Page 33 of Saving the Rockstar

Like the night I found him huddled in the back lounge of the bus, staring blankly at a bottle of whiskey. His face was pale, his eyes haunted in a way I recognized all too well.

"Asher?" I kept my voice soft, not wanting to startle him. "Everything okay?"

He didn't look at me, his fingers tightening around the bottle. "Do you ever feel like you're drowning? Like no matter how hard you try, you can't keep your head above water?"

I hesitated, then slowly lowered myself onto the couch beside him. "More often than I'd like to admit."

That drew his gaze to mine, a flicker of surprise in those blue depths. "Really? But you always seem so steady. Like nothing fazes you."

I huffed a humorless laugh. "Lots of practice at hiding it, I guess. Hazard of the job."

He nodded slowly. "I get that. Sometimes I feel like I'm playing a role, you know? The cocky rockstar, the charming frontman. But inside, I'm just scared all the time."

My chest ached at the lost note in his voice. I wanted to wrap him up, shield him from the world and all its sharp edges. But I settled for bumping my shoulder gently against his.

"Scared of what?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "Failing. Letting everyone down. Being not enough."

"Asher..." I breathed.

He shook his head, a jerky, aborted motion. "I know it's stupid. I mean, look at me. I'm living the dream, right? Sold out shows, adoring fans, more money than I know what to do with. But I just can't shake this feeling that any second, it's all going to come crashing down."

"That's not stupid," I said firmly. "It's human. Anyone in your position would feel the pressure."

His laugh was brittle. "Maybe. But not everyone deals with it by having a fucking panic attack before every show."

My heart stuttered in my chest. "Is that what happened tonight?"

He shrugged, a defeated slump to his shoulders. "Same shit, different day. I just couldn't breathe. Felt like the walls were closing in."

I remembered the way he'd stumbled offstage after the encore, his face ashen, his breathing shallow. The way he'd flinched away from the clamoring fans, the shouted demands for autographs and selfies.

At the time, I'd chalked it up to exhaustion, the toll of back-to-back shows. But now, seeing the haunted look in his eyes, the tremor in his hands, I cursed myself for not realizing sooner.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I should have seen it. Should have been there for you."

He shook his head. "Not your job to babysit my neuroses, Jared. You're here to keep the crazies away, not deal with my bullshit."

"Hey." I caught his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Your mental health is not bullshit, okay? And neither is your need for support. I'm here for you, Ash. However you need me."

Something flickered in his eyes, a desperate sort of yearning. But it was gone before I could parse it, shuttered behind a brittle smile.

"Careful, Jared. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me."

I rolled my eyes, letting my hand drop. "Heaven forbid. Can't have you thinking I'm human or anything."

That startled a laugh out of him, a genuine one. The sound warmed me from the inside out, chasing away the lingering chill of worry.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence, the hum of the road beneath us a soothing backdrop. Asher's shoulder pressed against mine, a solid line of heat, and I fought the urge to lean into it.

"How do you do it? Stay so steady? Because of what you saw in the marine?"

Memories flickered unbidden. The crack of gunfire, the acrid stench of smoke. Screams and blood and the wet gurgle of a dying breath.

I clenched my jaw. "It was rough. I don't talk about it much. It's just hard, you know? To put into words."

He nodded, solemn. "I can only imagine."

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