Page 48 of Saving the Rockstar

With shaking fingers, I clicked on the message, my heart pounding in my throat as I scanned the contents. And there, laid out in stark black and white, was a threat that made my stomach turn and my palms sweat with fear.

Attached to the email were links to videos, footage from my early days of training with Carter. Videos that showed me young and terrified, being berated and manipulated by a man who had promised to make all my dreams come true.

And along with the videos came a demand, an ultimatum that made my blood boil with rage and helplessness.

"Work with me again, Asher. Let me produce your next album, or these videos go public. They'll destroy you. Reveal you as the weak, pathetic thing you really are. The world will see you for what you are - a scared little boy, so easily controlled by those who know how to pull your strings. Is that what you want? Is that the legacy you want to leave behind?"

I stared at the screen, my vision blurring, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I stumbled back to my room, my mind reeling with the implications of Carter's threat. As I closed the door behind me, the memories I had tried so hard to suppress came flooding back, engulfing me in a wave of fear and despair.

I remembered the countless nights I had spent in that studio, hunched over my guitar until my fingers bled, desperate to please Carter, to earn the scraps of approval and affection he would toss my way.

And then there was the first time he hit me, the shock and pain of it, the sickening realization that this was the price of my dreams. I had been working on a particularly challenging riff, my fingers fumbling over the strings, when suddenly he was there, his hand cracking across my face with enough force to send me stumbling backwards.

"You useless piece of shit," he had snarled, his eyes blazing with a fury that made my blood run cold. "You think you're going to make it in this business with sloppy work like that? You're nothing but a waste of my time and talent."

I had stared up at him, my cheek throbbing, my eyes stinging with tears of pain and humiliation. And in that moment, I had truly believed him. Believed that I was worthless, that I deserved every bit of the abuse he heaped upon me.

And then, when we were back home, he would turn on the charm, pulling me into his arms and whispering sweet nothings in my ear, telling me that he only pushed me so hard because he loved me, because he wanted me to be the best I could be.

"You know I only do this because I care about you, right?" he would murmur, his fingers stroking through my hairin a twisted parody of tenderness. "I just want you to succeed, Asher. I want the world to see how talented you are, how special. And sometimes, that means being tough on you, even if it hurts. But it's all for your own good, baby. It's all because I love you."

And like a fool, I had believed him. Believed that the pain and the fear and the constant, gnawing sense of inadequacy were all just part of the price I had to pay for his love, for the chance to live out my dreams.

Now, as I sat on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands, I felt that same sense of helplessness wash over me, the same sickening realization that I was trapped, that there was no way out of this nightmare.

Over the next few days, as we continued our tour through France, I found myself withdrawing from Jared and Dylan, my smiles forced and my laughter hollow. I could see the worry in their eyes, the unspoken questions that hung in the air between us, but I couldn't bring myself to confide in them, to admit the depths of my weakness and my shame.

It wasn't until Jared finally cornered me one night, his eyes soft with concern and his voice gentle with understanding, that I found the courage to open up, to share the burden that had been crushing me for days.

"Asher, please," he murmured, his hand warm on my cheek. "I know something's wrong. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you've been pulling away from me. From everyone. Let me help you, baby. Let me be there for you."

And so, with a shaking voice and tears streaming down my face, I told him everything. Told him about Carter's threat, about the videos and the memories that haunted me, about the fear that consumed me every waking moment.

And to my surprise, Jared didn't recoil in disgust or pity, didn't look at me like I was some broken, damaged thing. Instead, he pulled me into his arms, his embrace fierce and protective, his voice a low, soothing murmur in my ear.

"I won't let him hurt you again. Not now, not ever."

When we told Dylan about the situation, his reaction was predictable - a string of creative insults that would have made a sailor blush.

"That fucking bastard," he seethed, his fists clenched at his sides. "I swear to god, Ash, I'm going to rip his balls off and feed them to him. No, scratch that. I'm going to shove them so far up his ass he'll be coughing up pubes for a week."

Despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn't help but let out a choked laugh at Dylan's outrage, at the sheer ridiculousness of his threats.

"And then," he continued, his eyes gleaming with a manic light, "I'm going to hire a skywriter to spell out'Carter is a limp-dicked shit stain'over every major city in the world. I'm talking New York, London, Tokyo - the works. Let's see how he likes having his dirty laundry aired out for everyone to see."

I shook my head, a reluctant grin tugging at my lips. "We need to be smart about this, to find a way to neutralize his threat without stooping to his level."

Dylan huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine. But I still reserve the right to kick his ass if I ever see him in person. Or at least, you know, hire someone to do it for me. I hear Mason's pretty handy with his fists."

I glanced over at Jared, expecting to see him rolling his eyes at Dylan's antics. But to my surprise, he was nodding thoughtfully, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Dylan's not wrong," he said slowly, his gaze meeting mine. "Carter's the type of man who responds to power, to shows of force. But if we confront him directly, it might just provoke him into releasing those videos, into lashing out in ways we can't predict."

I felt my stomach clench at the thought, at the idea of my deepest, darkest moments being splashed across the tabloids for all the world to see.

"So what do we do?" I asked, my voice small and uncertain.

"We gather evidence," he said firmly, his eyes blazing with determination. "We build a case against him, one so airtight that he won't have a leg to stand on. And then, when the time is right, we take him down. Once and for all."

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