“You look like you could use a drink,” he says, moving past me to the kitchen.
I follow him with my gaze and see that’s where the balcony doors lead out from. This itty-bitty kitchen. Just an icebox, a stove, and a couple cabinets.
He hands me a bottle of Ballantine, and I make a show like I know what I’m doing, opening it with the opener he hands me. But the top flies and rolls under his easy chair, and I mutter an apology. I brace myself for the first sip because I know it’s going to taste bad, but I don’t want him to know I’ve only had, like, one in my life, and I couldn’t even finish it.
I swallow the bitter, yeasty liquid and distract my way through a gag by sitting on his sofa. He takes the easy chair and lights up a cigarette. I look around and notice he doesn’t have a television, but there’s a radio on his kitchen table.
“So, what do you do all day?” I ask, then immediately wince.
He gives me a funny look. “On the weekends? Just whatever. Take my laundry down. Listen to some records. Sometimes ride into town and pick up a few things. During the week, I work. You’re well aware of what my evenings are like.” He rests an elbow on the back of the chair, displaying himself. It lets me get a good look without trying too hard. “What do you do all day? Besides, you know, stare at people.”
I feel my cheeks burn a little, but his tone is playful. “I don’t know. Read. Watch TV. I find things to do, I guess.”
“And you don’t have a job or school or anything?”
“No.”
“And so this is like…a vacation?”
I shrug at that and take another acrid sip.
Aunt Amy doesn’t even know the whole thing. Just what she saw, what I had to tell the police, and I suppose she put two-and-two together. When Javert finally confronted Valjean, it was clear who the aggressor was. It was clear why Valjean had to defend himself. How else could he have escaped? How else could he have kept his promise to Fantine?
“It’s cool if you don’t want to say,” Asher says. “I was just wondering.”
I half nod, half shrug. Take another drink.
“And you don’t have to drink the beer if you don’t want it,” he says with a knowing look in his eyes.
“I want it,” I say, clutching it to me. “I like beer.” I take another drink and try to hide the shudder.
He laughs. “You ever seen Lucy Ricardo and that Vitameatavegamin bit? That’s exactly what you look like, pal.”
“No, I don’t.” I clear my throat. “I mean, I don’t drink a lot. My aunt doesn’t drink anything but wine, and I don’t like wine. So.”
He nods, chuckles; sits back and surveys me. “What do you read?”
“Old stuff. Books nobody cares about.” I pause and get a good gulp of alcohol. I look down at the sneakers I hardly wear, push my glasses up. “My favorite isLes Misérables.” Then I hold my breath and look over at him.
I don’t expect him to love it too. Or even know it. I just don’t want him to make fun of me. It’s not like I dislike the writers of my generation, but sometimes some long-dead revolutionary going on and on and on about a bunch of cloistered nuns is exactly what I need.
Asher just nods and looks around his sitting room. “I don’t read much. As you can see.” There’s some disappointment in his tone. “I guess it’s just not my thing.”
I feel the tingle of relief. “What is your thing?”
“Cars, I guess. My bike. Anything that rides.”
I like the way his expression changes when he says it. The look of self-assurance, of knowing. “So who do you work for?”
He shrugs. “Me.” He takes a long pull on his Ballantine. “I had to save up. Took me…” He tilts his head as he thinks about it. “About a year and a couple of months. I live cheap so I can pay the rent on the garage. The guy that runs the shop next door owns it. Lets me lease it for my own work. Sometimes he’ll throw a customer or two my way.”
“Why don’t you just work for him?”
He gives me that smirk that has become so familiar to me now. I’ve captured it in my mind like a photo and framed it.
“I don’t want to work for anyone,” he replies. “It’s a drag to make some other square rich, while I run around on a wheel. No thanks.”
A lock of hair slips down over his forehead. What I wouldn’t do to be the one that brushes it away. And the way he’s laying back like that, all displayed, what I wouldn’t do to please him. I’d get on my knees, I’d swallow him down, he could come on my bare skin and all he’d have to do is ask. Not even that. It’s merciful, to allow me to, it’s just the kind of recompense I need, and I can’t stop wondering what he tastes like, and next thing I know I have to lean over, I have to set the beer down and cross my arms over my lap. Andplease, please, pleasedon’t let him see.
