Author's Note: This is a companion story to the Phobia series. This particular story is set between Avitaphobia and Isolophobia. It is suggested you read Avitaphobia first. I only own Asher Jacobs. I have borrowed the others for my own amusement. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------

November 18, 2004, 830 PM, Le Blues Bar, Paris, France

Asher Jacobs could taste her nerves. Over the brief break between the lunch and the dinner rushes, Richie had pointed out she should be used to the rhythm of performing. After all, since she had started waitressing Le Blue's Bar nearly two months ago, Duncan had had her slated to perform almost every week.

But she still felt apart from the crowds. Granted, she did not perform new material every week. She did not write that quickly. But she had a notebook filled with her old attempts at songwriting and music, written in her post-rebellion days. For those who knew her well, her mood could be gauged from the words and the tone of the music.

Tonight, once again, she was slated to play. It was quieter than usual. But with only a week to go before the American holiday of Thanksgiving, it was understandable. Asher was in the backroom tuning her guitar, while Richie sat at the computer, writing and sending an email.

"Sound good to you?" she asked, looking up briefly from the strings.

"I'd say so. I'm not much of a music person."

"Yeah, I know. I hear your sour attempts of singing in the shower."

Richie glanced over his shoulder to stick his tongue out, and Asher laughed, aware of the nerves sliding through her body like water, flowing from her veins into the air.

"I'll have you know, Asher, that I composed that song specifically for you."

"Remind me to never have you perform in public then."

She bent over her instrument again, her hair falling across her cheek, to hum the words to the tune one last time. "And, now, I am proud to present," she heard Duncan's voice through the cracked office door, "our very own, Asher Jacobs."

"Wish me luck," she whispered, leaning in to kiss Richie.

"Good look."

Stepping her way through the tables, Asher took the seat on the stage, her guitar in hands. Darcy cast her an equally supportive, but mischievous smile, while Mike flashed her the thumbs up.

"I call this song 'Free Woman in Paris'."

The way I see it

She said you just can't win it

Everybody's in it for their own gain

You can't please them all

There's always somebody callin you down

I do my best and I do good business

There's alot of people askin for my time

They're trying to get ahead

They're trying to be a good friend of mine

I was a free woman in Paris

I felt unfettered and alive

There was nobody callin me up for favors

And no one's future to decide

You know I'd go back there tomorrow

But for the work I've taken on

Stokin the star maker machinery behind the popular song

I deal in dreamers and telephone screamers

Lately I wonder what I do it for

If I had my way, I'd just walk through those doors

And wander down the Champs-Élysées

Goin' café to cabaret

Thinkin how I'd feel when I find that very good friend of mine

I was a free woman in Paris

I felt unfettered and alive

Nobody was callin me up for favors

No one's future to decide

You know I'd go back there tomorrow

But for the work I've taken on

Stokin the star maker machinery behind the popular song

The last word echoed against the applause. Asher smiled shyly, idly strumming three notes before she launched into the second, then the third, and finally her fourth, and last song. It was a ritual with her: she always performed exactly four songs.

Curtsying, she stepped from the stage, coming to the bar, where Mike passed her a full glass of water. "Thanks," she spoke between swallows.

"You can pay in your service," he teased. "That third song of yours, 'Extant', what does the title mean?"

"Playing literary teacher again, Mike?" she grinned. "It translates to still existing, or not destroyed or lost. I don't know the origin."

"Makes sense. That line in the chorus, 'conversing in the kitchen/feet dangling back the wood/she was not the brightest crayon/but she persevered/life never lost/a girl extant/bring about the world if you could. . .'. I understand it now. When'd you write that song?"

"After I di -after my mother died. I wrote the first song then too."

"Well, you did great, Asher."

"Thanks, Mike. Richie disappear in back again?"

"Probably. If he is, tell him to get his arse out here to work. Duncan seems to disappear mid fourth song, so it falls to me to keep you three slackers in line."

"Lucky you," she smiled.

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Richie was not in back, nor was he anywhere to be seen. Slightly perturbed, and more upset, Asher hid her guitar once again in the case, kept in the backroom, and slipped back into the busy bar to wait her tables. Darcy attempted to catch her eyes a few times, once deliberately touching her shoulder, but Asher focused entirely on her own thoughts and the orders given to her by the customers.

"You ok, Asher?" Darcy asked pointedly, having drawn Asher away from the crowds into some privacy of a corner behind the counter.

"Fine. Just, have you seen Richie?"

Darcy looked at her strangely. "Yeah, he left right after you went on. Followed some strange guy out. Said he wouldn't be too long. Why?"

"No reason," lied Asher. "I wanted to ask him to take my guitar home. I hate to leave it here for too long."

Darcy seemed satisfied with the answer. Both returned to their work, but for the most of the remaining night, Asher found her attention constantly drifting to the front door, hoping every time the bell chimed, it was Richie.