Page 54 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
live is an act of
courage.
Seneca the Younger
“No,” Asher says for the fifteenth time.
“Are you serious?!” I demand. “You can’t just trap me here, Asher. I’m getting stir crazy. My voice doesn’t even sound like my voice anymore. I never agreed to stay cooped up in your tower like I’m freakin’ Rapunzel or something.” I laugh sardonically. “Do I need a prince to come rescue me? I’ll be sure to ask René once he dethrones you.”
Usually, I wouldn’t talk to Asher like this, but between the stir craziness and the fact that he has actually been letting me get away with talking back, I don’t pull my verbal punches.
Asher sends a scowl my way. It’s ugly and beautiful all at once. “You can leave once Tommy comes.”
Tommy is my new stylist. Asher hired him the day after I moved into his place. I woke up that morning to a gorgeous, well-groomed Asian man pressing measuring tape around my breasts.
The first words out of his mouth were, “Girl, I wish I had tits as big as yours.”
Then, he pulled me out of the bed and proceeded to measure my body in places I didn’t know needed measuring. Two days later, he came back with a bunch of fabric for fittings, but I haven’t seen him since. And I also didn’t realize my freedom depends on him.
“Tommy?!” I say, though it’s more like a yell. “Oh, my goodness! You are such a jerk! This is about my clothes?! You didn’t seem to have a problem with how I dress when YOU TOLD YOUR COLLEAGUES THAT WE’RE ENGAGED!” I wince, embarrassed by how shrill my shouting got towards the tail end of that sentence. Because I can’t help myself, I add, “Unbelievable!” and stomp my way to the gym.
I was floored when I found out that Asher’s gym isn’t just a gym, though it also has all the standard equipment and more. It’s a UFC gym, too, with fighting equipment, a sparring ring, and enough punching bags for me to punch and kick away my anger. That’s been useful lately, since I’m angry a lot now.
Because after I realized that I didn’t run from Asher, I also realized that I’m not as afraid of him as I initially thought I was. It’s like the fear that was there only existed because I let it, but once I recognized that it was just a construct, it evaporated. It also helps that, lately, he has been pissing me off to the point where even fear can’t stop me from standing up for myself.
Hell hath no fury like a woman trapped, or whatever the saying is.
I’m not afraid of Asher, which is good for me and bad for him. It’s good for me, because I’m able to stand up for myself now. It’s bad for him, because he’s giving me a lot to stand up to. First, he hired Tommy without asking, which is awesome and akin to having my own fairy godmother, but that’s not the point. He didn’t ask me if I wanted new clothes. He just decided I did.
Then, when I tried to go to class on Monday, he told me that I can’t. No reason was given, just a “no.” I tried to leave anyway with Xavier hot on my heels, but apparently there’s a biometric scanner to access the elevator.
And guess who doesn’t have access?
Me.
When my glare cut to Xavier, he held up his hands and said, “Can’t do it. Gotta pay the bills.”
I growled and stomped my way back to Asher, where I demanded he let me out. When he gave me an infuriating “no” again, I lost it, kicking and punching whatever part of him I could. I didn’t even scratch him, which only pissed me off even more. Instead, he stepped around me, easily lifted me up by the waist, dropped me into the gym, and told me to “have at it.”
Two Sundays have passed since then, and that has been our routine every day since. I wake up and ask if I can leave. He says, “No.” I scream and yell until my throat hurts, then I try to escape. I inevitably fail and stomp back to him.
Because my voice is usually gone from my morning scream sessions, I resort to kicking and punching. He drops me off in the gym, where I kick and punch every bag in sight. Eventually, Xavier gets tired of my poor form and teaches me to fight properly. I’ve even gotten better.
Yesterday, when one of my punches landed on Asher’s stomach, I swear he smiled for a second before it was gone. Today, I’m not even bothering to escape. I head straight to my very own pink punching bag, which Asher surprised me with yesterday. I may have printed out a picture of his face on the office printer last night and taped it to the bag for target practice. I’m actually excited to test it out.
If Asher really wants to make it up to me, he’ll either let me out of here or have a punching bag that looks like him custom made for me. Because as fun as punching a picture of him is, it’s certainly not the same.
When I?
?m done with my fighting, I head to the office and log onto Asher’s desktop, which is way faster than my laptop. It’s a Black Enterprises product, after all. I open up the picture of Asher on Photoshop, a close up of his face I found on the internet, and edit some bruises onto his face. I digitally give him a busted lip and a black eye, because I can. When I print it out, I smile and proudly show it to Xavier, who rolls his eyes.
It’s ridiculous. I know. A few weeks ago, I was attending labs at a prestigious Ivy League research university and turning in insightful essays on the practical applications of MITE research in the Human Genome Project. Today, I’m photoshopping bruises onto my warden/fake fiancé’s face, because I can’t do it in real life. I’m also proudly showing it to my bodyguard, who doubles as my prison guard, like I expect it to be framed on the fridge or something.
Wait…
I reboot the printer, print out another copy and write a giant “A+” at the top right corner in red Sharpie. I hear Xavier groan when he sees what I’m doing, but I ignore him. I take the tape with me, because Asher doesn’t strike me as the type to have refrigerator magnets laying around. I’m taping my masterpiece onto the shiny, stainless steel surface of the gigantic hunk of metal that’s our fridge when Asher descends from the stairwell with Monica trailing closely behind like the little brown noser she is.
Obviously, my relationship with Monica is the one thing that hasn’t changed. Well, if possible, we hate each other more now. She scowls at me every morning when she goes into the bedroom to wake Asher up at 5 A.M. like an annoying human rooster.
