket and jam his hands into his pockets as if bracing himself for a
dreadful onslaught. Giving me one last, fleeting smile, he buried his
chin into his jacket and headed out into the cold.
As soon as he left, I
doubted he’d ever been there at all. It was one thing to run into a
celebrity on the streets of SoHo. It was quite another to have them
ask you out, tell you you’re beautiful and kiss you breathless. But
it seemed as if it had happened. I was supposed to meet Ash Black at
10 o’clock that night.
I knew motorcycles were
dangerous, but I’d been wanting a ride on one for a long time now.
Looked like I was finally getting my chance.
Ash
Gargling with
mouthwash, I swished and spit. The things I’d do for my
grandmother. Put on a button-down shirt with a collar, that was one.
Sure, it was still black and I wore it with jeans, but I tucked it in
and wore a belt. Plus I combed my hair and covered up the smell of
alcohol on my breath with minty wash.
I still had to have a
drink before I headed out to meet up with the family, that went
without saying. If I knew Gram she’d be doing exactly the same
thing right now, sipping a good, strong G&T with Plymouth gin and
two slices of lime. We were all gathering together that afternoon at
her Upper East Side penthouse, due to arrive in 30 minutes. It was
our annual pre-holiday get together, just the intimate nuclear
members prior to the Kavanaugh family fete for 500 tomorrow night.
Today the featured
speaker would be our family attorney, Nelson Armistead. Nothing
packed in the members of a wealthy family more than a lawyer
discussing the terms of inheritance. More British than the queen,
Nelson divided his time between London and New York. He’d managed
our family’s affairs since the beginning of time. I trusted no one
else with my money. He kept communications brief, direct and
infrequent, and required absolutely no direction or oversight from me
whatsoever. He was perfect.
Since my father’s
passing from cancer in August, Nelson had had a lot to figure out.
Not that Dick had left much to chance. He’d had everything mapped
out. That was the upside of a horrible, painful, unforgiving disease
that slowly wasted and ultimately killed you, you had a bunch of time
to plan for the end.
My father and I had
always butted heads, and that was putting it mildly. Just before he’d
entered the hospital for the final time, he’d invited me to join
him for lunch. I’d done it, knowing it would be our last. He’d
explained to me, calmly and cooly, that he was leaving me nothing.
First, he did this on principal. He didn’t approve of me or the
choices I was making with my life. Second, I didn’t need it. I’d
made millions upon millions from my own “messing around” as he’d
called it.
To be honest, it had
choked me up. He was right on both counts. It was refreshing to have
someone say it instead of kiss my ass.
I’d craved his
approval for the first half of my life, until I was about 13, the
year my parents had divorced. My brothers, Gigi and I had been
shunted off to England to live with Gram while our mother ‘regrouped’
and our father concentrated on his business. We barely saw either of
them for almost two years. I believed that was page one in the “Get
Your Kids to Hate You” manual. The only one of us who hadn’t
turned on them was Gigi, but she only seemed capable of deep, abiding
love so I didn’t hold it against her.
Mom had gotten back
with the program, remarrying a stodgy lawyer and settling into an
estate in southern Connecticut with her Gardening and her Hounds,
capitalization intended due to the seriousness with which she treated
both endeavors. Gigi had gone to live with them and, from what I’d
seen, she’d lived out a fairly normal, happy childhood.
But by the time Mom
straightened out, I’d gone round the corner already, off in
boarding schools and launching phase two of my life: doing anything
and everything I could to piss off my parents. Get kicked out of
school? Check. Shave my head, pierce my ears, get tattoos? Check,
check, check. Refuse any and all engagement with anything remotely
resembling academic achievement? Well, I was a natural at that one. I
guessed I had ADHD or something, nothing held my attention for long,
but once you found a way to channel all that energy no one bothered
giving you a label, diagnosis or meds. I’d discovered early on, if
you put a guitar in my hands I’d never tire of it.
John Mayer had talked
about it in a bunch of interviews, behind every great guitar player
there was a nerdy teenager with no friends who stayed up all night
perfecting his licks. I preferred not to reminisce about those lean
years, the years I’d grown past six feet tall but still weighed 130
pounds. The years I’d been sent to prep school in England and had
the shit kicked out of me more days than not. I was crap at
football—both the American and the European versions—couldn’t
sit still in a class for the life of me. Basically I was a hot mess
until I met Connor.
The dirty Irishman and
the unwashed American, we were a perfect pair, him on bass and me on
guitar with a rotating cast of mates on drums. It didn’t matter, it
was me and Connor that figured shit out, me and Connor that started
our band, staying up all hours, playing everywhere and anywhere we
could, from school parties in gyms to neighborhood fairs to busking
on the street.
It was Connor who was
still my best mate, my partner in crime, the bass player to my lead
singer in our band The Blacklist. He’d even come up with my name,
Ash Black, much cooler than Asher Kavanaugh. He was back in S.F.,
probably just starting his day since it was only around one o’clock
on the west coast. I wished I were back with him instead of about to
head out to the chopping block.
Except if I were in
S.F. I wouldn’t have met Ana. Anika. That brought a smile to my
face. I hadn’t met a girl that delectable in a while. I couldn’t
remember the last time. Those mile-long legs, the swell and curve of
her breasts above her trim waist. Even that prim and prissy collar on
her high-necked dress got my motor running. It made the thought of
undressing her more fun. Her pretty little dress and trim cardigan
left more to the imagination, more wrapping to remove. What I could
see I definitely liked, those wide, light toffee-colored eyes, her
silky brown hair that slipped through my fingers. The way she opened
up those lush dark pink lips for me, giving me full access.
I wanted a lot more of
that. Tonight, I’d see her again. The thought of that would get me
though our cozy family get-together. Then Ana would meet me at the
hotel, first in the lobby and then up in my room. I couldn’t wait
to see her naked, feel her beneath me, see if she liked it rough the
way I guessed she would. I wanted to mark her, take her, fill her,
hear her pant and scream and beg. How quickly could I melt that
chilly exterior? She had a lot of heat right beneath the surface, a
swift running stream just under the thin layer of ice. I couldn’t
wait to break on through.
And get her to agree to
pretend to be my girlfriend then fiancée and dump me publically,
that too. That was the most important thing, of course, because
nothing mattered more than my image, my reputation. But the second
most important thing was Ana, her scent, her mouth, her skin, all of
her, all mine.
§
I paused in front of my
grandmother’s building, standing under the awning with the doorman.
I didn’t want to go inside. I wished I hadn’t quit smoking. A
cigarette would have given me the excuse to loiter.
“Cold tonight,” one
of them noted.
“Yup.” I didn’t
really know what I’d just agreed with, I just knew I needed another
minute before I went in and up. They’d all be inside, all the
beneficiaries of my father’s will. And me.
My father had passed
away four months ago and you’d think that might have brought us
together as a family, but, no, a massive inheritance brought out the
worst in us. Aunts and cousins and people I’d never even heard of
were all clamoring for a piece of the pie. Some guy claiming to be
his out-of-wedlock son had even surfaced, a ranching dude from
Montana. What a fucking circus. No wonder my younger brother stayed
the fuck away from all of it, a mountain man in a cabin with a beard
the size of a watermelon. He’d turned his back on it all the same
as me, only where I’d sought the spotlight, he’d retreated as far
as he could.
My older brother, well,
he’d done exactly what Daddy had wanted. He’d gone to Harvard
Business School and now stood at the helm of Kavanaugh Incorporated,
the massive empire our father had built. Did he enjoy doing it? I had
no idea. My older brother was a complete mystery to me. Except for
what he thought of me, that he made crystal clear. I was a screw-up,
an embarrassment, a child masquerading as a grown up, yada yada.
The only two people I
enjoyed seeing were my little sister Gigi and my grandmother. They
could do no wrong. At 19, Gigi had everyone wrapped around her
finger, myself included. She didn’t even try to do it. That was her
secret. She’d clearly taken after my grandmother who always got
exactly what she wanted simply by being the kind of person you really
didn’t want to disappoint. She believed in me. She always told me
that at exactly the right moment, as if she saw right into my soul
and discerned some quality of character or potential even I didn’t
recognize I had.
With one last deep
breath of cold, fresh air, I told myself there was no time like the
present. I bit the proverbial bullet and headed up into the fray. The
elevator doors parted directly into my grandmother’s home.
“Asher. So good of
you to come.” A butler held open the door to the Upper East Side
home, but Gram met me at the entrance, her bright blue eyes brimming
with pleasure at the sight of me.
“Hi, Gram. Looking
good.” My grandmother could wear a wool suit with pearls like
nobody’s business. Like they were made for her. Actually, they
probably were, custom tailored from a tiny shop that mostly catered
to the royals. Gram’s father had been in the House of Lords and she
had married a peer, though he’d passed before I was born.
She kissed me on both
cheeks, then drew her arm through my own. I took comfort in her
vigor. At 83, I knew she was old on paper, but Gram seeming old in
person would really fuck me up.
“They’re gathering
in the drawing room. Shall I have Thomas fix you a drink?”
“You read my mind.”
“And old fashioned,
if you please,” she spoke to the side. Thomas nodded, then tucked
into the butler’s pantry to do her bidding. “Colton’s fuming
about you,” she informed me in classic Gram style, somehow managing
to make me feel as if she were on my team, warning me without
judging. “He’s extremely vexed over something or other.”
“Yeah, there’s this
video on YouTube. Makes me look pretty bad.”
“Oh, well,” she
scoffed. “People wasting time on that kind of drivel aren’t
worthy of your attention, now are they, dear?” She patted my hand.
Case closed. She really was a golden egg in the midst of a mile-wide
trough of pig slop. In my experience, most people in this world
tended to disappoint. Better to expect it than get blindsided later.
But that had never happened with Gram.
“Asher!” A small
bundle of strawberry blonde hair and a huge smile came flying at me.
“Gigi!” I gave my
little sister a huge hug. She’d taken after Gram, petite and
ladylike, yet also somehow unpretentious. “How you been?”
“Missing you!” she
exclaimed, linking through my other arm.
“Allow me to show you
in.” Gram led me into a high-ceilinged room with ornate draperies
framing floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Paintings
in giant frames, each with its own lighting, covered most of the
remaining walls.
My older brother, Colt,
stood by the fireplace, drink in hand, looking like he belonged in a
period piece set in Victorian England. OK, mostly it was the setting
around him but he truly fit in, shoulders back, spine straight, chin
angled such that he looked down his stern nose at me. Vexed, indeed.
My younger brother,
Heath, lurked over in the shadows in the furthest corner of the room,
dark and angry with a giant beard. He clearly wished he were anywhere
else. Last I heard he was living in Vermont in a one-room cabin with
no running water. At first that had sounded insane to me, but lately
I saw the appeal in getting away from it all. I nodded at him briefly
and he gave me a swift nod in response. I hear you, bro, I wanted to
say. I don’t want to be here, either. We weren’t close, but I’d
always respected Heath. At 24 he’d become one badass bearded
mountain man. I wouldn’t get on his bad side.
My great-aunt Gertrude
sat ramrod straight on a richly upholstered settee with a teacup
suspended mid-air en route to her mouth. Perhaps etiquette required
pausing one’s consumption of beverages upon the entrance of a new
party into a room. A year or two younger than Gram, I knew Great Aunt
Gertrude was a stickler for manners, preferably the absurdly outdated
kind.
The leather chair my
father had favored—as large and overbearing as his
personality—remained empty. It felt so strange to not see him in
it. I’d fought him so hard all my life. Now that he was gone I
almost felt unmoored.