Page 5 of Saving the Rockstar

"You know, you joke, but little does the world know what really goes on behind the scenes," I said softly, unsure why I was admitting this. "The panic attacks, the insomnia, the constant fucking dread that any second, everyone is going to figure outI'm a fraud who has no business being here. And don't even get me started on the big shiny closet I'm apparently welded into."

The fear that came with even vaguely referencing my deepest shame - that regardless of any musical talent I might possess, the simple fact of who I was and who I loved was enough to topple the house of cards that was my career.

My mind flashed back to one of many scarring childhood memories. Twelve years old, lurking out of sight on the stairs as my parents entertained guests in the living room below. The conversation growing louder, meaner, as the wine flowed.

"Don't even get me started on that Ricky Martin," my dad had said. "Mincing around on stage, being a bad example to kids. Damn shame, really. Used to like his music, but I can't stomach him now, you know? The more of them that come out, the more they shove it in our face. It's sick."

And my mother, nodding in agreement, head wobbling with vodka. "It's a perversion. If any son of mine pulled that shit, he'd be out on his ass before he could blink. No way I'd let that into my house."

My small body had vibrated with a toxic cocktail of terror and self-loathing as I crept back to my room, hunching under the covers to muffle my sobs. Resolving right then and there to keeping any traitorous hint of deviance buried deep down.

Dylan's hand on my knee snapped me back to the present. I looked up to see him watching me, his normally laughing eyes soft with concern.

"You know I'm ride or die, right? Jokes aside, you're my brother, Ash. Fuck what anyone else thinks."

A sad smile flickered across my face. "Easy to say from the outside."

Dylan leveled me with a stern glare. "Hey, you’re hands down one of the most talented people I've ever met." He gripped my shoulders, giving me a little shake to punctuate his words. "You have a gift, man. That's what matters. All the other shit is just details. Your truth is your truth, and if some people can't handle it, then good fucking riddance."

Against my will, I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes. I'd spent so long armoring myself in anxiety, the idea that anyone, even Dylan, could see me, all of me, and not immediately recoil felt like a pipe dream.

"Do you remember what a hot mess you were soon after we first met in college?" Dylan said gently. "When you were still tangled up withHe Who Shall Not Be Named?"

I grimaced at the mention of Carter. My first love, my first heartbreak, the first man who'd seen a scared, closeted freshman and expertly manipulated every insecurity to his own ends.

Dylan’s face softened. "You were so twisted up by that motherfucker, convinced you were this unlovable man. And when he started sniffing around again once the band took off? I thought I was going to have to physically restrain you from falling back into his toxic orbit."

I shuddered. I'd practically turned myself inside out trying to accommodate his every whim in the studio. No matter how many vocal takes he demanded, how many rewrites he insisted on, how many snide little digs he slipped in between barked orders, I'd absorbed the punishment. Convinced by some sort of Stockholm syndrome that I deserved no better.

It had all come to a head during a late-night session, Carter and I alone in the booth. He'd been running me raggedthrough take after take of a new bridge, growing increasingly angry as I failed to capture the "raw desperation" he demanded.

"You have all the urgency of a bar mitzvah boy singing," he'd spat at me over the intercom. "Do I need to go jerk off into the mic to get some goddamn conviction out of you?"

"I'm sorry," I'd stammered, trembling hands clutching the headphones. "I'm trying, I just-"

"Oh, save it," he'd snarled. "No wonder you're still single. The lack of talent leaking off of you right now is just-"

But his attack was cut off by a thunderous bang as the studio door slammed open. Dylan stood on the threshold, his expression thunderous, the conversation he'd been eavesdropping on having pushed him past his breaking point.

"Okay, you pretentious, gas-lighting piece of shit," he'd hissed, storming into the control room. "Time for you to back the fuck up before I turn your face into an autographed Picasso, feel me?"

Carter whirled around, sneering, his handsome features twisted into an animalistic mask of rage. "Excuse me, but this is a closed session, in case you haven't noticed. Run along and let the big boys work."

"Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are?" Dylan spat back. "Talking to him like that? If I ever hear you so much as look at him wrong again, I will personally make sure you go so viral, your own mother will be embarrassed to share DNA with you."

Carter scoffed. "And who the fuck do you thinkyouare, you little twink? I can end your entire career before you blink. Asher is mine, and always will be."

Dylan actually growled. Like, full-onferal dog cornered in an alleygrowled. I shrank back against the wall as he stepped into Carter's space, using his scant few inches of height advantage to stare him down.

"Listen up, you broccoli-haircut asshole," Dylan said in a low, deadly voice. "Asher is a grown ass man who makes his own decisions. And he's also my best friend, which means if you ever so much as breathe in his direction again, you'll be picking your teeth up off the floor. Now kindly eject yourself from our lives. Bye bitch!"

With a final shove that sent Carter stumbling, Dylan turned on his heel, grabbed my hand, and bodily hauled me out of that studio and away from Carter's poisonous orbit, the producer's enraged bellows still echoing off the walls behind us.

That had been years ago. And ever since, through the dizzying ascent to fame and all the pressures that came with it, Dylan had been my rock.

Now back in the limo, Dylan squeezed my shoulders bracingly, his eyes searching out mine in the dim light.

I reached over to poke him in the cheek. "Have I told you that I love you today? Because I do. Even when you're singingAce of Baseat the top of your lungs in the shower for fifteen minutes."

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