Page 6 of Saving the Rockstar

"Okay, first off all, my 'The Sign' cover is fucking flawless and should be considered the definitive version. And secondly…" he leaned forward and planted a smacking kiss on my forehead. "Love you too. Don't forget it or I'll have to pants you on stage at the next sold-out arena."

I chuckled, giving him a shove. "Try it and see what happens. I'll tell them about the time last year you took too many edibles and were convinced your shoes were judging you."

"You wouldn't dare," he gasped as we began giggling madly, the heaviness of the moment dissipating.

I took a deep breath as I let my head drop back against the leather seat. "It's wild, isn't it? This whole thing." I gestured vaguely to encompass the general absurdity of our lives. "I mean, eighteen-year-old Ash is creaming his jeans at all of this. It's everything we used to fantasize about during those shitty pub gigs, remember?"

The bittersweet memories rose up, snapshots from a lifetime ago. Dylan and I, fresh-faced college sophomores, busking on grimy street corners for spare change and the occasional joint. Hauling our thirdhand equipment on the bus to play for surly drunks who barely looked up from their beers. Eating ramen and tuna out of the can in our cramped dorm, spending every spare minute scribbling lyrics on the backs of gas station receipts and old homework assignments. All of our hopes pinned precariously onmaking it, whatever the fuck that meant.

Back then, the idea of touring the world, of screaming crowds and tour buses had seemed as implausible as growing wings and flying to the moon. Just an idle daydream to distract us from the monotony of our lives.

I could still vividly picture us lounging on the sagging futon, a half-empty bottle of cheap beer between us, drunkenly rambling on about all the fancy stuff we'd do once we became famous. The far-flung cities we'd play, the wild parties we'd host, the nonexistent hunks we'd woo with our broody Rockstar swagger. At the time, it felt like the only thing keeping us going, that shared delusion that stardom was just around the corner if we could hang on a little longer.

Dylan seemed to be following my train of thought, a wistful grin playing across his lips. "We were such dumb kids,"he mused, shaking his head. "So fucking high on our own bullshit, thinking we'd be the nextNirvana."

"Hey, that bullshit got us here, didn't it?" I pointed out, nudging his shoulder with mine. "All those shitty open mic nights, those hours slaving over ourmagnum fucking opuson that ancient four-track in your cousin's garage…"

"Dicking around with feedback and pretending we were sonic geniuses because we knew, like, three chords between us," Dylan snickered. "God, we were insufferable."

"But driven," I countered, feeling something in my chest constrict at the memory of those early days, that certainty that our big break was imminent. "Delusional and determined to claw our way out of the gutter on the strength of ourmassively unique soundor whatever."

Dylan barked out a laugh, tipping his head back to stare at the limo ceiling. "The balls on us, man. Remember that magazine write up calling usa cut-rate Strokes cover band?"

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "Don't remind me. I cried for like an hour over that one."

"And then decided the only rational response was to start wearing even more eyeliner and writing, like, eighteen songs about how misunderstood you were."

I dropped my hands to shoot him a glare. "I will push you out of this moving vehicle."

He threw his head back cackling, and for a moment, I could almost believe no time had passed - that we were still those scrappy, starry-eyed pub rats, soldiering on in the face of deafeningly silent crowds.

Those early days of fame had been a fever dream. Surreal late-night paparazzi walks where it slowly sunk in thatthe blinding flashbulbs were for me, the sensitive kid from who'd spent his whole life hiding behind his hair. Overwhelming encounters with tearful fans who swore up and down that my music had saved their lives.

I could still vividly remember the first time I'd been properly recognized in public, pounced on in a Denny's parking lot by a mob of squealing fangirls demanding selfies. The sheer adrenaline, the sudden animalistic fight-or-flight terror that had left me shaking and binge-drinking for hours afterward.

Dylan had found me like that, huddled on the back steps of the tour bus. Without a word, he'd sat down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders. I'd spent the rest of that night clinging to him like a life raft, equal parts elated and petrified by the notion that from here on out, my days as a civilian were numbered.

Now, years into our meteoric rise, I liked to think I'd gotten used to the surrealness of it all. But as the limo slowed to a stop outside the afterparty entrance, the swarm of photographers and autograph hounds felt as foreign as ever.

Chapter 3: Asher

"And what, pray tell, is the difference between thehand-harvested, artisanalsea salt and the regular peasant salt you use on the rest of your menu?" Dylan asked the waiter, his face a mask of curiosity.

The waiter, a chiseled Adonis in a crisp white button-down, blinked down at us, his pen hovering uncertainly over his notepad. "Um. I believe the artisanal salt is sourced from a small, family-owned operation off the coast of-"

"Fascinating," Dylan cut in, leaning forward to rest his chin on his steepled fingers. "And the microgreens garnishing thesous vide pork belly- are those locally foraged by a band of hipster urban farmers?"

The waiter's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his brow furrowing like he wasn't sure if he was being mocked or if he should go check with the chef. I kicked Dylan under the table, fighting to keep a straight face as he yelped and shot me a wounded look.

"What my friend means to say," I said smoothly, flashing the waiter an apologetic smile, "is that everything sounds delicious. I think we're ready to order now."

I rattled off our selections, making a point to enunciate the foreign culinary terms I'd painstakingly googled in the cab over just to see Dylan roll his eyes. The waiter jotted it all down with a relieved nod, probably sensing that he'd gotten off easy with Dylan’s deranged line of questioning.

Dylan waited until he'd disappeared into the bustling depths of the restaurant before rounding on me with an accusing pout.

"Rude," he huffed, kicking me back with one pointy Chelsea boot. "I was just about to ask him what his zodiac sign was. You know Scorpios are my weakness."

I chuckled, unfolding my napkin and draping it over my lap with a flourish just to be a dick. "Cool it, Casanova. The only weakness that man was interested in was the one for brooding frontmen."

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