Saving the Rockstar

Chapter 2 Asher

The crowd erupted into a frenzy as I struck the final chord of my electrifying guitar solo, the notes reverberating through the stadium and sending shockwaves of energy pulsing through the sea of fans. Sweat poured down my face, plastering strands of my hair to my forehead, but I hardly noticed, so caught up was I in the intoxicating rush of performing.

I stood there for a moment, chest heaving, drinking in the wild cheers and applause, before taking a final bow and striding off stage.

Backstage, I grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow and chugged a bottle of water. Dylan bounded over, his eyes bright with excitement. "Dude, that solo was insane!"

I shrugged, feeling self-conscious. "Thanks man, I'm just glad I didn't totally blank and freeze up out there. You know how I get in my head sometimes with the pressure and all."

He clapped me on the back as we retreated to my dressing room to decompress for a bit. I plopped down on the couch and grabbed the remote to flick on the TV.

To my surprise, a news segment about our band filled the screen. "Asher, lead singer of the skyrocketing rock sensation Novocaine Dreams , is quickly becoming a household name," the reporter announced. "With his electrifying stage presence and soul-baring lyrics, the frontman has captured the hearts of fans worldwide."

I cringed a little, seeing myself from an outside perspective.

"Asher's haunting lyrics delve into themes of isolation, heartbreak, and the struggle to find one's place in the world - messages that clearly resonate with the band's devoted following," the reporter continued. "Guitarist Dylan provides the perfect complement to Asher, his raw talent and flamboyant stage presence adding an extra spark to the group's performances."

The camera panned to Dylan, in all his shirtless, skinny-jean-clad glory. He preened exaggeratedly at his onscreen self. "Damn, I look good. Those yoga classes are clearly paying off."

I collapsed back against the cushions dramatically. "I'd trade all this fame in a heartbeat for some genuine connection, self-acceptance and love," I lamented.

"Says the man with a million adoring fangirls and fanboys ready to throw themselves at his feet," Dylan quipped. "Talk about an embarrassment of riches."

Dylan’s ability to make me laugh in the face of stress and anxiety had been a godsend from our very first meeting as randomly assigned college roommates. While I'd been a neurotic mess, he'd been an unflappable smartass.

I thought back to one night a few months ago, right before a huge sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. I'd been pacing the green room, nearly sick with anxiety, catastrophizing about everything that could go wrong. What if I forgot the words? What if I tripped and fell off the stage and became a meme?

Dylan had taken one look at me, and wrapped a feather boa around my shoulders. He'd produced a flask from god knows where and pushed it into my hand.

When I'd hesitated, he'd heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, if you won't do a shot, I guess you leave me no choice. I’ll have to distract you with a dance to express my deepest emotions."

Before I could protest, he'd leaped up on the couch and started gyrating wildly to nonexistent music, crooning off-key. "Oh, Asher, light of my life, fire of my loins, you are my sun, my moon, my starlit sky!" He stretched himself out before me on the floor.

By then I'd been laughing. clutching the edge of the couch for balance. That was Dylan in a nutshell. No matter how dark a place I found myself in, he could always drag me back to the light, even if he had to do it kicking and flailing ridiculously the whole way.

Our effortless camaraderie and creative synergy had begun that first night in the dorm, both of us bonding over our love for the same obscure bands. We'd stayed up until dawn, passing a guitar back and forth and scrawling fragments of lyrics on napkins, empty pizza boxes, any scrap of paper we could find.

That need to transform our sorrows and struggles into music had driven us ever since, even as we'd clawed our way up from grimy dive bars to sold-out stadiums.

I now turned to Dylan, who was sprawled on the couch thumbing through his phone. "Hey man, I never really thanked you, by the way."

"For what?" he asked distractedly, not taking his eyes from the screen. "My general awesomeness and unparalleled wit?"

"Well, yes, but more specifically, for keeping me sane through all of this. I know I take it too seriously sometimes, get too in my own head. If it weren't for you, I probably would've had a full-on breakdown from the pressure by now."

Dylan put down his phone and looked at me, his expression softening. "Aw, shucks, you're gonna make me blush. I didn't know you cared."

The sudden seriousness in his tone made my chest tighten. "Okay, now who's getting sappy? I think that's our cue to get out of here and go make some bad decisions at the after-party."

"Hell yes!" he crowed, jumping up from the couch. "First round of J?gerbombs is on me. Gotta give the people the rock star debauchery they demand."

In the limo, I collapsed onto the plush leather seat with a sigh, letting my head loll back against the headrest. Dylan slid in next to me and immediately started rummaging through the mini fridge.

"Dude, score!" he crowed, pulling out a bottle of Mo?t. "Shawn really hooked us up this time. This champagne costs more than my first car."

Dylan took a deep swig directly from the bottle before passing it to me.

I sagged against the seat, my head coming to rest on Dylan's shoulder as the limo merged onto the freeway.

"I ever tell you how much I appreciate you?" I mumbled, the words slightly slurred with exhaustion.

Dylan scoffed, but I could hear the grin in his voice. "Oh please, without me you'd be just another garden variety tortured musician, painting your feelings at 3 am. Face it buddy, I'm the wind beneath your emo wings."

I scoffed, digging an elbow into his ribs. "That so?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely," he said with an exaggerated hair flip, "let me paint you a picture."

He spread his hands out, framing an imaginary scene. "Interior. Shitty studio apartment, night. A figure sits hunched on a couch, forehead pressed to a notebook. It is none other than Asher Roth. Surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper, he mutters to himself, something about the hollowness of fame and the isolation of genius. Suddenly, the door bursts open to reveal - say it with me now - Dylan, the ruggedly handsome comic relief. With a well-timed quip and a goofy grin, he coaxes our hero out of his funk and into an impromptu dance party to 'Barbie Girl.' Fade to black on a high five and an awkwardly long platonic embrace. Credits roll to the sound of my laughter, a.k.a. the most beautiful sound in the world."

"You absolute assclown," I wheezed, clutching my stomach with laughter. "That is not even close to how it actually goes down and you know it."

"Damn, you're really not going to let me have my knight-in-shining-Armani moment, are you?" Dylan pouted.

I rolled my eyes and gently kicked his foot with my own. "You're right, how dare I damage your honor with the boring truth of you barging into the studio at 2 am, reeking of beer and screeching the chorus to 'Toxic' until I agree to get tacos with you."

Dylan took another swig of champagne and shrugged. "Not all heroes wear capes, Roth. Sometimes they wear the same boxers for three days and make very compelling arguments involving Britney and burritos."

I smiled ruefully into the middle distance, absently kneading the knots in my neck as neon signs blurred past the window.

"You know, you joke, but little does the world know what really goes on behind the scenes," I said softly, unsure why I was admitting this. "The panic attacks, the insomnia, the constant fucking dread that any second, everyone is going to figure out I'm a fraud who has no business being here. And don't even get me started on the big shiny closet I'm apparently welded into."

The fear that came with even vaguely referencing my deepest shame - that regardless of any musical talent I might possess, the simple fact of who I was and who I loved was enough to topple the house of cards that was my career.

My mind flashed back to one of many scarring childhood memories. Twelve years old, lurking out of sight on the stairs as my parents entertained guests in the living room below. The conversation growing louder, meaner, as the wine flowed.

"Don't even get me started on that Ricky Martin," my dad had said. "Mincing around on stage, being a bad example to kids. Damn shame, really. Used to like his music, but I can't stomach him now, you know? The more of them that come out, the more they shove it in our face. It's sick."

And my mother, nodding in agreement, head wobbling with vodka. "It's a perversion. If any son of mine pulled that shit, he'd be out on his ass before he could blink. No way I'd let that into my house."

My small body had vibrated with a toxic cocktail of terror and self-loathing as I crept back to my room, hunching under the covers to muffle my sobs. Resolving right then and there to keeping any traitorous hint of deviance buried deep down.

Dylan's hand on my knee snapped me back to the present. I looked up to see him watching me, his normally laughing eyes soft with concern.

"You know I'm ride or die, right? Jokes aside, you're my brother, Ash. Fuck what anyone else thinks."

A sad smile flickered across my face. "Easy to say from the outside."

Dylan leveled me with a stern glare. "Hey, you’re hands down one of the most talented people I've ever met." He gripped my shoulders, giving me a little shake to punctuate his words. "You have a gift, man. That's what matters. All the other shit is just details. Your truth is your truth, and if some people can't handle it, then good fucking riddance."

Against my will, I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes. I'd spent so long armoring myself in anxiety, the idea that anyone, even Dylan, could see me, all of me, and not immediately recoil felt like a pipe dream.

"Do you remember what a hot mess you were soon after we first met in college?" Dylan said gently. "When you were still tangled up with He Who Shall Not Be Named ?"

I grimaced at the mention of Carter. My first love, my first heartbreak, the first man who'd seen a scared, closeted freshman and expertly manipulated every insecurity to his own ends.

Dylan’s face softened. "You were so twisted up by that motherfucker, convinced you were this unlovable man. And when he started sniffing around again once the band took off? I thought I was going to have to physically restrain you from falling back into his toxic orbit."

I shuddered. I'd practically turned myself inside out trying to accommodate his every whim in the studio. No matter how many vocal takes he demanded, how many rewrites he insisted on, how many snide little digs he slipped in between barked orders, I'd absorbed the punishment. Convinced by some sort of Stockholm syndrome that I deserved no better.

It had all come to a head during a late-night session, Carter and I alone in the booth. He'd been running me ragged through take after take of a new bridge, growing increasingly angry as I failed to capture the "raw desperation" he demanded.

"You have all the urgency of a bar mitzvah boy singing," he'd spat at me over the intercom. "Do I need to go jerk off into the mic to get some goddamn conviction out of you?"

"I'm sorry," I'd stammered, trembling hands clutching the headphones. "I'm trying, I just-"

"Oh, save it," he'd snarled. "No wonder you're still single. The lack of talent leaking off of you right now is just-"

But his attack was cut off by a thunderous bang as the studio door slammed open. Dylan stood on the threshold, his expression thunderous, the conversation he'd been eavesdropping on having pushed him past his breaking point.

"Okay, you pretentious, gas-lighting piece of shit," he'd hissed, storming into the control room. "Time for you to back the fuck up before I turn your face into an autographed Picasso, feel me?"

Carter whirled around, sneering, his handsome features twisted into an animalistic mask of rage. "Excuse me, but this is a closed session, in case you haven't noticed. Run along and let the big boys work."

"Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are?" Dylan spat back. "Talking to him like that? If I ever hear you so much as look at him wrong again, I will personally make sure you go so viral, your own mother will be embarrassed to share DNA with you."

Carter scoffed. "And who the fuck do you think you are, you little twink? I can end your entire career before you blink. Asher is mine, and always will be."

Dylan actually growled. Like, full-on feral dog cornered in an alley growled. I shrank back against the wall as he stepped into Carter's space, using his scant few inches of height advantage to stare him down.

"Listen up, you broccoli-haircut asshole," Dylan said in a low, deadly voice. "Asher is a grown ass man who makes his own decisions. And he's also my best friend, which means if you ever so much as breathe in his direction again, you'll be picking your teeth up off the floor. Now kindly eject yourself from our lives. Bye bitch!"

With a final shove that sent Carter stumbling, Dylan turned on his heel, grabbed my hand, and bodily hauled me out of that studio and away from Carter's poisonous orbit, the producer's enraged bellows still echoing off the walls behind us.

That had been years ago. And ever since, through the dizzying ascent to fame and all the pressures that came with it, Dylan had been my rock.

Now back in the limo, Dylan squeezed my shoulders bracingly, his eyes searching out mine in the dim light.

I reached over to poke him in the cheek. "Have I told you that I love you today? Because I do. Even when you're singing Ace of Base at the top of your lungs in the shower for fifteen minutes."

"Okay, first off all, my 'The Sign' cover is fucking flawless and should be considered the definitive version. And secondly…" he leaned forward and planted a smacking kiss on my forehead. "Love you too. Don't forget it or I'll have to pants you on stage at the next sold-out arena."

I chuckled, giving him a shove. "Try it and see what happens. I'll tell them about the time last year you took too many edibles and were convinced your shoes were judging you."

"You wouldn't dare," he gasped as we began giggling madly, the heaviness of the moment dissipating.

I took a deep breath as I let my head drop back against the leather seat. "It's wild, isn't it? This whole thing." I gestured vaguely to encompass the general absurdity of our lives. "I mean, eighteen-year-old Ash is creaming his jeans at all of this. It's everything we used to fantasize about during those shitty pub gigs, remember?"

The bittersweet memories rose up, snapshots from a lifetime ago. Dylan and I, fresh-faced college sophomores, busking on grimy street corners for spare change and the occasional joint. Hauling our thirdhand equipment on the bus to play for surly drunks who barely looked up from their beers. Eating ramen and tuna out of the can in our cramped dorm, spending every spare minute scribbling lyrics on the backs of gas station receipts and old homework assignments. All of our hopes pinned precariously on making it , whatever the fuck that meant.

Back then, the idea of touring the world, of screaming crowds and tour buses had seemed as implausible as growing wings and flying to the moon. Just an idle daydream to distract us from the monotony of our lives.

I could still vividly picture us lounging on the sagging futon, a half-empty bottle of cheap beer between us, drunkenly rambling on about all the fancy stuff we'd do once we became famous. The far-flung cities we'd play, the wild parties we'd host, the nonexistent hunks we'd woo with our broody Rockstar swagger. At the time, it felt like the only thing keeping us going, that shared delusion that stardom was just around the corner if we could hang on a little longer.

Dylan seemed to be following my train of thought, a wistful grin playing across his lips. "We were such dumb kids," he mused, shaking his head. "So fucking high on our own bullshit, thinking we'd be the next Nirvana ."

"Hey, that bullshit got us here, didn't it?" I pointed out, nudging his shoulder with mine. "All those shitty open mic nights, those hours slaving over our magnum fucking opus on that ancient four-track in your cousin's garage…"

"Dicking around with feedback and pretending we were sonic geniuses because we knew, like, three chords between us," Dylan snickered. "God, we were insufferable."

"But driven," I countered, feeling something in my chest constrict at the memory of those early days, that certainty that our big break was imminent. "Delusional and determined to claw our way out of the gutter on the strength of our massively unique sound or whatever."

Dylan barked out a laugh, tipping his head back to stare at the limo ceiling. "The balls on us, man. Remember that magazine write up calling us a cut-rate Strokes cover band ?"

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "Don't remind me. I cried for like an hour over that one."

"And then decided the only rational response was to start wearing even more eyeliner and writing, like, eighteen songs about how misunderstood you were."

I dropped my hands to shoot him a glare. "I will push you out of this moving vehicle."

He threw his head back cackling, and for a moment, I could almost believe no time had passed - that we were still those scrappy, starry-eyed pub rats, soldiering on in the face of deafeningly silent crowds.

Those early days of fame had been a fever dream. Surreal late-night paparazzi walks where it slowly sunk in that the blinding flashbulbs were for me, the sensitive kid from who'd spent his whole life hiding behind his hair. Overwhelming encounters with tearful fans who swore up and down that my music had saved their lives.

I could still vividly remember the first time I'd been properly recognized in public, pounced on in a Denny's parking lot by a mob of squealing fangirls demanding selfies. The sheer adrenaline, the sudden animalistic fight-or-flight terror that had left me shaking and binge-drinking for hours afterward.

Dylan had found me like that, huddled on the back steps of the tour bus. Without a word, he'd sat down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders. I'd spent the rest of that night clinging to him like a life raft, equal parts elated and petrified by the notion that from here on out, my days as a civilian were numbered.

Now, years into our meteoric rise, I liked to think I'd gotten used to the surrealness of it all. But as the limo slowed to a stop outside the afterparty entrance, the swarm of photographers and autograph hounds felt as foreign as ever.