Page 67 of Saving the Rockstar

I could only nod, my mind still reeling from the events of the past few minutes.

Hours later, as the club began to wind down and the crowds began to thin, the four of us found ourselves sneaking out the back door, our hands clasped tightly together as we made our way down the narrow, winding streets of Osaka.

It was a familiar route, one that Dylan and I had taken countless times back in the early days of our career, when we were just a couple of scrappy kids with a dream and a handful of songs to our name.

I could still remember the first time we had stumbled upon the small diner, our stomachs growling and our pockets nearly empty after a long night of busking on the street corner.

We had pushed through the door with a sense of trepidation, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding as we took in the cozy, dimly-lit interior, the scent of simmering broth hanging heavy in the air.

But the owner, a tiny, wrinkled old woman with a shock of white hair, had taken one look at us and ushered us inside, her hands fluttering over us like a mother hen as she clucked and fussed and pressed steaming bowls of ramen into our hands.

From that moment on, the diner had become our sanctuary, our home away from home in a city that could be as unforgiving as it was beautiful.

As we slid into a booth at the back of the room, I couldn't help but feel a rush of nostalgia, a bittersweet ache in my chest for those early days, when everything had seemed so much simpler, so much more innocent.

I thought back to all the long nights Dylan and I had spent hunched over our notebooks in his parents' garage, the scraps of melody and bits of lyrics swirling around us like leaves in the wind as we poured our hearts and souls onto the page.

I thought of all the times Dylan had been there for me, his arm slung around my shoulders and his laughter ringing in my ears as he pulled me back from the brink of despair. And I remembered the way his parents had always welcomed me into their home, their arms open and their hearts full of unconditional love.

I thought of the pride in his mother's eyes when we played her our first real song, the way her face had lit up with joy as she pulled us both into a crushing hug. I remembered the way Dylan's father had clapped me on the back after our first sold-out show, his eyes shining with a kind of fierce, protective love that made my heart ache with longing, with the desperate,unspoken wish that my own parents could have looked at me like that, just once, just for a moment.

But most of all, I remembered the way Dylan had held me that night, his arms strong and steady around me as I cried myself to sleep, my heart shattered into a million pieces by the cold, unforgiving words of my own father, by the disgust and revulsion in his eyes as he looked at me, his only son, and saw nothing but shame and disappointment and a love that came with conditions, with asterisks and footnotes and fine print that I could never hope to understand.

We were all crammed into a tiny, dimly-lit bar on the outskirts of Osaka, the air thick with the scent of stale beer, the sound of clinking glasses and raucous laughter.

Dylan, in a fit of inspiration that could only be described as misguided at best and disastrous at worst, had decided that it was high time Mason got a proper rock and roll makeover, complete with skinny jeans, eyeliner and a frankly alarming amount of hair gel.

The results, as I had predicted, were nothing short of catastrophic.

Mason stood in the middle of the bar, his arms crossed over his chest and his face set in a scowl that could have curdled milk, his usually sleek, styled hair sticking up in every direction like a porcupine on a bad hair day.

"I look ridiculous," he grumbled, his voice low and surly as he plucked at the too-tight fabric of his jeans, the material straining over his muscular thighs in a way that looked positively painful.

Dylan, for his part, seemed utterly unfazed by Mason's discomfort, his eyes gleaming with a kind of manic glee as he circled Mason like a shark scenting blood in the water.

"Nonsense!" he cried, his hands fluttering over Mason's shoulders, arms and chest in a way that was just a little too proprietary. "You look amazing, Mase. Like a real rock star. A little bit of edge, a little bit of danger. it's perfect."

Mason chuckled, his eyes rolling. "I look like an idiot," he said flatly, his arms tightening over his chest in a defensive posture. "And I feel like I'm being strangled by my own pants. Seriously, Dyl, how the hell do you wear these things? I can barely breathe, let alone move."

Dylan grinned, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a gesture that was pure, unabashed flirtation.

"Practice, my dear Mason," he said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "And a whole lot of baby powder. Trust me, once you get used to the feeling of your junk being cradled like a precious gem, you'll never go back to boring old regular jeans again."

I nearly choked on my drink at the expression on Mason's face, his eyes bulging out of his head and his mouth hanging open in a moment of stunned disbelief.

"Did you just talk about my junk in public?" he sputtered, his cheeks flushing a deep, angry red.

Dylan shrugged, his grin widening. "What can I say?" he said, his voice dripping with false modesty. "I'm a connoisseur of the male form, Mase. And let me tell you, your form? Is top notch. Grade A prime beef, if you know what I mean."

I could practically see the steam coming out of Mason's ears, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he glared at Dylan.

"I swear to god, Dylan," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "If you don't stop talking about my bits like they're a piece of meat, I'm going to throttle you with your own scarf."

But Dylan just laughed, his head thrown back and his throat bared in a gesture of pure, reckless abandon.

"Promises, promises," he singsonged, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But seriously, babe, you look hot. Like, smoking hot. I'd totally tap that, if you know what I mean."

Mason's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, his mouth falling open in a moment of stunned silence.

---