Page 3 of Saving the Rockstar

"My apologies," Jared said stiffly. "It wasn't my intention to offend you, or to cross any lines. You just seemed like you could use a friendly face, that's all. I'll be sure to keep my distance going forward."

I flinched like he'd slapped me, a hot, prickling wave of shame crashing over me. I knew I was being an asshole, lashing out like a kicked dog just for having the audacity to crave a kind touch. But I couldn't seem to stop myself.

"Yeah, you do that," I bit out, hating the way my voice wavered on the last word.

Jared's eyes flashed again. For a second, I thought he was going to snap back. But he just took a deep breath through his nose, his broad shoulders squaring like he was physically bracing himself.

"I'll escort you back to the main ballroom now, unless you need another moment to collect yourself."

I gritted my teeth. Of course, he would be perfectly professional about this.

"I don't need an escort," I sneered, tossing my hair out of my eyes with a sharp jerk of my chin. "And I definitely don't need another moment. I'm fantastic, thanks so much for asking."

Jared inclined his head, somehow managing to make the gesture look sarcastic. "Glad to hear it. In that case, I'll just point you in the direction of the ballroom and get back to my patrol. The auction should be starting soon, and I'm sure they'll be missing their star performer."

I froze, a sudden, irrational panic seizing me at the implication that he knew who I was. But then I caught the slight furrow between his brows, the way his gaze darted over my artfully disheveled hair like he was trying to place me. He had no idea who I was, I realized with a rush of relief. To him, I was just some anonymous basket case who'd wandered into the wrong corridor.

There was something oddly freeing about being seen as just a person. Not a commodity or a cash cow or a piece of public property to be pawed at and dissected.

Some small, secret part of me wanted him to know. So I tipped my chin up and met his gaze dead on.

"I think I can take it from here. It's not exactly my first rodeo, if you catch my drift."

His brow furrowed further, confusion and frustration warring in his unreadable eyes. "Are you saying you're familiar with this venue?"

My lips quirked in a smirk. "You could say that. I'm pretty sure they'd have a hard time kicking off the entertainment without the entertainment present."

I took pleasure in watching the realization in his eyes.

"You're..." he started, then had to swallow hard. "You're Asher, fromNovocaine Dreams."

"In the flesh," I purred. "Always a pleasure to meet a fan."

"I'm not," he blurted, then winced, one hand coming up to scrub at the back of his neck. "Anyway, the ballroom is just through those doors, Mr. Roth," he said, the words crisp and cool as freshly pressed linens.

"It's Asher," I corrected him, my voice dropping an octave as I let my gaze flick meaningfully to his lips. "Mr. Roth is my father. And trust me, he's never been eagerly awaited anywhere."

And with that, I shoved through the doors and into the glittering fray beyond. I didn't look back. But I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, searing through the layers of leather and bravado to the quivering wreck beneath.

Chapter 2: Asher

The crowd erupted into a frenzy as I struck the final chord of my electrifying guitar solo, the notes reverberating through the stadium and sending shockwaves of energy pulsing through the sea of fans. Sweat poured down my face, plastering strands of my hair to my forehead, but I hardly noticed, so caught up was I in the intoxicating rush of performing.

I stood there for a moment, chest heaving, drinking in the wild cheers and applause, before taking a final bow and striding off stage.

Backstage, I grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow and chugged a bottle of water. Dylan bounded over, his eyes bright with excitement. "Dude, that solo was insane!"

I shrugged, feeling self-conscious. "Thanks man, I'm just glad I didn't totally blank and freeze up out there. You know how I get in my head sometimes with the pressure and all."

He clapped me on the back as we retreated to my dressing room to decompress for a bit. I plopped down on the couch and grabbed the remote to flick on the TV.

To my surprise, a news segment about our band filled the screen. "Asher, lead singer of the skyrocketing rock sensationNovocaine Dreams, is quickly becoming a household name," the reporter announced. "With his electrifying stage presence and soul-baring lyrics, the frontman has captured the hearts of fans worldwide."

I cringed a little, seeing myself from an outside perspective.

"Asher's haunting lyrics delve into themes of isolation, heartbreak, and the struggle to find one's place in theworld - messages that clearly resonate with the band's devoted following," the reporter continued. "Guitarist Dylan provides the perfect complement to Asher, his raw talent and flamboyant stage presence adding an extra spark to the group's performances."

The camera panned to Dylan, in all his shirtless, skinny-jean-clad glory. He preened exaggeratedly at his onscreen self. "Damn, I look good. Those yoga classes are clearly paying off."

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