Page 36 of Saving the Rockstar

Twin sputters of outrage.

"Flirt?!"

"Withhim?"

"-infuriating, glitter-huffing sprite -"

"-repressed, emotionally constipated Neanderthal -"

I held up my hands, fighting back a grin. "Alright. My mistake. Clearly there is no flirting happening here, no sir."

Dylan sniffed primly. "Thank you. As if I would ever stoop to making eyes at G.I. Jackass over here."

Mason glowered. "The feeling is entirely mutual, trust me."

I hummed, unconvinced. "If you say so."

They both shot me venomous looks, but I just smiled serenely.

The high of the final Poland show lingered under my skin. The crowd had been incredible, their energy palpable, lifting me up and carrying me through the set like a cresting wave.

But as I came down from the stage, the adrenaline slowly ebbing, reality began to creep back in. The aches and pains, the bone-deep exhaustion.

And the letter. Innocuous white envelope, slim and unassuming. Waiting for me on the dressing room table like a coiled snake.

I knew that handwriting. Carter.

With trembling fingers, I tore into the envelope. Scanned the words, each one hitting like a punch to the gut.

Asher,

Saw your show tonight. Not bad, kid. You've come a long way from that scrawny little brat I pulled out of the gutter. But let's be real. We both know you wouldn't be where you are without me. I made you. Molded you into something worthwhile.

And now it's time to pay the piper. I've got a new project brewing. Big things, groundbreaking stuff. And I need a frontman. That's where you come in. Think about it. You and me, together again. Making music, making history. Just like old times.

I'll be in touch. And trust me - you're gonna want to take my call. After all, you owe me. Don't ever forget that.

- C

The paper crumpled in my fist, my knuckles white. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, a dull roar of static.

With a snarl, I ripped the letter to shreds. Let the pieces flutter to the floor like the meaningless trash they were. I was done. Carter was my past, and he could fucking stay there.

But if only it were that easy. In the following days, as we made our way to Hungary, I could feel my resolve crumbling. The anxiety, the fear, creeping back in.

It started with texts. Unknown numbers, all with the same message.

Tick tock, Asher. Clock's running out.

You can't ignore me forever.

I made you. And I can break you just as easily.

I blocked them, each and every one. But they kept coming, a relentless tide of threats and coercion. And with each one, I could feel myself slipping. Back into that dark place, that prison of self-doubt and loathing.

It affected my performances. I was distracted, sloppy. Missing cues, flubbing lyrics. The fans were forgiving, but I could see the concern in the crew’s eyes.

Jared pulled me aside after a particularly rough show in Budapest, his brow furrowed and his eyes searching. "Ash. Talk to me. What's going on with you?"

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