Saving the Rockstar

Chapter 3 Asher

"And what, pray tell, is the difference between the hand-harvested, artisanal sea salt and the regular peasant salt you use on the rest of your menu?" Dylan asked the waiter, his face a mask of curiosity.

The waiter, a chiseled Adonis in a crisp white button-down, blinked down at us, his pen hovering uncertainly over his notepad. "Um. I believe the artisanal salt is sourced from a small, family-owned operation off the coast of-"

"Fascinating," Dylan cut in, leaning forward to rest his chin on his steepled fingers. "And the microgreens garnishing the sous vide pork belly - are those locally foraged by a band of hipster urban farmers?"

The waiter's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his brow furrowing like he wasn't sure if he was being mocked or if he should go check with the chef. I kicked Dylan under the table, fighting to keep a straight face as he yelped and shot me a wounded look.

"What my friend means to say," I said smoothly, flashing the waiter an apologetic smile, "is that everything sounds delicious. I think we're ready to order now."

I rattled off our selections, making a point to enunciate the foreign culinary terms I'd painstakingly googled in the cab over just to see Dylan roll his eyes. The waiter jotted it all down with a relieved nod, probably sensing that he'd gotten off easy with Dylan’s deranged line of questioning.

Dylan waited until he'd disappeared into the bustling depths of the restaurant before rounding on me with an accusing pout.

"Rude," he huffed, kicking me back with one pointy Chelsea boot. "I was just about to ask him what his zodiac sign was. You know Scorpios are my weakness."

I chuckled, unfolding my napkin and draping it over my lap with a flourish just to be a dick. "Cool it, Casanova. The only weakness that man was interested in was the one for brooding frontmen."

"You take that back," Dylan gasped. "My sexual prowess knows no bounds. I could pull in this restaurant if I wanted to."

"Please don't," I groaned, plucking the courtesy bread basket out of his reach before he could start suggestively tonguing a baguette or something. "I already have a headache.”

"You're no fun," he grumbled. "Twenty-five years old and you're already shaking your cane at the youths, shouting at us to get off your lawn."

"Excuse you, I'll be twenty-four for another six weeks," I said primly, tearing off a hunk of sourdough and pointing it at him for emphasis. "And this particular youth will stay on my damn lawn as long as he keeps up the public reenactments of softcore porn cinema."

"Prude," Dylan sniffed, but I could see the way his lips were twitching, his eyes sparkling with barely restrained mirth in the low lighting.

I felt myself sinking deeper into the plush leather, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as I watched Dylan peruse the cocktail menu with an intense focus.

Our waiter reappeared with our wine in tow, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his cut-glass cheekbones.

"Your Chateau Margaux , sirs," he said, brandishing the bottle like a sacred relic as he glanced between us. "Would you like to taste it before I pour?"

"Yes, please," I said, not missing the way Dylan's eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the unexpected display of manners.

Dylan took an obnoxiously loud slurp, smacking his lips with enthusiasm.

"Yes, very winey," he declared, swirling it like he was at a frat party. "Strong notes of grape, with an undertone of foot."

The waiter blinked again, looking torn between professional obligation and the growing suspicion that we were making fun of him. I kicked Dylan again in warning, smiling tightly up at our increasingly harassed server.

"It's perfect, thank you," I said, waiting until he'd topped off our glasses and departed with a nod to turn my glare on my unrepentant best friend.

"Foot?" I hissed. "Really?"

"What?" He grinned with shameless glee. "I calls 'em like I smells 'em."

I just shook my head, taking a fortifying sip of my own wine as I settled back in my chair, content to let him ramble himself out while we waited for our food. God knew I didn't have the energy to try and reel him in, not after the emotional sucker punch that had been my little run-in with the tall, blond, and chiseled bodyguard two days ago.

As if summoned by my traitorous thoughts, I could still feel the phantom heat of his touch on my shoulders, the rasp of his stubble against my ear as he'd murmured low and soothing.

Across the table, Dylan was jabbering away about something. I made a vague noise of agreement every time he paused for breath. He'd circle back around to his original point eventually, or forget he had one to begin with. That was the beauty of Dylan - for all his manic energy and shifting moods, his thought process was as consistent as the tides.

But I should’ve known better than to underestimate his powers of perception - or his complete lack of boundaries when it came to calling me on my bullshit.

"So," he said, "you gonna tell me what's got you wound tighter than a woman's cooch at a cucumber stall?"

I choked a little on my sip of wine, glaring at him over the rim of my glass. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He pointed an accusing finger at me, eyes narrowing. "You've been moping harder than usual since we left the venue that night. Spill, or I'm going to start freestyle rapping about your love life again."

I groaned, thunking my head back against the leather headrest. "Christ, anything but that. I beg you."

"Then start talking," he singsonged, propping his chin on his fist with a smile. "Tell me all about whatever dark and sexy mishaps befell you in the shadows of the venue."

I flipped him off halfheartedly, but I could already feel my resolve crumbling. He was like a dog with a bone when he caught the scent of drama, and I knew from experience he'd harp on it all night if I didn't give him something to gnaw on.

So with a weary sigh, I launched into the tale. To his credit, Dylan managed to limit his commentary to the occasional gasp or low whistle, though I could practically see him vibrating with the effort to keep his trap shut.

It wasn't until I got to the part where I'd essentially insulted Jared's manhood and professionalism in one fell swoop that he finally cracked, letting out a bark of laughter loud enough to startle the couple at the next table.

"Wait," he wheezed, dabbing at his eyes with his napkin. "Let me get this straight. This smoking hottie of a rent-a-cop literally swept you into his beefy arms and murmured sweet nothings in your ear-"

"He did not!"

"-and your response was to verbally castrate him and storm off like an extra on Gossip Girl?" Dylan shook his head, a look of disappointment on his elfish face. "Oh darling. I have failed you as a wingman."

I scowled, hunching down further in my seat. "It wasn't like that," I mumbled, aware that I sounded approximately five years old. "He was just doing his job. Probably sees hysterical celebrities have meltdowns every other day and has a whole script ready to go."

"Uh huh," Dylan said flatly. "And I'm sure that script also involves finding said hysterical celebrities stupidly attractive and fighting the urge to kiss them while murmuring comfort into their hair."

I could feel my face flushing, a dull heat creeping up the back of my neck that had nothing to do with the wine. "Shut up. He did not find me attractive."

"Asher." Dylan set down his glass, leveling me with a look. "I know you have zero self-awareness, but trust me when I say that the dude was seconds away from ripping your clothes off with his teeth. And in the fun, sexy way."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"That's insane," I managed, my voice sounding strained to my own ears. "You weren't even there, you don't know-"

"I know you," he cut in, kindly. "And I know that when you get freaked out, you have a tendency to lash out like a feral cat. Some might even call it a defense mechanism."

I glared at him, but I couldn't exactly argue. He wasn't wrong - I did have a nasty habit of going for the throat when I felt cornered, spewing the most hurtful words I could think of just to get the upper hand.

It was a holdover from my teenage years. If I hurt them first, if I hit where I knew it would smart, then they couldn't hurt me. Couldn't reject me. Couldn't leave.

Except they always did. And then I was alone, the only thing I'd accomplished pushing away anyone who might’ve actually given a shit.

"He was just being nice," I said quietly, more to my wine glass than to Dylan. "Doing the whole protect and serve bit. Making sure the crazy rock star didn't do a swan dive off the balcony or something."

"Okay, one, I think you're severely underestimating how fine your crazy rock star ass is," Dylan said, ticking the points off on his fingers. "And two, you wouldn't be this tore up about it if you didn't feel something. And God, Asher, you haven’t felt something in a very long time."

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "I'm not saying you have to marry the guy. But it wouldn't kill you to let someone be nice to you for once. Let someone take care of you without assuming it's all some elaborate ruse."

I swallowed hard. He made it sound so simple. Like I could just waltz up to any stranger and bare my metaphorical throat, trusting that they wouldn't rip it out at the first opportunity.

The sound of my ringtone cut through the cozy hum. I fumbled for my phone, swearing under my breath when I saw Vivian's caller ID flashing on the screen.

Nothing good ever came from a late-night Vivian call. I shot Dylan an apologetic grimace before swiping to accept, bracing myself for impact. "Viv, hey. What's up?"

"Where are you right now?" she demanded, skipping right over any pretense of pleasantries. Her voice was tight, clipped in a way I'd rarely heard before.

"Uh, at dinner with Dylan. Why, what's going-"

"Is it somewhere private? Are you alone?"

I frowned. "I mean, we can step outside if-"

"No!" The sharp crack of her voice made me flinch. "No, don't go anywhere. I'm going to send you something, and I need you to stay calm, alright? Don't freak out."

"Well, I'm definitely freaking out now," I said tightly, my pulse starting to rabbit in my throat. Across the table, Dylan was watching me with open concern, his whole body tensed like he was ready to vault over the table and snatch the phone out of my hand.

"Just look," Vivian bit out, and then my screen was filling with a grainy, black and white image.

It took me a second to understand what I was seeing. But then the blood drained from my face so fast I got lightheaded.

It was me. More specifically, it was me pressed up against a brick wall, the dim, smoky interior of a club just visible over my shoulder. It was the kind of club that prided itself on its discretion, promising a safe haven for closeted celebrities.

But that wasn't the worst part. No, the real kick in the teeth was the dark-haired man pinning me to the wall, one hand fisted in my collar and the other splayed possessively across my hip. His face was turned away from the camera, features obscured in shadow - but mine was on full display, my head tipped back and eyes closed in ecstasy.

"Asher, are you still there?"

I realized I was panting, my heart throwing itself against my ribs like it wanted to claw its way out of my chest.

"Where," I croaked. "Where did you get this? Who else has seen it?"

"It's everywhere," she said grimly, and my stomach bottomed out. "It leaked about an hour ago, and it's spreading like wildfire. Every gossip blog and tabloid on the planet is running with it."

A high, animal noise clawed its way up my throat, a sound I just barely managed to swallow back.

"Asher!" Vivian's voice snapped me out of my spiral, sharp as a whip crack. "Listen to me. We can spin this, okay? But I need you to get your shit together and get back to the hotel now, before some enterprising paparazzo tracks you down and shoves a camera in your face."

I shook my head frantically, even though she couldn't see me. "No. Fuck, I need to call my family, I need to warn them before-"

"I've already talked to them," she cut me off. "Well, they're not thrilled," she said delicately.

"Okay," I said dully, all the fight draining out of me. "I'm on my way back now. I'll be there in twenty."

"Make it ten," she said crisply, and then the line went dead.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at my phone.

"Ash?" Dylan's voice was gentle, uncertain in a way I'd never heard before. "What's going on, man?"

I thrust my phone at him. He took it, his eyes going wide and then wider still as he scanned the image, his free hand coming up to press against his mouth.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed. "Is that...?"

"Yours truly," I confirmed grimly, snatching the phone back before he could zoom in on my face or something. "Apparently I made the cover of Closet Cases Weekly. Surprise!"

"Fuck," Dylan said, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "I'm so sorry."

I shrugged jerkily, not meeting his eye. "Stupid of me to think I could have this one fucking thing that was just mine, you know? That I was somehow immune to the 24/7 surveillance state we live in."

"Hey, no," Dylan said fiercely, leaning across the table to grip my wrist. "This is not your fault, you hear me? You have a right to a private life, same as anyone else. Some scumbag violating that for a quick buck is on them, not you."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered.

"Asher, look at me."

The raw urgency in his voice compelled me to obey. His eyes were blazing, hot and bright with a fire I'd never seen there before.

"Fuck the world," he said, slow and deliberate. "Fuck anyone who has a problem with who you are or who you choose to go to bed with. You are Asher fucking Roth, rock god extraordinaire, and you bow to no one. Not the fans, not the label, and sure as shit not some bottom-feeding hack with a camera and an axe to grind."

He gave my wrist a final reassuring squeeze. "What do you say we blow this place before Viv comes hunting for our balls with a pair of garden shears?"

The cab ride back to the hotel was mercifully brief, the late-night traffic reduced to a trickle of drowsy drunks and third shift zombies.

We stepped into the cavernous lobby, where a grim-faced Vivian awaited us.

No sooner had the automatic doors whispered shut at our backs than she was on me, hustling us toward the elevator banks.

"Okay, here's what's going to happen," she said, jamming the button for our floor with enough force to crack a nail. "You are going to go up to your suite, take a shower, and put on something that doesn't make you look like an extra from Rent . Then you're going to sit down, shut up, and let me handle this clusterfuck like the goddamn professional I am."

The confined space felt suffocating all of a sudden. I was suddenly aware of Dylan pressed against my side. He was probably dying to say something snarky, to cut through the tense atmosphere with a well-timed zinger. But he held his tongue, clearly sensing that Vivian was in no mood for his humor.

Vivian hustled us toward my room. Soon, she was shooing me toward the bathroom.

"Shower," she commanded, brooking no argument.

I went, meek as a lamb. It wasn't until I was under the punishing spray, water splashing over my face and into my gasping mouth, that I let myself shake apart.

Great, wracking sobs tore at my guts, my shoulders heaving as I braced myself against the cool tile. I wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.

But I could hear the low, urgent murmur of voices bleeding through the door - Vivian on her phone, probably, fielding all the requests for comment and interview that had to be flooding in. Dylan chiming in occasionally, his usual bone-dry wit taking on a strained, glassy edge.

They were fighting for me, in their own dysfunctional way.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, they both looked up. As I padded in, Vivian's pacing slowed down while Dylan took a seat, his face etched with concern.

"I've been on the phone with the label,” Vivian said. “They're keen to get ahead of this thing before it spirals any further out of control."

"What Viv is trying to say," Dylan cut in, "is that the label has some concerns. About public perception and all that jazz."

I turned to stare at him in disbelief. "Jesus, is that seriously what we're worried about right now? Not the fact that my life has been fucking invaded, my privacy torn to shreds-"

"That's exactly what we're worried about," Vivian snapped, color high on her cheeks. "The fans. The people who pay for your lavish fucking lifestyle and ensure the continued goodwill of the moneymen slurping coke in the executive suites."

"Vivian..." Dylan's voice held a note of warning, his eyes flashing dangerously.

But she steamrolled right over him. "No, you need to hear this, Asher. Ticket sales. Album streams. Every fucking cent that flows into your bank account depends on your marketability. An aspirational figure for teens and a harmless lust object for their mothers."

As I hated to admit it, she wasn't wrong. The music industry was first and foremost a business, and I was its primary product. A walking, talking, guitar-slinging cash cow, every facet of my life and image painstakingly curated to appeal to the broadest possible demographic.

And nothing threatened that careful curation like a good, old-fashioned gay scandal.

"Okay. What do we do?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dylan's head swivel toward me, his mouth falling open on a disbelieving gape. But I couldn't look at him, couldn't withstand the righteously indignant protectiveness I knew I'd find there.

"First things first, we need to get you out in front of this. Control the narrative before some else does. I've already drafted a statement for you to release, something vague about your commitment to living authentically and respecting the privacy of your personal life."

Dylan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet so far, suddenly piped up, voice tight with barely restrained anger. "Wait, so that's it? Asher's whole goddamn life just got upended, and your solution is some mealy-mouthed non-denial that doesn't even begin to address the real issue?"

"And what is the real issue, Dylan?" she snapped, eyes sparking with challenge.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that Asher just got dragged out of the closet against his will by some bottom-feeding sleaze? That his privacy, his fundamental right to decide how and when and to whom he reveals himself, was just violated in the most heinous way possible?"

He was breathing hard by the end of his tirade. I stared at him in surprise. If I'd ever had any doubts about his loyalty, his unwavering willingness to ride into battle for me, they swiftly ended in that moment.

But Vivian simply turned to me. "The fact is, the band is on the verge of something huge here. You guys are destined to cross over into full-blown mainstream superstardom. But that only happens if we play this smart."

I swallowed hard. "Okay. I'll do it. Just tell me what you need me to do."

Dylan made a wounded noise, lurching forward like he wanted to physically place himself between me and Vivian's calculating gaze. But I held up a hand to stop him, meeting his wild eyes with a steadiness I didn't feel.

"It's okay, Dylan. I'm okay. It's just business, right?"

For a long moment, he just stared at me, jaw working furiously around all the arguments I could see boiling behind his eyes. But then, with what looked like a Herculean effort, he snapped his teeth shut and gave a single, jerky nod.

"There's one more thing," Vivian said. "With the tour coming up, and the inevitable media circus that's going to follow in the wake of this, the label thinks it would be best to beef up your personal security."

I blinked at her. "Like a bodyguard? I thought that's what Sal was for."

"Sal's spread thin as it is, coordinating security for the whole band and crew. What you need is someone dedicated solely to you - someone to watch your back 24/7, make sure the crazies and the paparazzi don't get within striking distance."

My stomach turned at the thought of having some stranger intruding on the few slivers of privacy I had left. But if that photo had taught me anything, it was that my life was no longer my own.

"Fine," I bit out. "But I get final say on who it is."

"That's fair," Vivian said, already tapping away at her phone. "I have a short list of candidates the label has pre-approved. All of them have extensive military or law enforcement backgrounds. I can set up interviews as early as-"

She broke off suddenly, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline as she stared down at her screen. "Well, that's unexpected." She turned the phone to face me. "I wasn't aware you'd already met one of the candidates. When did you cross paths with Jared?"

I froze. There, staring up at me from Vivian's phone, was a face I was sure I'd never forget. Chiseled jaw, lush mouth pursed in a stern line. Arresting eyes boring into me like they could strip me bare and see straight through to the tattered remains of my soul.

"Earth to Asher," Dylan singsonged, leaning over to peer at the screen. When he caught sight of Jared's dossier, his eyebrows shot up, a delighted grin splitting his face.

"Well hello, Officer Goodbody," he crowed, plucking the phone out of Vivian's unresisting grip to ogle it more closely. "I think I just felt my briefs spontaneously combust."

"Dylan!" I yelped, heat flooding my cheeks at his blatant ogling. "Jesus, could you be more inappropriate?"