Page 49 of Saving the Rockstar

The hotel room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning and the muffled noise of the city outside. Dylan sat across from me, his normally jovial face uncharacteristically serious as he studied me, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and regret.

"Ash, I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice heavy with emotion. "I knew Carter was bad news, knew he was using you. I should have done more to save you from that monster back then."

I shook my head, a lump rising in my throat at the memory of those dark days, of the way I had initially pushed Dylan away in favor of Carter's lies and manipulations.

"No, Dyl, I'm the one who should be apologizing," I said, my voice cracking with the weight of my guilt. "You tried to warn me, tried to make me see what he was doing to me, but I was too blind, too caught up in his web of bullshit to listen."

I remembered the last fight we had, the way I had screamed at Dylan, my face twisted with a rage that wasn't my own.

"You're just jealous!" I had spat, my finger jabbing at his chest. "Jealous that I'm finally making it, that people are starting to notice me. You can't stand the thought of me being more successful than you, can you?"

Dylan had stared at me, his eyes wide with hurt and disbelief. "That's not true. I'm just worried about you. Can't you see what he's doing to you? How he's changing you, making you into someone you're not?"

But I had been too far gone, too consumed by the poison Carter had been dripping into my ear for months.

"You don't know anything about him," I had snarled, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "You don't know how much he loves me, how much he believes in me. He's the only one who understands me, the only one who sees how special I am."

Dylan had shaken his head, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Asher, please. You have to listen to me. He's using you, he's manipulating you. He doesn't care about you, not really. All he cares about is what you can do for him, how he can use your talent to make himself rich and famous."

But I had been too blinded by my own delusions to hear the truth in his words.

"Fuck you, Dylan," I had spat, my voice dripping with venom. "You're just a jealous, pathetic loser who can't stand to see me succeed. Well, guess what? I don't need you anymore. I have Carter now, and he's all I need. So why don't you just stay the hell away from me, and let me live my life the way I want to?"

The memory of those words, of the look of devastation on Dylan's face as I turned my back on him, still haunted me to this day.

But now, as we sat together in the quiet of the hotel room, I knew that I had to make things right.

"I never should have said those things to you, never should have pushed you away like that."

Dylan reached out and took my hand, his grip warm and reassuring. "I know how hard it is to see the truth when you're in the middle of something like that, when you're being manipulated and gaslit by someone who's supposed to love you."

I nodded, swallowing hard. "I just wish I had listened to you sooner," I said softly. "Maybe if I had, I could have saved myself a lot of pain and heartache."

Dylan squeezed my hand, his eyes soft with understanding. "You can't blame yourself. Carter was a master manipulator, a narcissist of the highest order. He knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to play on your insecurities and your dreams to keep you under his thumb."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I know. But still, I can't help but feel like I should have been stronger, like I should have seen through his bullshit sooner."

Dylan shook his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You know, I was willing to lose your friendship, if it meant saving you from his clutches," Dylan said softly, his eyes distant with memory. "I could see what he was doing to you, how he was wearing you down, making your anxiety worse with every passing day. And I knew that if I didn't do something, if I didn't at least try to get through to you, that I would regret it for the rest of my life."

I felt a rush of gratitude wash over me at his words, at the depth of his loyalty and his love.

A week later, I was on stage in Madrid, the roar of the crowd washing over me like a tidal wave. I looked out over the sea of faces, at the tears and the smiles and the shining eyes.

From the wings, I could feel Jared's gaze on me, could sense the pride and the love that radiated from him like a physical force.

But as the last notes of the final song faded away, as the crowd erupted into a deafening roar of applause and cheers, I felt a sudden shift in the air.

And then I saw them. The protesters, their faces twisted with hate and disgust, their signs brandishing slurs and insults that made my stomach turn.

"Go back in the closet, fruitcake!" one of them screamed, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd.

"You're a disgrace to the music industry!" another one yelled, his fist pumping in the air.

As I watched the crowd begin to turn, as I saw the barriers that separated them from the stage start to buckle and sway under the weight of their anger and their fear, I knew that we were in trouble.

Before I could even react, before I could even begin to process the danger that we were in, Jared was there, his body a solid wall of muscle and determination as he placed himself between me and the seething mass of humanity that threatened to engulf us both.

"We need to get you out of here," he said, his voice low and urgent in my ear. "Now, Asher. It's not safe."

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