Page 42 of Saving the Rockstar

"In your dreams," Mason scoffed, but I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes lingered on Dylan's lips, the faint blush creeping up his neck.

I watched their back-and-forth with a growing sense of amusement, the tension of the night slowly starting to drain away.

Later that night, after dinner at the hotel, I slipped out of my room, mumbling some excuse about needing fresh air. But instead of heading outside, I made my way to the bar nearby, my feet carrying me there almost of their own accord.

I began drowning my sorrows in cheap whiskey and self-pity, trying to forget the way Jared's lips had felt against mine, the way his touch had set my skin on fire. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I didn't even notice when Jared slid onto the stool beside me.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said softly, his voice low and rough with concern.

I looked up at him, my eyes bleary and unfocused. "Are you following me?" I asked, my words slurring slightly.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Asher, you can't be doing this. Drinking alone, in a place like this? It's not safe. And it's not good for the band's image, either."

I felt a flare of anger rise up inside me, hot and irrational. "Oh, so that's all you're worried about? The band's image?"

He flinched as if I'd slapped him, his eyes flashing with hurt. "That's not fair, Ash. You know I care about you. I'm just trying to look out for you."

"Well, maybe I don't need you to look out for me," I snapped, my voice rising with each word. "Maybe I'm tired of being suffocated, of being told what I can and can't do. Maybe I just want to be left the fuck alone."

He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight. "Is that really what you think?" he asked finally, his voice quiet and strained. "That I'm only in this for the paycheck, for the fame? That I don't actually give a damn about you?"

I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like I was going to be sick. Because the truth was, I didn't know what to think anymore. I was so confused, so lost, so fucking scared of the feelings that were growing inside me, the ones that I couldn't seem to control.

"I don't know," I whispered, my voice cracking on the words. "I don't know anything anymore."

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. And when he spoke again, his voice was hard, almost cold. "You think you know me so well, don't you? Think you have me all figured out. But you're so damn afraid of letting anyone in, you can't see what's right in front of you."

My heart raced at the proximity, at the raw emotion in Jared's voice. I wanted to pull away, to retreat into my usual defensive snark. But something in Jared's gaze held me captive, a glimmer of vulnerability that mirrored my own.

"And what's that?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

Jared's eyes searched my face, a war of conflicting emotions playing out in their depths. For a moment, it seemed like he might close the distance between us with a kiss, might say the words I both longed for and dreaded. But then the spell was broken by the sound of cruel laughter from a nearby table.

I could feel the eyes of the other bar patrons on us, their whispers and curious glances making my skin crawl. And then, out of nowhere, a slurred voice cut through.

"Hey, isn't that Asher Roth? The homo fromNovocaine Dreams?"

I flinched, my stomach churning with anger. But before I could even react, Jared was there, his body coiled tight with barely contained rage.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The man smirked, his eyes glassy with alcohol and malice. "You heard me. Your boy there is a queer. Shouldn't be allowed on stage, if you ask me."

That was all it took. With a roar of fury, Jared launched himself at the man, his fist connecting with his jaw with a sickening crack. The man stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock, before retaliating with a clumsy swing of his own.

The fight quickly escalated, drawing in other patrons who seemed all too eager to join in the fray. Fists flew and bottles shattered, the air thick with the stench of sweat and spilled beer. And through it all, Jared fought like a man possessed, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness.

It wasn't until the bartender threatened to call the cops that we were finally kicked out, stumbling into the cool night air with bleeding knuckles and racing hearts. Jared was breathing hard, his chest heaving as he turned to face me, his expression a mix of defiance and regret.

"Asher, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. But when he said those things about you, I just couldn't stand it."

I opened my mouth to respond, to tell him that it was okay, that I understood. But instead, I just nodded and we made a hasty retreat back to the hotel.

The next morning, the incident was all over the news, the headlines painting Jared as a hotheaded loose cannon who had put the band's reputation at risk. Our manager, Vivian, was livid, her face tight with anger as she paced the conference room of the hotel.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" she hissed, jabbing a finger at Jared. "You've endangered Asher, tarnished the band's image, and given the tabloids enough fodder to last for weeks. I should have you fired on the spot."

Jared flinched at her words, his head bowed in shame. But to my surprise, I found myself stepping forward, my voice steady and calm.

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