Saving the Rockstar

Chapter 1 Asher

The chandeliers in the ballroom glittered like stars. I stood in the wings of the stage, my guitar a familiar weight in my hands, as I watched the people mingle.

Beside me, Dylan bounced on the balls of his feet, his fingers twitching in anticipation. I could practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of him, his usual pre-show jitters amplified by the energy of the crowd tonight.

A familiar voice cut through the backstage bustle, snapping my attention front and center.

"There are my boys!"

I looked up to see Vivian, our manager.

"Are we ready to wow the one percent?" she purred, eyeing us critically. "You both look delicious, I could just eat you up. Or auction you off to the highest bidder."

She punctuated this with a playful hip check that nearly sent Dylan sprawling into a passing caterer.

"Viv, baby, you know I'm always ready for you," Dylan purred back, catching himself on the edge of an amp. "I'd be putty in your hands if you weren't tragically burdened with a vagina."

Vivian threw her head back and laughed, the sound as bright and sharp as the rest of her. "Oh, puppy. It's cute that you think what's between my legs would make a difference to what I could do to you."

She reached out and chucked him under the chin like an indulgent teacher with a prized student. Dylan, the shameless bastard, just grinned wider and waggled his eyebrows.

"Don't tease me with a good time, you stunning Amazon," he simpered. "My fragile heart can only take so much unfulfilled lust."

I rolled my eyes. "Can you two not flirt at a volume usually reserved for calling dogs? Some of us are trying not to barf from sheer nerves over here."

Vivian turned her Cheshire smile on me. "Asher, what have I told you about negative self-talk before a show? You're going to blow these rich bastards out of the water and you know it. Now chin up, shoulders back. You're fucking rock stars, Start acting like it."

She punctuated this little pep talk with a brisk swat to Dylan’s ass, ignoring his indecent wink.

"Knock 'em dead, boys," she called over her shoulder as she walked away. "And Asher, sweetie, try not to look like you're marching to your execution when you hit that stage."

"Duly noted," I muttered. Dylan, bouncing with even more manic energy now, gave a little shimmy of delight.

"You heard the lady," he crowed, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

And with that, we strode out onto the stage to the polite smattering of applause usually reserved for high school talent shows.

But the lukewarm reception evaporated the second Dylan struck the first shivering power chord. It was like flipping a switch - the bored, politely attentive expressions melting into awe as the sonic force of the music crashed over them. Dylan attacked his guitar with joyful brutality, his grin feral under the pulsing lights. And just like that, the anxiety strangling my throat loosened, as I stepped up to the mic and let the first haunting notes spill from my lips.

We tore through one of our biggest hits. I could feel the crowd's energy coursing through me like an electrical current, the roar of the music crowding out everything else.

But as the final notes of the song echoed through the space, the old, familiar anxiety started to creep back in.

Suddenly, the ballroom felt suffocating. The applause felt deafening. I could hear the rush of my own blood, the sound of my pulse drowning out everything else.

It was too much, too close, too loud. Every instinct screamed at me to flee.

I must’ve made some sound, a whimper audible only to Dylan. He glanced over at me, his happy expression melting into one of concern when he saw my face, my grip on the mic stand.

"Ash?" he called over the dying roar of the crowd. "You good, man?"

I shook my head jerkily, not trusting myself to speak. He started to reach for me, but I flinched, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to get off the stage.

"I have to..." I managed to rasp out, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. Dylan opened his mouth to argue, but I was already shoving past him, stumbling blindly toward the wings.

I had just enough presence of mind to put on a smile and wave weakly to the few VIPs clustered backstage before I was off like a shot, barreling down the first deserted hallway I could find.

I had no destination in mind. I just knew I had to get away, had to find somewhere quiet, dark and empty before I experienced a full-on panic attack.

I was just rounding another blind corner, my chest heaving with gasps, when I slammed into what felt like a brick wall.

A brick wall with arms. Arms that shot out to grab me by the biceps as I bounced off that unforgiving slab of muscle, nearly faceplanting onto the floor.

"Whoa there," a deep, startled voice said above my head. "Where's the fire, kid?"

I snapped my head up, an apology already forming on my lips, only for the words to die in my throat as I caught sight of the man currently keeping me vertical.

He was, in a word, gorgeous.

Towering and broad shouldered, with a jawline that could cut glass, he looked like he'd been carved from some classical sculptor's lustiest fever dream. But it was his eyes that really sucked the air from my lungs - like sunlight through a forest canopy.

Those impossible eyes were currently assessing me with a mix of irritation and concern.

"You can't be back here," he said slowly. "This area is for authorized personnel only."

His grip on my arms tightened, and I registered the crisp lines of his all-black suit, the earpiece snaking beneath the collar of his shirt. He had to be part of the security team, some Secret Service wannabe hopped up on his own inflated sense of importance.

Under any other circumstances, I would have rolled my eyes and casually flexed out of his hold, sauntering off to find a less controlling corner to have a panic attack in peace. But I couldn't seem to make my tongue cooperate.

I probably looked like some wide-eyed, sweat-soaked damsel in distress. But something in my expression seemed to break through his cold exterior.

"Hey," he said, more gently now. "You alright?"

I just stared up at him in panic, a wheeze escaping my throat. I didn't have the words to explain the whirlwind ripping through my skull, the crippling certainty that I was about to shake apart in front of this handsome stranger.

But I didn't have to say anything. Because the next thing I knew, he was herding me down the hallway with firm strides, those huge hands shifting from my arms to my shoulder blades like he could ward off an anxiety attack through touch alone.

"Alright, let's get you somewhere quiet," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "My name is Jared, by the way. Now take some nice, deep breaths. You're going to be just fine."

And to my shock, I almost believed him. There was something about that steady presence at my back, the warm solidity of his touch, that made me feel grounded.

He steered me into a small, dimly lit room, the muffled thump of the music barely audible through the heavy double doors. With careful, deliberate movements, he slipped off his suit jacket and draped it around my shaking shoulders, the residual body heat seeping into my skin like a balm.

As he settled the fabric around me, his fingertips brushed the bare skin at the nape of my neck, and even through the haze of panic, I felt something like an electric shock run down my spine at the contact. It was like a bolt of pure, molten heat, short-circuiting the noise in my head.

My breathing slowed, my heart steadying as I blinked up at him. He was so close I could feel his warm breath on my forehead, could see the faint beginnings of stubble shadowing the hard angles of his jaw.

Oh god, what the fuck was I doing? Panting and shaking in some stranger's arms like a distressed damsel, practically gagging for the barest scrap of comfort like the pathetic charity case I was.

A sick tide of shame rose in me, for letting myself be vulnerable before a complete stranger. I felt my face flush with heat as I abruptly wrenched myself out of Jared's gentle hold.

"Get off me," I snarled, nearly choking on the sudden, ugly flare of anger in my throat. "Who the fuck do you think you are, manhandling me like that?"

Jared blinked, his brows knitting together in confusion at my sudden about-face. He took a careful step back, hands raised in supplication.

"Easy," he said slowly, like he was trying to soothe a rabid dog. "I wasn't trying to manhandle anyone. You looked like you were about to pass out, I was just trying to help."

"I don't need your help," I spat, shrugging off his jacket like it burned me.

Jared's face hardened, his jaw clenching as he visibly struggled to rein in his temper. "Listen, kid-"

"I'm not a kid!"

"Fine, listen man," he ground out, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. "I don't know what your damage is, but I was just doing my job. You were in a restricted area, clearly in distress. Protocol dictates-"

I barked out a laugh, the sound harsh and grating. "Oh, protocol dictates, does it?"

Jared's lips thinned, his gaze turning stern. I could practically see him mentally reclassifying me, slotting me into the crazy diva rock star box with all the other tantruming toddlers in tight pants he'd had the misfortune of meeting.

"My apologies," Jared said stiffly. "It wasn't my intention to offend you, or to cross any lines. You just seemed like you could use a friendly face, that's all. I'll be sure to keep my distance going forward."

I flinched like he'd slapped me, a hot, prickling wave of shame crashing over me. I knew I was being an asshole, lashing out like a kicked dog just for having the audacity to crave a kind touch. But I couldn't seem to stop myself.

"Yeah, you do that," I bit out, hating the way my voice wavered on the last word.

Jared's eyes flashed again. For a second, I thought he was going to snap back. But he just took a deep breath through his nose, his broad shoulders squaring like he was physically bracing himself.

"I'll escort you back to the main ballroom now, unless you need another moment to collect yourself."

I gritted my teeth. Of course, he would be perfectly professional about this.

"I don't need an escort," I sneered, tossing my hair out of my eyes with a sharp jerk of my chin. "And I definitely don't need another moment. I'm fantastic, thanks so much for asking."

Jared inclined his head, somehow managing to make the gesture look sarcastic. "Glad to hear it. In that case, I'll just point you in the direction of the ballroom and get back to my patrol. The auction should be starting soon, and I'm sure they'll be missing their star performer."

I froze, a sudden, irrational panic seizing me at the implication that he knew who I was. But then I caught the slight furrow between his brows, the way his gaze darted over my artfully disheveled hair like he was trying to place me. He had no idea who I was, I realized with a rush of relief. To him, I was just some anonymous basket case who'd wandered into the wrong corridor.

There was something oddly freeing about being seen as just a person. Not a commodity or a cash cow or a piece of public property to be pawed at and dissected.

Some small, secret part of me wanted him to know. So I tipped my chin up and met his gaze dead on.

"I think I can take it from here. It's not exactly my first rodeo, if you catch my drift."

His brow furrowed further, confusion and frustration warring in his unreadable eyes. "Are you saying you're familiar with this venue?"

My lips quirked in a smirk. "You could say that. I'm pretty sure they'd have a hard time kicking off the entertainment without the entertainment present."

I took pleasure in watching the realization in his eyes.

"You're..." he started, then had to swallow hard. "You're Asher, from Novocaine Dreams ."

"In the flesh," I purred. "Always a pleasure to meet a fan."

"I'm not," he blurted, then winced, one hand coming up to scrub at the back of his neck. "Anyway, the ballroom is just through those doors, Mr. Roth," he said, the words crisp and cool as freshly pressed linens.

"It's Asher," I corrected him, my voice dropping an octave as I let my gaze flick meaningfully to his lips. "Mr. Roth is my father. And trust me, he's never been eagerly awaited anywhere."

And with that, I shoved through the doors and into the glittering fray beyond. I didn't look back. But I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, searing through the layers of leather and bravado to the quivering wreck beneath.