Saving the Rockstar

Chapter 20 Asher

As I stood in the crowded airport terminal, my eyes scanning the sea of faces for the one I longed to see, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, my palms damp with sweat and my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

It had been weeks since I had last seen Jared, weeks since I had held him in my arms and felt the warmth of his skin against my own. And now, as the minutes ticked by and the anticipation mounted, I could feel a desperate, aching need building inside me.

And then, suddenly, Jared was there, his tall frame emerging from the crowd like a beacon in the darkness, his eyes locking with mine across the bustling terminal.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, the noise and the chaos fading into the background as I drank in the sight of him. And then, before I could even think, I was running, my feet carrying me across the polished floor as I launched myself into his arms, my face burying itself in the crook of his neck as I clung to him like a lifeline.

"Jared," I whispered, my voice choked. "Oh god, Jared. I missed you so much."

He held me close, his arms like bands of steel around my waist as he rocked me gently back and forth, his lips pressing fervent kisses to my hair and my temples and anywhere else he could reach.

"I missed you too, Ash," he murmured. "Every moment, every breath. I thought about you constantly, dreamed about you every night."

I pulled back slightly, my hands coming up to frame his face as I stared into his eyes, my thumbs brushing gently over the stubble on his jaw.

"How's your mom?" I asked softly, my heart clenching at the flicker of pain that passed over his features.

"She's stable," he said, his voice heavy with relief. "The doctors say she's going to make it."

"I wish I could have been there with you, to support you through all of this."

Jared shook his head, his arms tightening around me as he pulled me impossibly closer.

"You were, Ash," he said fiercely. "You were with me every step of the way. In my thoughts, in my heart. Knowing that you were here, waiting for me, loving me, it gave me the strength to keep going, to be strong for my mom and my sister."

Over the next few days, as the tour wound its way through the bustling cities and picturesque countryside of Asia, Jared and I made a point of stealing every moment we could together, of exploring each new location with a sense of wonder and excitement that left us both giddy and breathless.

We snuck away from our entourage to wander through crowded night markets and serene temple gardens, our fingers interlaced and our eyes wide with awe at the beauty of it all. We sampled street food and haggled with vendors, our laughter ringing out through the narrow alleyways and crowded squares.

And in the evenings, we would slip away to restaurants and cozy cafes, our conversations flowing as easily as the wine and the candlelight flickering between us.

Of course, we were never truly alone, not with Dylan and Mason constantly hovering around, their playful conversation and good-natured ribbing a constant source of amusement.

Like the night we found ourselves crammed into a tiny booth at a diner on the outskirts of Osaka, the air thick with the scent of frying oil and sizzling meat. I was barely recognizable, my face obscured by a truly outrageous disguise that Dylan had insisted was necessary to maintain my anonymity.

"I'm just saying," he had said, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he handed me a pair of oversized sunglasses and a truly hideous wig. "If you're going to be out in public with your boy toy, you need to be incognito. We can't have the paparazzi catching wind of this little love nest."

I had rolled my eyes, but ultimately given in, figuring that a little discomfort was a small price to pay for a few precious hours of normalcy.

And so there I sat, wedged between Jared and the wall, my fake mustache itching like crazy and my wig slipping down over my eyes with every move I made.

"Well, isn't this cozy?" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I elbowed Jared in the ribs. "It's like a double date, but with more polyester and less personal space."

Dylan grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Mason, who sat across from him with a look of long-suffering patience on his face.

"Hear that, Mase?" he said, his voice pitched low and sultry. "Asher thinks we're on a date. Isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever heard?"

Mason chuckled, rolling his eyes. "In your dreams," he said, his voice flat and unamused. "I would rather date a cactus than go out with you. At least the cactus wouldn't talk back."

Dylan clutched at his chest, his face contorting in an exaggerated expression of wounded pride.

"You wound me, Mason," he said, his voice trembling with fake emotion. "And here I thought we had something special. A connection that transcended mere physical attraction and blossomed into something deeper, something pure and true and..."

"Oh my god, stop," Mason groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I'm going to puke if you keep talking like that. And trust me, you do not want to see what I had for lunch today."

Dylan grinned, undeterred. "But don't you see, Mase?" he said, his voice rising with excitement. "That's just further proof of our undeniable chemistry. The way we banter, the way we trade barbs and insults, it's like foreplay for the soul. A dance of wit and charm and barely contained sexual tension."

Mason made a gagging noise, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "The only tension I'm feeling right now is the urge to strangle you with my bare hands," he said, his voice flat and unimpressed.

But even as he spoke, I could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes softened ever so slightly as they met Dylan's across the table.

It was a dynamic that only grew more pronounced as the night wore on, the four of us falling into an easy rhythm of laughter and conversation that felt as natural as breathing.

At one point, as we waited for our food to arrive, Dylan launched into a truly epic rant about the perils of dating someone like Mason, his hands waving wildly in the air as he listed off a seemingly endless litany of imagined flaws and shortcomings.

"First of all," he said, his voice rising with each word, "he's way too tall. Like, freakishly tall. I'd need a stepladder just to kiss him goodnight. And don't even get me started on the logistics of spooning. It would be like trying to cuddle with a telephone pole."

Mason raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back in his seat. "I'm sorry, are you saying that my height is a dealbreaker?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because last time I checked, you weren't exactly a towering pillar of masculinity yourself."

Dylan sniffed, his nose rising in the air as he pointedly ignored Mason's jab. "Secondly," he continued, "he's way too serious. Like, does the man ever crack a smile? Does he even know how to laugh? I swear, sometimes I think he was born with a stick up his ass and a scowl on his face."

Mason's lips twitched, his eyes glinting with a hint of mirth. "Maybe I just don't find you particularly amusing," he said, his voice dry as dust. "Ever think of that, rock star?"

Dylan gasped, his hand flying to his chest in a gesture of mock outrage. "You take that back!" he cried, his voice rising to a near-shriek. "I am hilarious, damn it. A comedic genius, a master of wit and timing and..."

"A delusional idiot with an overinflated ego?" Mason finished, his eyebrows raising in challenge.

Dylan sputtered, his cheeks flushing a deep, angry red. "I will have you know," he said, his voice shaking with indignation, "that I have been called many things in my life, but an idiot is not one of them. I am a scholar, a philosopher, a..."

"A drama queen with a tenuous grasp on reality?" Mason supplied, his lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

And on and on they went, trading insults and barbs with a speed and dexterity that left Jared and I breathless with laughter.

But even in the midst of their bickering, there was an undercurrent of affection that was impossible to miss, a warmth and a fondness that belied their harsh words and sharp tongues.

It was there in the way Dylan's eyes softened when Mason let out a rare, genuine laugh, his face transforming into something almost beautiful in its unguarded joy. It was there in the way Mason's hand lingered just a moment too long on Dylan's shoulder when he reached across the table to steal a fry from his plate, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of Dylan's neck in a gesture that was almost tender.

And it was there in the way they orbited each other like twin stars, their bodies always angled towards one another, their gazes always seeking out the other's across the crowded diner.

It was a dance that continued long after we had paid our bill and stepped out into the humid night air, Dylan and Mason still sniping at each other as we made our way back to the hotel, their shoulders bumping and their hands brushing with every step.

The club was loud and crowded, the bass thumping through the soles of my feet as I navigated the sea of writhing bodies on the dance floor. Beside me, Dylan was in his element, his hips swaying to the beat as he threw his head back and laughed, the neon lights painting his face in shades of blue, green and purple.

I noticed a figure pushing through the crowd towards us, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a predatory glint in his eye and a swagger in his step. He sidled up to Dylan, his hand reaching out to brush against his arm in a gesture that was just a little too presumptuous.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he drawled, his American accent thick and cloying over the pounding music. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?"

Dylan stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he took a step back, his body language screaming discomfort and unease.

"I'm not alone," he said, his voice cold and clipped. "I'm here with my friends. And I'm not interested, thanks."

But the man was undeterred, his grin widening as he leaned in closer, his breath hot and heavy against Dylan's cheek.

"Aw, come on now," he cooed, his fingers trailing up Dylan's arm in a way that made my skin crawl. "Don't be like that, sweetheart. I'm just trying to be friendly, is all. Why don't you let me buy you a drink, and we can get to know each other a little better?"

I could see Dylan's jaw clench, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he tried to back away, his eyes darting around the club in search of an escape route.

But before he could make a move, Mason was there, his tall frame looming over the man as he stepped between him and Dylan, his eyes flashing with a kind of cold, controlled fury.

"Hey, buddy," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I think you need to back off. My boyfriend's not interested, and you're making him uncomfortable."

The man blinked, his mouth falling open in surprise as he took in the sight of Mason, his gaze raking over his muscular frame and chiseled features with a kind of grudging appreciation.

"My bad, man. No hard feelings, yeah?" he said, his voice dripping with skepticism.

But Mason wasn't having it, his jaw clenching as he took a step forward, his body radiating a kind of coiled, barely-contained violence that made the other man take an involuntary step back.

"I said, back off," he growled, his hand coming up to rest on Dylan's lower back in a gesture that was both possessive and protective. "Or we're going to have a problem, you and me."

The man held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, his eyes wide and his smile just a little too tight around the edges.

"Alright," he said, his voice strained and nervous. "I can take a hint. No need to get all worked up, man. I was just trying to be friendly, is all."

Mason snorted, his eyes narrowing as he pulled Dylan closer to his side, his arm wrapping around his waist in a gesture that was both tender and fiercely protective.

"Yeah, well, maybe next time you should try being friendly to someone who's actually interested," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Now, if you'll excuse us, my boyfriend and I have some dancing to do."

And with that, he spun Dylan around and pulled him flush against his chest, his lips crashing down on his in a kiss that was as passionate as it was unexpected.

For a moment, Dylan seemed to freeze, his eyes wide with shock and his body stiff with surprise. But then, slowly, his hands came up to tangle in Mason's hair, his lips parting and his tongue darting out to tangle with Mason's own in a dance that was as old as time itself.

I felt my jaw drop, my eyes bulging out of my head as I watched my two best friends make out like a couple of horny teenagers, their bodies pressed close together.

The creep walked away. Beside me, Jared let out a low whistle, his eyes sparkling with amusement and perhaps even a hint of pride.

"Well, damn," he murmured, his lips twitching with a barely suppressed grin. "Looks like Mase has been holding out on us. Who knew he had it in him?"

I could only nod, my mind reeling with the implications of what I was seeing. I watched them break apart, their chests heaving and their lips swollen and bruised. I wondered if perhaps this moment had been a long time coming, an inevitable conclusion to a dance that had been building between them for weeks.

Dylan, for his part, looked like he had been hit by a truck, his eyes glazed and his cheeks flushed a deep, rosy red. He swayed on his feet, his hands still fisted in the front of Mason's shirt as he stared up at him with a kind of dazed wonder, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

Mason, on the other hand, looked as cool and collected as ever, his lips curled in a small, satisfied smirk as he ran his fingers through his mussed hair, his other hand still resting possessively on the small of Dylan's back.

"You alright there, Dyl?" he asked, his voice low and teasing. "You look a little flushed. Was it something I said?"

Dylan blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he struggled to find his words.

"You... we..." he stammered, his voice hoarse and shaky. "What the hell was that, Mase?"

Mason shrugged, his eyes glinting with a kind of wicked amusement. "Just selling the story," he said, his voice casual and unaffected. "Figured the best way to get that creep off your back was to make him think you were taken. And what better way to do that than with a little PDA?"

Jared raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with a barely suppressed grin. "A little PDA?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Mase, you had your tongue down his throat. That's not a little anything."

Mason had the grace to look a little sheepish, his cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well," he mumbled, his eyes darting away from mine. "Heat of the moment, and all that. Got a little carried away, I guess."

Dylan, who had finally seemed to recover his powers of speech, let out a squawk of indignation, his hands flying up to gesture wildly in the air.

"A little carried away?" he sputtered. "Mason, you kissed me. Like, full-on, tonsil-hockey, romance movie poster kissed me. In front of everyone."

Mason rolled his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest in a defensive posture.

"Oh, please," he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "Like you weren't enjoying it. I felt the way you melted into me, Dyl. The way your body responded to mine. You can't fake that kind of chemistry."

Dylan's mouth fell open, his eyes bulging out of his head as he stared at Mason in a mixture of outrage and disbelief.

"I did not melt into you!" he cried, his voice shrill and indignant. "I was caught off guard, that's all. It was a reflex, a natural response to being accosted by your freakishly large mouth."

Mason smirked, his eyes glinting with a kind of smug satisfaction. "Keep telling yourself that," he drawled, his voice low and teasing. "But we both know the truth. You want me. You're just too chickenshit to admit it."

Dylan let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a squeak, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he sputtered and stammered, his words tripping over themselves in his haste to deny Mason's accusations.

"You are so full of shit, Mason," he finally managed to choke out, his finger jabbing into Mason's chest with each word. "I would rather make out with a cactus than ever let your lips anywhere near mine again, you insufferable, arrogant, overgrown man-child!"

Mason's grin only widened, his head tilting to the side as he studied Dylan with a kind of lazy interest.

"Is that so?" he purred, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're about two seconds away from jumping my bones. Your pupils are blown, your cheeks are flushed, and your breathing is so shallow, I'm surprised you haven't passed out yet. Face it, babe. You're hot for me, and we both know it."

I could practically see the steam coming out of Dylan's ears, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he glared up at Mason with a kind of impotent fury.

"God, I can't even look at you right now," he finally spat, his voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "I'm going to get a drink. A strong one. And when I come back, you had better be gone, or so help me god, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

And with that, he spun on his heel and stalked off towards the bar, his shoulders rigid with tension and his steps heavy with anger.

Mason watched him go, his eyes lingering on the sway of Dylan's hips and the curve of his ass with a kind of appreciative hunger. "Damn," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "That man is going to be the death of me, I swear."

Beside me, Jared let out a soft chuckle, his hand coming up to rest on my shoulder in a gesture of amused sympathy.

"Back to square one, huh?" he said, his voice wry and knowing. "Those two are gonna dance around each other forever at this rate."

I could only nod, my mind still reeling from the events of the past few minutes.

Hours later, as the club began to wind down and the crowds began to thin, the four of us found ourselves sneaking out the back door, our hands clasped tightly together as we made our way down the narrow, winding streets of Osaka.

It was a familiar route, one that Dylan and I had taken countless times back in the early days of our career, when we were just a couple of scrappy kids with a dream and a handful of songs to our name.

I could still remember the first time we had stumbled upon the small diner, our stomachs growling and our pockets nearly empty after a long night of busking on the street corner.

We had pushed through the door with a sense of trepidation, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding as we took in the cozy, dimly-lit interior, the scent of simmering broth hanging heavy in the air.

But the owner, a tiny, wrinkled old woman with a shock of white hair, had taken one look at us and ushered us inside, her hands fluttering over us like a mother hen as she clucked and fussed and pressed steaming bowls of ramen into our hands.

From that moment on, the diner had become our sanctuary, our home away from home in a city that could be as unforgiving as it was beautiful.

As we slid into a booth at the back of the room, I couldn't help but feel a rush of nostalgia, a bittersweet ache in my chest for those early days, when everything had seemed so much simpler, so much more innocent.

I thought back to all the long nights Dylan and I had spent hunched over our notebooks in his parents' garage, the scraps of melody and bits of lyrics swirling around us like leaves in the wind as we poured our hearts and souls onto the page.

I thought of all the times Dylan had been there for me, his arm slung around my shoulders and his laughter ringing in my ears as he pulled me back from the brink of despair. And I remembered the way his parents had always welcomed me into their home, their arms open and their hearts full of unconditional love.

I thought of the pride in his mother's eyes when we played her our first real song, the way her face had lit up with joy as she pulled us both into a crushing hug. I remembered the way Dylan's father had clapped me on the back after our first sold-out show, his eyes shining with a kind of fierce, protective love that made my heart ache with longing, with the desperate, unspoken wish that my own parents could have looked at me like that, just once, just for a moment.

But most of all, I remembered the way Dylan had held me that night, his arms strong and steady around me as I cried myself to sleep, my heart shattered into a million pieces by the cold, unforgiving words of my own father, by the disgust and revulsion in his eyes as he looked at me, his only son, and saw nothing but shame and disappointment and a love that came with conditions, with asterisks and footnotes and fine print that I could never hope to understand.

We were all crammed into a tiny, dimly-lit bar on the outskirts of Osaka, the air thick with the scent of stale beer, the sound of clinking glasses and raucous laughter.

Dylan, in a fit of inspiration that could only be described as misguided at best and disastrous at worst, had decided that it was high time Mason got a proper rock and roll makeover, complete with skinny jeans, eyeliner and a frankly alarming amount of hair gel.

The results, as I had predicted, were nothing short of catastrophic.

Mason stood in the middle of the bar, his arms crossed over his chest and his face set in a scowl that could have curdled milk, his usually sleek, styled hair sticking up in every direction like a porcupine on a bad hair day.

"I look ridiculous," he grumbled, his voice low and surly as he plucked at the too-tight fabric of his jeans, the material straining over his muscular thighs in a way that looked positively painful.

Dylan, for his part, seemed utterly unfazed by Mason's discomfort, his eyes gleaming with a kind of manic glee as he circled Mason like a shark scenting blood in the water.

"Nonsense!" he cried, his hands fluttering over Mason's shoulders, arms and chest in a way that was just a little too proprietary. "You look amazing, Mase. Like a real rock star. A little bit of edge, a little bit of danger. it's perfect."

Mason chuckled, his eyes rolling. "I look like an idiot," he said flatly, his arms tightening over his chest in a defensive posture. "And I feel like I'm being strangled by my own pants. Seriously, Dyl, how the hell do you wear these things? I can barely breathe, let alone move."

Dylan grinned, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a gesture that was pure, unabashed flirtation.

"Practice, my dear Mason," he said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "And a whole lot of baby powder. Trust me, once you get used to the feeling of your junk being cradled like a precious gem, you'll never go back to boring old regular jeans again."

I nearly choked on my drink at the expression on Mason's face, his eyes bulging out of his head and his mouth hanging open in a moment of stunned disbelief.

"Did you just talk about my junk in public?" he sputtered, his cheeks flushing a deep, angry red.

Dylan shrugged, his grin widening. "What can I say?" he said, his voice dripping with false modesty. "I'm a connoisseur of the male form, Mase. And let me tell you, your form? Is top notch. Grade A prime beef, if you know what I mean."

I could practically see the steam coming out of Mason's ears, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he glared at Dylan.

"I swear to god, Dylan," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "If you don't stop talking about my bits like they're a piece of meat, I'm going to throttle you with your own scarf."

But Dylan just laughed, his head thrown back and his throat bared in a gesture of pure, reckless abandon.

"Promises, promises," he singsonged, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But seriously, babe, you look hot. Like, smoking hot. I'd totally tap that, if you know what I mean."

Mason's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, his mouth falling open in a moment of stunned silence.

"You'd what?" he stammered, his voice hoarse and strained.

For a moment, I thought Mason might actually combust on the spot, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he stared down at Dylan with a kind of dazed, disbelieving wonder.

But then, just as quickly, the moment passed, and he was stepping back, his arms crossing over his chest once more in a gesture of defensive retreat.

"Yeah, well," he mumbled, his eyes darting away from Dylan's, his cheeks still flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and something that looked suspiciously like longing. "Too bad I'm not into guys who think skinny jeans are an acceptable form of torture."

As the night wore on and the drinks kept flowing, Dylan's antics only seemed to grow more outrageous, his laughter louder and his smiles wider and his hands more and more prone to wandering, to lingering on Mason's arms, shoulders and back in a way that was just a little too possessive.

At one point, he even managed to convince Mason to join him in a game of darts, his eyes bright with challenge and his grin sharp with mischief as he dragged the taller man over to the board, his fingers locked tight around his wrist in a grip that was as unyielding as it was tender.

"Come on, Mase," he wheedled, his voice high and pleading. "Just one game. I promise I'll go easy on you, let you win and everything."

"I don't need you to let me win," he said, his voice flat and unimpressed. "I'm perfectly capable of kicking your ass all on my own, thank you very much."

But despite his bravado, it quickly became clear that Mason's skills at darts were somewhat lacking, his throws wild and erratic and more likely to hit the wall than the board.

After his third consecutive miss, Dylan let out a crow of laughter, his hand coming up to clap Mason on the back in a gesture of mock consolation.

"Aw, don't worry, big guy," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "We can't all be naturally gifted at everything. I'm sure you have other talents. Like, I don't know, brooding and looking vaguely threatening."

Mason growled, his eyes narrowing to slits as he glared down at Dylan.

"Shut up," he gritted out, his hand tightening around the dart until his knuckles turned white. "I can do this. I just need to concentrate."

Dylan's grin turned sly, his eyes glinting with a kind of wicked amusement.

"Is that so? Well then, by all means, let me help you out."

And with that, he stepped up behind Mason, his chest pressing against Mason's back and his arms coming up to wrap around his waist, his hands settling low on his hips.

I could see the moment Mason's breath caught in his throat, his entire body going rigid and still as Dylan's fingers dug into the hard planes of his stomach, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

"Relax," Dylan murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of Mason's ear, his breath hot and damp against his skin. "I've got you. Just let me guide you."

And slowly, carefully, he began to move Mason's arm, his hand wrapped tight around his wrist as he helped him line up the shot, his body molded against his back like a second skin.

I could see the way Mason's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief, heated moment before snapping open once more, his gaze fixed firmly on the board in front of him.

And then, with a flick of his wrist and a soft exhale of breath, he let the dart fly, the point sinking deep into the bullseye with a satisfying thunk.

Dylan let out a whoop of joy, his arms tightening around Mason's waist as he lifted him off his feet, spinning him around in a dizzying circle of laughter and excitement.

"You did it!" he cried. "I knew you could do it, Mase. I knew you had it in you."

Mason, for his part, looked slightly dazed, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide and his hair mussed from Dylan's enthusiastic embrace.