Chapter 10 Jared
The first week of the European leg of the tour was a whirlwind of jet lag, soundchecks, and sold-out shows. I hardly had a moment to breathe, let alone process the shift in my relationship with Asher.
But in the close quarters of the tour bus and hotel suites, it was impossible to ignore. Gone was the initial awkwardness that had followed our kiss, replaced by a growing sense of ease, of camaraderie.
Late one night, as the bus rumbled down a darkened highway somewhere between Berlin and Amsterdam, I found Asher in the tiny kitchenette, hunched over a cup of gas station coffee. He looked up as I entered, offering a tired smile.
"Hey. Couldn't sleep either?"
I shook my head, pouring myself a cup of the sludgy brew. "Too wired. The adrenaline from the show, you know?"
Asher hummed in agreement. "It's a rush, being up there. Like everything else just falls away. All the noise, all the bullshit. It's just me and the music."
There was something in his voice, a wistfulness edged with old pain. I leaned against the counter, studying his profile in the dim light.
"Has it always been like that for you?" I asked quietly. "The music?"
Asher was silent for a long moment, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his mug. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, lost in memory.
"When I was a kid, my parents fought. A lot. Like, screaming matches that shook the walls, you know? I used to hide in my room, put on my headphones and just drift. Let the music carry me away to somewhere safer."
My heart clenched. I could picture it all too clearly - a young Asher, scared and alone, finding solace in the only way he knew how.
"That's when the anxiety started," he continued, still not meeting my gaze. "The panic attacks, the constant feeling of dread. Music was my escape. My way of channeling all that fear and hurt into something beautiful."
I reached out, hesitated, then laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ash. That you had to go through that."
He shrugged, a brittle little motion. "It is what it is. I survived."
"More than survived," I murmured. "You thrived. Look at you now - living your dream, sharing your music with the world."
His smile was small but genuine. "Yeah. I guess I am." He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste. "What about you? What made you want to be a bodyguard?"
I blew out a long breath, considering my words. It wasn't a story I told often, the wounds still tender even years later.
"I joined the Marines straight out of high school," I said finally. "Thought I was invincible, you know? Like I could take on the whole damn world and come out on top."
He made a sound of understanding. "But it wasn't like that?"
"No, it wasn't." I swallowed hard. "I lost a lot of good friends over there. Saw things I can never unsee. And when I came home, I was lost. Didn't know who I was anymore, without the uniform, the mission."
His hand found mine, his fingers curling around my own in a gesture of silent support. I clung to it like a lifeline.
"Becoming a bodyguard gave me a purpose again. A way to keep protecting people, even if it was in a different capacity." I shrugged, trying for a lightness I didn't feel. "Plus, the pay's not bad."
That startled a laugh out of Asher. "Well, I'm glad my ridiculous celebrity lifestyle could contribute to your bank account."
I grinned, the heaviness in my chest easing. "Just doing my part to stimulate the economy."
We lapsed into companionable silence, sipping our terrible coffee and listening to the rumble of the bus beneath us.
It struck me then, how easy this was. Talking to Asher, sharing pieces of myself I usually kept hidden. There was a growing intimacy between us, a connection that went far deeper than bodyguard and client.
It was terrifying. Exhilarating. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall would either break me or set me free.
Before I could examine that thought too closely, the sound of raised voices shattered the quiet.
"I cannot believe you, Mason!" Dylan's voice, high and indignant, echoed down the narrow hallway. "Of all the bone-headed, inconsiderate-"
"Oh, cry me a river, drama queen." Mason's drawl was as dry as the Sahara. "It's just a little hot sauce."
Asher and I shared a look of amused resignation. In the week since Mason had joined the tour, he and Dylan had been at each other's throats constantly - bickering and sniping like an old married couple.
It was honestly kind of adorable. Not that I'd ever say that to Mason's face.
The men in question burst into the kitchenette, Dylan waving a half-empty bottle of hot sauce like a weapon.
" A little hot sauce? " He brandished the bottle under Mason's nose. "You put this nuclear waste on everything ! It's like you're trying to burn a hole through your own esophagus!"
Mason rolled his eyes, unfazed. "Not my fault you're a delicate flower who can't handle a little heat."
Dylan sputtered. "I am not delicate, you overgrown G.I. Joe! I just happen to like my food edible and my taste buds un-seared, thank you very much."
"Wimp," Mason said with a smirk. "Bet you couldn't even handle a jalapeno popper."
"Oh, you're on, beefcake." Dylan drew himself up to his full height - which was still a good five inches shorter than Mason. "I'll have you know I once ate an entire ghost pepper on a dare."
Mason raised an eyebrow. "And how did that work out for you?"
"I may have spent the next hour crying and chugging milk," Dylan admitted. "But that's beside the point!"
Asher, the traitor, chose that moment to chime in. "Didn't you also lose feeling in your fingers for like, two days?"
Dylan shot him a betrayed look. "Asher, you're supposed to be on my side!"
"Sorry." Asher held up his hands, fighting a grin. "Please, continue. I'm riveted."
Dylan huffed, turning back to Mason. "The point is, you can't just go around dousing everything in capsaicin like some kind of spice terrorist. It's rude and it's frankly dangerous to the structural integrity of our intestines."
Mason, to my surprise, looked like he was struggling not to laugh. "Capsaicin, huh? Someone's been reading the hot sauce bottle."
"That's not-" Dylan spluttered, his face going red. "Shut up, that's not the point!"
Mason grinned. "Sure it's not, baby boy. Whatever you say."
Dylan, for his part, looked like he'd been hit over the head. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, fish-like, before snapping it shut.
"You," he said finally, jabbing a finger into Mason's chest. "Are the worst . The absolute worst, do you hear me?"
Mason caught his hand, his smirk softening into something almost fond. "Loud and clear, sunshine."
They stared at each other for a long, charged moment. I could practically see the sparks flying, the air thick with a tension that had nothing to do with hot sauce.
Asher cleared his throat pointedly. Dylan jumped, snatching his hand back like he'd been scalded.
"Well! This has been illuminating." He edged around Mason, making a beeline for the door. "But I think I hear my bunk calling my name. Goodnight, gentlemen."
He paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes caught on Asher and I, still standing close together, and a sly grin spread over his face.
"Oh, and Ash? Try not to stay up too late connecting with your bodyguard, hmm? We've got an early call time tomorrow."
With that parting shot, he flounced out, leaving a ringing silence in his wake.
Mason, the bastard, started laughing. "Well, seems like I'm not the only one getting friendly with the locals."
I felt my face flame, my whole body going hot and then cold. Beside me, Asher made a strangled noise.
As Asher's personal bodyguard, I was never more than a few feet away from him, a constant shadow at his side. But it was in the quiet moments that I started to see beneath Asher's carefully crafted exterior. Glimpses of the man behind the rockstar, the vulnerable heart beneath the polished facade.
Like the night I found him huddled in the back lounge of the bus, staring blankly at a bottle of whiskey. His face was pale, his eyes haunted in a way I recognized all too well.
"Asher?" I kept my voice soft, not wanting to startle him. "Everything okay?"
He didn't look at me, his fingers tightening around the bottle. "Do you ever feel like you're drowning? Like no matter how hard you try, you can't keep your head above water?"
I hesitated, then slowly lowered myself onto the couch beside him. "More often than I'd like to admit."
That drew his gaze to mine, a flicker of surprise in those blue depths. "Really? But you always seem so steady. Like nothing fazes you."
I huffed a humorless laugh. "Lots of practice at hiding it, I guess. Hazard of the job."
He nodded slowly. "I get that. Sometimes I feel like I'm playing a role, you know? The cocky rockstar, the charming frontman. But inside, I'm just scared all the time."
My chest ached at the lost note in his voice. I wanted to wrap him up, shield him from the world and all its sharp edges. But I settled for bumping my shoulder gently against his.
"Scared of what?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "Failing. Letting everyone down. Being not enough."
"Asher..." I breathed.
He shook his head, a jerky, aborted motion. "I know it's stupid. I mean, look at me. I'm living the dream, right? Sold out shows, adoring fans, more money than I know what to do with. But I just can't shake this feeling that any second, it's all going to come crashing down."
"That's not stupid," I said firmly. "It's human. Anyone in your position would feel the pressure."
His laugh was brittle. "Maybe. But not everyone deals with it by having a fucking panic attack before every show."
My heart stuttered in my chest. "Is that what happened tonight?"
He shrugged, a defeated slump to his shoulders. "Same shit, different day. I just couldn't breathe. Felt like the walls were closing in."
I remembered the way he'd stumbled offstage after the encore, his face ashen, his breathing shallow. The way he'd flinched away from the clamoring fans, the shouted demands for autographs and selfies.
At the time, I'd chalked it up to exhaustion, the toll of back-to-back shows. But now, seeing the haunted look in his eyes, the tremor in his hands, I cursed myself for not realizing sooner.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I should have seen it. Should have been there for you."
He shook his head. "Not your job to babysit my neuroses, Jared. You're here to keep the crazies away, not deal with my bullshit."
"Hey." I caught his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Your mental health is not bullshit, okay? And neither is your need for support. I'm here for you, Ash. However you need me."
Something flickered in his eyes, a desperate sort of yearning. But it was gone before I could parse it, shuttered behind a brittle smile.
"Careful, Jared. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like me."
I rolled my eyes, letting my hand drop. "Heaven forbid. Can't have you thinking I'm human or anything."
That startled a laugh out of him, a genuine one. The sound warmed me from the inside out, chasing away the lingering chill of worry.
We lapsed into a comfortable silence, the hum of the road beneath us a soothing backdrop. Asher's shoulder pressed against mine, a solid line of heat, and I fought the urge to lean into it.
"How do you do it? Stay so steady? Because of what you saw in the marine?"
Memories flickered unbidden. The crack of gunfire, the acrid stench of smoke. Screams and blood and the wet gurgle of a dying breath.
I clenched my jaw. "It was rough. I don't talk about it much. It's just hard, you know? To put into words."
He nodded, solemn. "I can only imagine."
I hesitated, weighing my words. I'd never been good at this part, the sharing. But something about Asher made me want to try. To peel back the armor, strip myself bare.
"The hardest part wasn't the things we saw," I said slowly. "The violence, the death. I mean, don't get me wrong, that was hell. But you expect that, going in. You know you're going to see shit that will haunt you."
Asher made an encouraging sound, a gentle prompt to continue.
"No, the hardest part was coming home. Trying to fit back into a world that had no idea, that could never understand. Everyone expects you to just flip a switch. To shake it off, be normal again." I shook my head, a bitter twist to my lips. "But you can't. You're not the same person you were before. You've seen too much, done too much."
"And trying to pretend otherwise, it eats at you," Asher said quietly. "Like poison in your veins, rotting you from the inside out."
He stood, stretching languorously, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned skin. I averted my eyes quickly, heat prickling up the back of my neck.