Yet another part of him was increasingly uncomfortable, though. Not just because of how stupid he felt hovering in a deserted alley, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting woman. Yesenia clearly didn’t want to be seen. And with every second that passed, Asher found himself growing pricklier.
He didn’t want Rudy to photograph her. He didn’t want Jimmy—or anyone—seeing her, for that matter.
Himself? Well, that was a different matter altogether.
Suddenly, all he wanted was to get his friends out of that alley. The sluggish rain that started to fall was the final straw.
“She’s not coming out this way. Let’s go,” Asher said, his tone not inviting argument.
Rudy shifted his readied camera and peered at his watch. “Just a few more minutes—”
“I’m going,” Jimmy interrupted bluntly. “So is Asher. Come on, Fattore, it’s late and I’ve got a court date early in the morning. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He turned and stalked toward the distant lit street. Rudy lingered, casting an undecided look at the back doors of the theatre.
“She’s not coming out this way,” Asher said. “Trust me. This is a waste of time.”
Rudy wavered but then relented. He walked up next to Asher, putting his camera away in its case. He looked a little downcast but then rallied with his typical Rudy optimism.
“At least the show was worth it, right?” he asked Asher as they exited the alley.
“Yeah,” Asher said, looking straight ahead at Jimmy’s tall, retreating figure. “I’ll give you that.”
• • •
The next morning, Asher noticed the sun breaking through gray clouds and streaming onto the Chicago skyline as he headed back into the city. The image penetrated his furious, agitated state. He glanced dazedly at the dashboard clock. It was just now eleven a.m.
He hadn’t even made it a full hour in Winnetka with his parents before all hell had broken loose.
A sharp pain sliced through his volatile state, making him grip the steering wheel hard and clench his teeth. Asher had tried to be gentle with them. He loved his parents. Didn’t he? They were the only family he had.
If you care so much about them, how come you couldn’t bring yourself to even shave your beard before you showed up at their house? In the end, you couldn’t even make the smallest concession for their comfort, could you?
He’d been kidding himself in thinking that the meeting would be difficult and unpleasant, but bearable. Only seconds after they sat down at the table and he stated his plans, everything had exploded. Or more concisely given the stiff, WASP restraint of his parents, it had imploded.
For seemingly the hundredth time, he recalled his father’s pale face and hurt, bitter blue eyes.
“How is it possible that every time I imagine you couldn’t disappoint me more, you find a way to do it, Asher?” his father asked him, each word a quiet, piercing bullet. “This childish scheme you’re imagining will not occur.”
“How does being offered the New York Gazette’s European bureau chief position in London before my thirtieth birthday equate to childish?” Asher wondered, floored by his father’s immediate, total rejection, and mad at himself for being caught off guard. Why did he continually believe there was a chance that one day things would get better between himself and his parents? “It’s a highly respected job, one that plenty of men and women twice my age want. You know that, Dad.”
“I could have given you the equivalent of that job at any one of our papers years ago.”
“I didn’t want to be given it. I wanted to earn it.”
“You’re a Gaites-Granville. You were born with newspapers and news in your blood. You don’t need to earn anything.”
“That’s bullshit,” Asher stated as calmly as possible. His mother hissed his name repressively for cursing.
His father was ignoring both of them, already thinking up obstacles to Asher’s plan. “The Mandor Media Group may be our biggest rival, but—
“I’ll never understand how you could have taken a job with them when you knew perfectly well how much it would hurt your father. It was like you willfully stabbed him in the back and left him here to bleed while you gallivanted across the globe, only thinking about yourself . . . even changi
ng your name merely to Gaites. What would your grandfather think of you lopping off half of your family history, all for the ease of a byline?” his mother asked in a quivering voice.
“Mom—” Asher began, wincing at her choice of words.
“Dick Brannigan still owes me a favor or two,” his father continued ruthlessly as though Asher and his mom weren’t even there. His dad referred to the CEO of Mandor Media, the New York Gazette’s parent company. “I’ll be contacting him later today. That position in London isn’t going to be available any longer. Not to you, it’s not.” His father rose from the elaborately set dining table and stalked away several feet, mumbling under his breath the whole time. “Of all the nerve, trying to undermine me by bribing my own flesh and blood to continue working with them. And you—” He’d spun suddenly and glared at Asher. “To go along with it all. Don’t you know Mandor Media and the Gazette just want you as a war trophy, stealing away the heir of their rival? They’re doing this to spite me, and as usual, you’re giving them exactly what they want.”
Asher flew out of his chair at that, rattling the silver on the table and startling his mother.