Saving the Rockstar

Chapter 4 Asher

The first few days of having Jared as my personal shadow were an exercise in suffering.

Every time I turned around, there he was - looming silently in doorways, prowling the perimeter of whatever room I happened to be in, all coiled strength and watchful intensity wrapped up in a suit that fit him like a second skin.

It was infuriating. A reminder of that moment at the charity event. The electric brush of his fingers on my neck, the steady surety of his hands on my shoulders as he'd talked me down from the edge of hysteria.

It was too much. And so, being the mature, well-adjusted adult that I was, I did what any self-respecting man would do when confronted with an intense attraction. I got mean.

I made it my mission to be the biggest pain in Jared's ass I could possibly be. I changed plans at the last minute, announcing sudden trips to seedy dive bars just to watch his jaw clench and eyes narrow with disapproval. I ducked into crowded throngs of fans after shows, "forgetting" to let him know where I was going until he was forced to wade through the screaming masses to extract me.

I did it all in the hopes of getting a rise out of him. Of cracking that implacable facade and catching a glimpse of the man beneath, the one who'd held me so carefully, so gently, as I shook apart in his arms.

But despite my best efforts to hold onto my resentment, I couldn't help the traitorous curl of safety I felt in his presence. The bone-deep certainty that as long as he was near, as long as he was watching over me with those sharp, hawkish eyes, nothing and no one could touch me.

It was an intoxicating feeling, that sense of being protected. A temptation I knew I couldn't afford to indulge. And so, I pushed him away all the harder, lashing out with barbed words and icy silences, determined to keep him at arm's length.

I skipped rehearsals, blew off interviews, retreated into my suite for hours on end to lick my wounds in private. The only time I emerged was to perform, to don the mask of Asher Roth and swagger onto the stage like I hadn't a care in the world.

Dylan, to his credit, tried his hardest to draw me out of my self-imposed exile. He straight up bullied, showing up at my door at all hours with greasy takeout and truly atrocious B-movies, determined to jolly me out of my funk through sheer annoying persistence.

I couldn't go online without being bombarded by headlines, each one more speculative than the last. "Asher Roth gay shocker!" they screamed, next to zoomed in photos of my blissed-out face, my kiss-swollen lips parted in ecstasy. "Rock Hunk's gay secret!"

The comments were even worse - a septic tank of homophobia and self-righteous moralizing, all made by anonymous keyboard warriors with too much time on their hands and too little human decency in their hearts.

"I always knew he was a little too pretty and prancing to be fucking bitches," one charming specimen opined. "Bet he takes it up the ass from his bandmates, too. Fucking disgusting."

"This is why I don't let my daughter listen to that sinful rock music," a severe looking woman sniffed. "It's all sex and drugs and Satan worship, just like Pastor Rick says."

I tried to stay away, tried to heed the warnings of my publicist and manager and keep my head down until the worst of the firestorm passed. But it was like picking at a scab, worrying at an aching tooth with the tip of your tongue - I couldn't stop myself from looking.

It was during one of these ill-advised hate reading sessions that Jared found me, curled up on the closet floor of my hotel room, my phone clutched white-knuckled in my shaking hand as I scrolled through the endless stream of poison.

I didn't even hear him come in, too caught up in the whirlpool of my own spiraling thoughts. Didn't register his presence until the mattress dipped beside me, the heat of him searing through the layers of clothes and miserable self-loathing.

"Asher," he said quietly, and just the sound of my name in that low, steady voice was enough to make my breath hitch, my head snapping up to meet his gaze before I could stop myself.

His eyes were soft in the dim light. They roved over my face, taking in the dark circles and red-rimmed lids, the pinched whiteness around my mouth. When they dropped to the phone still clutched in my hand, something hard and fierce flashed behind them, quick as summer lightning.

"Give me that," he murmured, reaching out to gently pry my fingers loose from the device. I let him, too wrung out to put up even a token protest.

He glanced down at the screen, jaw clenching as he skimmed the comments. Without a word, he tapped the power button, the display going dark with a soft click that seemed to echo in the charged air.

Then he was tossing it aside, the phone landing on the thick carpet with a muted thump. His now empty hand landed on my knee, big and broad and so impossibly gentle.

"You can't let them get to you like this," he said, the words low and intent. "Can't let them inside your head, twisting you up in knots until you can't see straight."

I huffed out a laugh, the sound brittle and jagged in my own ears. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one being crucified in the court of public opinion for daring to have a personal life."

His fingers flexed on my knee, a brief, convulsive squeeze that shot sparks up my thigh. "You're right. I'm not in the same position as you, and I won't pretend to know exactly what you're going through. But Asher, I do know a thing or two about the cruelty of strangers. About how vicious people can be when they think they're anonymous."

I blinked up at him, startled by the sudden rawness in his voice. The bleakness in those clear eyes, shadowed with some old, unhealed hurt.

"How could you possibly?" I asked slowly, my brow furrowing as I studied his shuttered expression. "I mean, no offense, but you're not exactly a household name. How could you know what it's like?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his gaze cutting away from mine to fix on some distant point over my shoulder. For a long moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer, that I'd pushed too far, pried into things that were none of my business.

But then he let out a slow, controlled breath, his shoulders squaring like he was bracing for a blow. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, each word dragged up from some deep, dark place.

"When I was twenty, a man I thought I could trust took photos of me with this much older professor, in compromising positions. Then he posted them online."

"Jared..."

But he shook his head, cutting off my half-formed platitude before it could fully leave my lips. "It was ugly. People I thought were my friends... they were making fun of me in the comments. And that was just the tip of the iceberg."

He swallowed hard. His eyes, when they met mine again, were bleak and haunted, a lifetime of hurt shining out of those impossible depths.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words woefully inadequate but all I had to offer.

His mouth quirked, a bare twitch of lips that held no humor. "I wasn't alone. Not entirely. I had my family, my real friends. The ones who stuck by me, even when it would have been easier to cut and run. They got me through the worst of it, stopped me from doing anything too stupid when the darkness got to be too much."

He squeezed my knee again. "That's what you need right now, Ash. Your people. The ones who know the real you, not the media circus version cooked up by the gossip rags."

I thought of Dylan, of his unfailing loyalty and stupid jokes, the way he'd refused to let me push him away no matter how hard I'd tried.

I blew out a shaky breath, letting my head thunk back against the wall as I squeezed my eyes shut. "You're right," I mumbled. "It's just hard. Feeling like this, like everyone is just waiting for me to crack so they can pick over the pieces. It's hard to remember that anyone could still give a shit. Could still want to know me, after."

"I do," he said simply. Like it was just that easy, that uncomplicated. "I still want to know you, Asher. The real you, beneath all the bullshit and bravado. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Slowly, I reached out to cover his hand with my own. Curled my fingers around his and held on tight, like he was the only thing keeping me from flying apart.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you're so fucking stubborn," I whispered, a wry twist to my mouth as I cracked one eye open to peer up at him. "Anyone else probably would have tapped out by now, figured it wasn't worth the hassle of dealing with the basket case rock star."

He huffed a laugh, small but genuine, his hand turning beneath mine until our fingers twined.

The ambush came out of nowhere. One minute I was stepping out of the studio, my mind still buzzing with lyrics and chord progressions, the next I was blinded by a supernova of flashbulbs, a wall of shouting voices crashing over me like a tidal wave.

"Asher, over here!"

"Is it true you were caught with a male prostitute?"

"How long have you been lying to your fans? Do you have anything to say to the kids who looked up to you?"

The questions came fast and furious, overlapping and aggressive, each one more invasive and speculative than the last. I stumbled back a step, throwing a hand up to shield my eyes from the pulsing strobe of cameras, my heart slamming against my ribcage like a caged animal.

I spun on my heel, intending to duck back into the studio, to barricade myself in the booth until security could disperse the vultures. But I'd barely taken a step before they were on me, a suffocating crush of bodies and grasping hands.

"Asher, what do you have to say to the parents who are calling for a boycott of your music?"

"Sources say you've been attending conversion therapy. Care to comment?"

I lashed out blindly, shoving at the bodies penning me in on all sides, desperate to break free. But it was like trying to fight the tide, the sheer mass of them bearing me back no matter how viciously I struggled.

My lungs seized in my chest, black spots crowding the edges of my vision as the panic dragged me under. This was it. This was how I died, torn apart by vultures in designer jeans, just another cautionary tale for the annals of rock n' roll tragedy.

"Back off!"

The roar cut through the noise like thunder, so fierce and commanding that even the most rabid paparazzi fell still for a beat. I blinked sweat out of my eyes just in time to see a force of nature in tactical gear shouldering through the throng like a battering ram.

Jared.

He burst into the eye of the storm, his face a mask of cold fury. He positioned himself in front of me like a human shield, his broad shoulders blocking out the worst of the camera flashes.

"This is your one and only warning," he snarled, each word dripping with barely leashed violence. "You have five seconds to get those cameras out of his face before I start breaking fingers. And trust me, you'll run out of fingers before I run out of creative ways to fracture them."

A hushed ripple went through the crowd. For a moment, no one moved. But then, they began to disperse. One by one, they slunk off to find easier prey, the click and whir of shutters fading into blessed silence.

The second the last of them disappeared around the corner, I sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Only Jared's lightning reflexes kept me from crumpling to the asphalt in a heap, his arms coming around me just as my knees turned to jelly.

"Whoa, easy," he murmured, catching me against the solid breadth of his chest. "I've got you, Ash."

I couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but cling to him, my face buried in the warm crook of his neck. He smelled like sandalwood and safety, the scent chasing the panicky tightness from my lungs.

He held me like that, his arms an unbreakable circle around my waist, his chin resting on the top of my head. I could feel his heart thumping strong and steady beneath my cheek, could hear the low rumble of his voice as he murmured soothing nonsense into my hair.

"You're alright," he rasped, one big hand rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades. "Just breathe for me, Ash. In and out, nice and slow. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

To my horror, I felt hot tears sting my eyes, clog the back of my throat. I squeezed them shut against the burn, pressing my face harder into Jared's neck to keep them contained.

God, hadn't I humiliated myself enough for one day? Now I had to go and weep all over him like a fucking damsel?

But he just held me tighter, his fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like he could anchor me by touch alone. "It's okay," he whispered fiercely, his lips brushing the shell of my ear and making me shiver. "You're okay, Ash. Let it out, I've got you."

And oh, in that moment I wanted so badly to believe him. To sink into the illusion that this was real, that I could have this - this warmth, this tenderness, this unconditional shelter - for keeps.

But I knew better, had been burned too many times to trust in pretty lies, no matter how desperately I wanted to. So I let myself cling to him for just a moment longer, just until the tremors wracking my frame subsided and I could breathe again.

Then, with a herculean effort of will, I pushed away, putting a careful hands-breadth of distance between us. Jared let me go without protest, but I didn't miss the way his fingers twitched against his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach for me again.

"You good?" he asked gruffly, his eyes searching my face for any sign of distress.

"Yeah. Fuck, that was intense." I scrubbed a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted down to my bones. "Thank you. For..." I waved a hand vaguely, words tangling on my tongue.

"Anytime," he said simply. "You never have to thank me for looking out for you, Ash. It's my job." A wry quirk of lips. "In more ways than one, it seems."

Unbidden, my mouth curled in an answering smile. "Bet you didn't sign up for this level of crazy when you took the gig, huh? Probably regretting that particular career move right about now."

I'd meant it as a joke, a bit of self-deprecating humor to cut the tension. But Jared's eyes flashed, his expression hardening into something fierce and uncompromising.

"Never," he bit out, holding my gaze like he could will me into believing him through sheer stubborn intensity. "I'll never regret choosing to stand by your side, Ash. Through the calm and the crazy alike. I'm not going anywhere, so you can get that thought out of your head right now."

My breath caught at the naked conviction in his voice, the steady certainty blazing out of those bright eyes. He fell into step beside me as I started toward the mouth of the alley. We walked in silence for a few minutes, both of us lost in our own tangled thoughts. It wasn't until we were nearly at the car that I noticed the stinging pain in my right palm.

"Shit," I hissed, holding my hand up to the fading light for a better look. There was a deep gash bisecting my palm. I must have caught it on one of the cameras in my struggle to break free, the edges torn and raw.

Jared tsked when he caught sight of the blood. He caught my wrist in gentle fingers, bringing my palm up to eye level as he scanned the damage with a medic's brisk efficiency.

Then he was steering me toward the idling SUV with a hand at the small of my back, his touch searing through the thin cotton of my shirt. "C'mon, let's get you fixed up. Pretty sure I've got a first aid kit in the glove box."

"It's fine," I protested, even as I let him bundle me into the passenger seat. "It's just a scratch, it's not that b- ahh."

I yelped as he upended a water bottle over the cut, the cold sting shocking against my heated skin. He made an apologetic noise, but didn't pause as he rifled one-handed through the glove box, emerging with a metal tin.

"This might hurt a bit," he warned, fingers already unwrapping an antiseptic wipe. I hissed through my teeth as he cleaned the wound with deft, careful strokes, my fingers twitching involuntarily at the burn.

"Sorry," he murmured, squeezing my wrist in sympathy. "Almost done, promise."

True to his word, it only took a few more swipes before he was smoothing a bandage over the broken skin, his touch feather-light and soothing.

"There," he said softly, fingertips trailing over the edges of the tape. "All better."

I swallowed, my heart doing a strange little flutter behind my ribs. His hands on me were so gentle, his skin just slightly rough with gun calluses. It made me want to lean into the touch, to turn my hand over and twine our fingers together until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

I carefully pulled my hand from his grasp, ignoring the way my palm suddenly felt cold, bereft without the heat of him bleeding into my bones.

"Thanks," I said, and winced at the hoarseness of my own voice. I cleared my throat and tried again. "For, you know, playing nurse."

One side of his mouth ticked up, just a hint of a smirk. "I've played a lot of roles in my day, but that's a new one. Maybe I missed my calling."

I chuckled, bumping my knee against his as I settled into my seat. "Nah. You're a little lacking in the warm fuzzies department."

"Maybe I'm just selective with my warm fuzzies," he shot back, smooth as butter. "Ever think of that?"

I rolled my eyes, but I could feel my lips threatening to twitch. And for a moment, I let myself imagine it. Let myself picture a world where this was normal, was allowed. Where his warm fuzzies could be mine, and mine alone.

A world where I got to keep this. Keep him.

In my mind's eye, I saw it all unfold, soft-edged and hazy with potential. Jared sprawled on my tour bus, his boots propped up on the kitchenette table as he strummed idle chords on the guitar I'd been teaching him to play. The two of us walking hand in hand down an anonymous city street, just another pair of lovers strolling in the twilight. Waking up naked and wrapped in his arms, his face slack and peaceful with sleep, his hair an ungodly mess against my Egyptian cotton pillowcases.