Page 38 of Saving the Rockstar

Dylan had held me through it. Rocked me, soothed me. Loved me, in the purest, truest sense of the word.

And slowly, I'd started to believe him. Started to see myself the way he saw me. As someone worthy. Someone strong. Someone who could survive this, and come out the other side brighter than before.

It had been a long road. The healing, the rebuilding of my shattered sense of self. And even now, years later, the scars remained. The doubts, the fears.

As I now finished recalling that period of my life, my voice was hoarse and my cheeks damp. Jared was looking at me like he'd never seen me before. Like I was something precious, something to be treasured.

"Asher," he breathed, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Fuck. I'm so sorry."

I shrugged, a jerky motion. "It is what it is. I survived. I got out."

"You did." Jared caught my hand, tangled our fingers together. Squeezed, gentle but firm. "You're so fucking strong, Ash. Walking away and starting over takes incredible courage."

I ducked my head, feeling heat crawl up the back of my neck. "I had help. Dylan, he saved me. In every way a person can be saved."

Jared smiled then. "He's a good man. A good friend. And you've got me now, too. I hope you know that."

He pulled me in then. Wrapped me up in strong arms, warm skin and the scent of safety. And I let him. I burrowed into the shelter of him, pressed my face to the steady thrum of his pulse. Let him hold me, shield me.

The text glared up at me from my phone screen, the words stark and damning.

Time's up, Ash. You've had your fun playing rock star, but now it's time to come home. Back to the studio, back to me.

And if you don't? Well, I'm sure the tabloids would love to know all about your little secret. Who their precious, squeaky-clean pop idol really is behind closed doors.

Imagine the headlines. The hate, the disgust. Your career, your reputation, all gone in a flash. Is that what you want? To lose everything you've worked so hard for?

I didn't think so. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to come to the studio. You're going to record the songs I tell you to, the way I tell you to. And you're going to smile while you do it. Act like the grateful little protégé you are.

In return, I'll keep your secret. Let you maintain the illusion of a normal life, a successful career. But don't forget, Ash. I own you. I made you, and I can break you just as easily.

See you soon, superstar.

I felt sick. Physically, violently ill. The words swam before my eyes, blurred by the hot sting of tears.

I retreated into myself. Drew away from the others, from Jared. Avoided his eyes, his touch. The concern, the care in his gaze... it was too much. Too pure, too good for the tainted, broken thing I was.

I could see the hurt in him, the confusion. But he didn't push. Didn't demand answers I couldn't give. He just let me be. Gave me space, even as I could feel his worry like a physical thing.

It came to a head in Prague, after a performance I barely remembered. I was too caught up in my own spiraling thoughts. I found myself in the hotel bar. Nursing a whiskey, staring into the amber depths like they held the answers to the universe.

I sensed Jared before I saw him. Felt the heat of his presence, the weight of his gaze on the back of my neck. He slid onto the stool next to me, his bulk making the wood creak. He signaled the bartender for a beer, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Asher." His voice was low and urgent. Threaded through with concern, with a desperate kind of worry. "Talk to me. Please."

I swallowed hard. Kept my gaze fixed on the bar top.

"There's nothing to talk about." I aimed for casual, unbothered, but missed by a mile.

Jared made a frustrated sound. "Bullshit. You've been avoiding me for days. Flinching away from me like I'm something to be afraid of."

The hurt in his voice was poorly concealed. It cleaved at me, tearing at my heart and resolve. But I couldn't drag him into this. Couldn't let Carter's poison touch him, taint him.

Jared was good. He was pure, in a way I never could be. And I'd sooner cut out my own heart than see that light in him dimmed. Even if it meant breaking my own in the process.

So I pasted on a smirk, cold and brittle. Finally met his gaze, let him see the ice in my eyes.

"Maybe I just needed some space. Ever think of that?" I tossed back the last of my drink, the burn of it grounding me. Giving me strength for what I had to do. "Maybe I'm tired of you always hovering, always watching me."

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