Page 14 of Saving the Rockstar

"Thanks," I said, and winced at the hoarseness of my own voice. I cleared my throat and tried again. "For, you know, playing nurse."

One side of his mouth ticked up, just a hint of a smirk. "I've played a lot of roles in my day, but that's a new one. Maybe I missed my calling."

I chuckled, bumping my knee against his as I settled into my seat. "Nah. You're a little lacking in the warm fuzzies department."

"Maybe I'm just selective with my warm fuzzies," he shot back, smooth as butter. "Ever think of that?"

I rolled my eyes, but I could feel my lips threatening to twitch. And for a moment, I let myself imagine it. Let myself picture a world where this was normal, was allowed. Where his warm fuzzies could be mine, and mine alone.

A world where I got to keep this. Keep him.

In my mind's eye, I saw it all unfold, soft-edged and hazy with potential. Jared sprawled on my tour bus, his boots propped up on the kitchenette table as he strummed idle chords on the guitar I'd been teaching him to play. The two of us walking hand in hand down an anonymous city street, just another pair of lovers strolling in the twilight. Waking up naked and wrapped in his arms, his face slack and peaceful with sleep, his hair an ungodly mess against my Egyptian cotton pillowcases.

Chapter 5: Jared

The change was subtle at first, a gradual lessening of the hateful rhetoric that had dogged Asher's every step for weeks. But as the days passed and the public's attention was inexorably drawn to the next shiny scandal, the flavor of the chatter surrounding him began to shift.

It started with that damn video, the one captured by a bystander's cellphone camera on that fateful day outside the recording studio. The footage was grainy and shaky - but there was no mistaking the panic and distress etched into every line of Asher’s body as he struggled against the crush of paparazzi.

Nor was there any ambiguity in my own response, the protective fury that had propelled me through that writhing mass of bodies like a heat-seeking missile. The clip had caught it all in unflinching detail - the way I'd planted myself in front of Asher like a human shield, the cold menace in my voice as I'd ordered the vultures to “back the fuck off” before I started breaking bones.

It had gone viral within hours of hitting the internet, shared and reposted and dissected ad nauseum by a public hungry for the next morsel of drama. But to my surprise, the reaction had been overwhelmingly positive.

Suddenly, the narrative was shifting, the focus moving from lurid speculation about Asher's sexuality to condemnation of the way he'd been treated. A-list celebrities began weighing in, offering messages of solidarity and sharing their own harrowing experiences with media harassment.

Asher himself remained largely silent throughout it all, his social media presence reduced to a few terse, carefullyworded statements released through his publicist. But backstage and behind closed doors, I could see the toll it was taking.

It was there in the little things. The way his hands shook as he tuned his guitar before shows, the tremor only stilling once he lost himself in the music. The hollow ring to his laughter during interviews, the smiles that never quite reached his eyes. The dark circles and papery skin that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

I watched it all with a growing sense of helpless frustration, my protective instincts warring with the knowledge that there was only so much I could do. I was his bodyguard, his silent shadow. It wasn't my place to push, to demand he bare his soul to me just because I couldn't stand to see him hurting.

But god, there were moments when the urge was almost overwhelming. Moments when he would look at me with those haunted, exhausted eyes, a mute plea for something he wouldn't put into words. Moments when all I wanted to do was gather him into my arms and hold him until the tension bled from his muscles, until he finally let himself surrender to the raw vulnerability he kept locked away behind iron walls.

Moments when I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to have those clever, expressive hands tracing idle patterns on my skin. To have that hypnotic voice whispering secrets meant only for my ears, husky with sleep and sated pleasure. To wake up with his face pressed into the crook of my neck, his leg thrown carelessly over my hip as he breathed deep and even in the watery morning light.

Dangerous, reckless thoughts, the kind that had no place in a professional dynamic like ours. The kind that could only lead to heartache and disaster if I let them take root.

I was straight. And he was my client, for fuck's sake. It was my job to keep him safe. I couldn't afford to let my own messy, inconvenient feelings compromise that.

And yet, there were also moments - brief, electrifying flashes - when I could feel a spark kindling behind Asher's shuttered gaze. Charged instances when his eyes would snag on my mouth, his teeth sinking into his plush bottom lip like he was physically holding back words that wanted to spill free. When the air between us would turn thick and heavy, crackling with a tension that had nothing to do with the professional and everything to do with raw, molten desire.

It was maddening, this push and pull between duty and desire. This constant, low-grade hum of awareness that prickled across my skin whenever he was near, an electric undercurrent I couldn't seem to shut off no matter how hard I tried.

It was there in the recording booth, in the tour bus, in the endless parade of generic hotel rooms and backstage green rooms. It made me hyperconscious of every breath he took, every shift of his lithe body.

It was getting harder and harder to ignore. I was slipping, losing my grip on the tidy compartments I'd spent a lifetime constructing. And the worst part was, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to stop it.

Because as much as I tried to maintain that professional distance, I was drawn to Asher in a way I'd never experienced before. Drawn to the glimpses of the real Asher I'd catch in rare, unguarded moments. The one who hid behind a thick layer of sarcasm and biting humor, who armored himself in wit and dizzying intellect. The one who felt things so deeply, so intensely, that sometimes I swore I could see him vibrating with the force of all the emotions he refused to let himself express.

It terrified me, this fierce, unruly want. This bone-deep need to know him, all of him, in a way that went far beyond the physical. I'd never been a fanciful man, never put much stock in romantic notions of destiny or soulmates.

But with Asher, it was like some vital piece of myself I hadn't even known was missing had suddenly clicked into place. Like I'd spent my entire life searching for something I couldn't name, and now that I'd found it, I would go to war with heaven and earth to keep it safe. To keephimsafe.

It was that protective instinct, that constant need to shield him from harm, that had me accompanying Asher on an unscheduled detour one hazy afternoon. We slipped away from the arena after soundcheck, just the two of us, my curiosity piqued when he directed me to an unfamiliar address on the outskirts of the city.

When we arrived at the nondescript brick building, I was surprised to see a small rainbow flag hanging above the door, the words "Safe Haven Youth Shelter" stenciled beneath it in neat block letters. Asher flashed me an unreadable look as he slid out of the car, his shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow.

"Not what you expected, huh?" he asked, a wry twist to his lips. "Let me guess. You thought I was sneaking off for a clandestine hookup or a back-alley drug deal."

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