Page 9 of Saving the Rockstar

A high, animal noise clawed its way up my throat, a sound I just barely managed to swallow back.

"Asher!" Vivian's voice snapped me out of my spiral, sharp as a whip crack. "Listen to me. We can spin this, okay? But I need you to get your shit together and get back to the hotel now, before some enterprising paparazzo tracks you down and shoves a camera in your face."

I shook my head frantically, even though she couldn't see me. "No. Fuck, I need to call my family, I need to warn them before-"

"I've already talked to them," she cut me off. "Well, they're not thrilled," she said delicately.

"Okay," I said dully, all the fight draining out of me. "I'm on my way back now. I'll be there in twenty."

"Make it ten," she said crisply, and then the line went dead.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at my phone.

"Ash?" Dylan's voice was gentle, uncertain in a way I'd never heard before. "What's going on, man?"

I thrust my phone at him. He took it, his eyes going wide and then wider still as he scanned the image, his free hand coming up to press against his mouth.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed. "Is that...?"

"Yours truly," I confirmed grimly, snatching the phone back before he could zoom in on my face or something. "Apparently I made the cover of Closet Cases Weekly. Surprise!"

"Fuck," Dylan said, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "I'm so sorry."

I shrugged jerkily, not meeting his eye. "Stupid of me to think I could have this one fucking thing that was just mine, you know? That I was somehow immune to the 24/7 surveillance state we live in."

"Hey, no," Dylan said fiercely, leaning across the table to grip my wrist. "This is not your fault, you hear me? You have a right to a private life, same as anyone else. Some scumbag violating that for a quick buck is on them, not you."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered.

"Asher, look at me."

The raw urgency in his voice compelled me to obey. His eyes were blazing, hot and bright with a fire I'd never seen there before.

"Fuck the world," he said, slow and deliberate. "Fuck anyone who has a problem with who you are or who you choose to go to bed with. You are AsherfuckingRoth, rock god extraordinaire, and you bow to no one. Not the fans, not the label, and sure as shit not some bottom-feeding hack with a camera and an axe to grind."

He gave my wrist a final reassuring squeeze. "What do you say we blow this place before Viv comes hunting for our balls with a pair of garden shears?"

The cab ride back to the hotel was mercifully brief, the late-night traffic reduced to a trickle of drowsy drunks and third shift zombies.

We stepped into the cavernous lobby, where a grim-faced Vivian awaited us.

No sooner had the automatic doors whispered shut at our backs than she was on me, hustling us toward the elevator banks.

"Okay, here's what's going to happen," she said, jamming the button for our floor with enough force to crack a nail. "You are going to go up to your suite, take a shower, and put on something that doesn't make you look like an extra fromRent. Then you're going to sit down, shut up, and let me handle this clusterfuck like the goddamn professional I am."

The confined space felt suffocating all of a sudden. I was suddenly aware of Dylan pressed against my side. He was probably dying to say something snarky, to cut through the tense atmosphere with a well-timed zinger. But he held his tongue, clearly sensing that Vivian was in no mood for his humor.

Vivian hustled us toward my room. Soon, she was shooing me toward the bathroom.

"Shower," she commanded, brooking no argument.

I went, meek as a lamb. It wasn't until I was under the punishing spray, water splashing over my face and into my gasping mouth, that I let myself shake apart.

Great, wracking sobs tore at my guts, my shoulders heaving as I braced myself against the cool tile. I wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.

But I could hear the low, urgent murmur of voices bleeding through the door - Vivian on her phone, probably, fielding all the requests for comment and interview that had to be flooding in. Dylan chiming in occasionally, his usual bone-dry wit taking on a strained, glassy edge.

They were fighting for me, in their own dysfunctional way.

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