Ashton

Damn him.

It’s been over a week, and my mind can’t stop wrapping around the first day in the studio. Everything he said, the words he wrote, the damn thoughts he put in my head.

Spending three hours a day in a small space with him is only getting harder—no pun intended—when he does everything he can to make me squirm. A soft brush of his fingers when he takes the paper from me. How his eyes burn my body as he watches me try finding the perfect keys for the song.

He knows what he’s doing, and he wants me to break. But I won’t let my body make any decisions for me, no matter how much it cries out to be touched, kissed, and caressed by every part of him. Good and bad combined, he’s right. We would destroy each other if we ever gave each other the chance.

I’m the realest fucking person you’re ever going to meet.

I think of the ways he wanted to brand the reality of our destruction on me, feeling every shred of truth he listed absorb into my soul like he knew it would.

His grueling voice made it sound like a threat. A warning. But his eyes made it look like a promise. An anticipation to an unhealthy fixation on something neither of us should try discovering.

Dylan’s uncanny ability to send sparks through my body is dangerous, and he’s going to lead us right off the edge of never.

And I’m going to let him.

Because I’m stupid.

Because I’m weak.

Because I want him to.

I told myself that I wouldn’t let a guy destroy me again—that the next time I let somebody into my life, it would be somebody worth mending back together the pieces.

But maybe I just need to experience destruction on my own terms, letting myself pick up the pieces when the time is right. To feel what it’s like to break down in the best way, to feel the war path, the pain, the wave of wrong and embrace how right it can be.

Dylan is going to end me. But I’m going to rebuild myself from the ground up, and the pieces we leave behind when we end will make me unbreakable.

Over the week, we’ve only gotten two verses down. Dylan has been working on adding acoustics into the song with his guitar, and I’ve been playing around with the piano, trying to get the instruments to meld together.

It doesn’t matter how much we distance ourselves, we always end up side by side by the time our session is done. Me sitting on the edge of the bench, him watching me play the piano like he hasn’t seen anything like it before.

Dylan left twenty minutes ago after getting a phone call that seemed to deviate his focus. It left me time to adjust the music sheet, finding the perfect sound to go along with the lyrics that we came up with.

The keys start to form a hellbent sound that’s somewhere in between cryptic and jarring, a match to the equally jarring lyrics that Dylan is set on, yet the vibrations liven a dead piece of me. My fingers dig into the keys, my eyes closing as I drag my fingertips across the tops to lighten the darkness coming from the instrument.

Two parts of my soul are shaking, the gap between them teasing the idea of being healed, but never stuck together enough to be fully mended.

But music is a powerful medicine that can cure the noise my mind drowns in. If it can become a white noise in the chaos, then maybe there’s hope for me yet.

The melody plays on without a second thought, and I’m lost in the music echoing in the studio. Even outside of our sessions, I want to perfect this song. It’s become more than just a collaboration to save my reputation.

This song will save me.

I can see the notes float by in my mind, drifting in the darkness, completely consuming me. The emotion building in my chest as the music gets heavier swells my heart, and fighting back tears makes me realize that it’s not always the song that causes the emotion, but the people behind them.

A tear slips down my cheek, a testament to the truth hidden behind the words.

You think that you’re a burden.

You think that you’re weak if you cry.

But we both know that you’re more than,

The pain that’s hiding in your eyes.

My fingers still on the last note, eyes scanning the paper in front of me.

Heart thumping against my chest trying to gain my attention, I focus on the words that stick out. Words I don’t know if I can stand behind, like their accusations. Hypocritical notions that keep hiding behind broken truths.

My pen strikes a line through each word, red ink blotting over the new formation, heart lightening its weight in my ribcage.

She thinks that she’s a burden.

She thinks she’s weak if she cries.

Does she know that there’s more than

The pain that’s hiding in her eyes.

Jaw grinding at the new words, my pen hovers over the paper, itching to write the next few verses. I let out a heavy breath, hand shaking, and set the pen down.

Staring at the keys, I reposition myself to the appropriate ones. Starting to play, I let the song play out for a ten second introduction before adding the new lyrics.

“You’re letting your emotions show,” Rhys says from behind me, startling me from my concentration. His reflection staring back at me with an unreadable expression on his face causes me to turn and face him.

“What are you doing here, Rhys?”

Running his hand against the guitar on the shelf, he asks, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? This is my studio.”

“It’s not yours yet,” I remind him, irritated he’s laying claim to Stella’s property. “Stella told me I could use it while I’m here.”

“Good ol’ Grandma,” he muses dryly. “Always helping the less fortunate.”

My eye twitches at the remark, but I don’t bother saying anything back. He shouldn’t get the opportunity to watch me react like he wants. I won’t let him get off knowing he got under my skin again. Like he always does.

“You haven’t called me. Where’s the song?”

“I told you what I felt about that before.”

Something in him shifts, like he’s not in control of himself. His hands shake, eyes twitch, and jaw is clenched so tight I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself.

“And I told you that it isn’t an option!”

I bolt up when he shoves the awards off the shelf and onto the floor. I stumble backward, heart racing in my chest as I stare at his reddening face.

“R-Rhys?”

He takes a deep breath, fisting his eyes. “I need the song, Ashton. Conner isn’t messing around. Don’t you get it?”

My eyes roam over the dented and broken awards scattered on the ground. Swallowing down my fear, my eyes travel back to his.

“What I get is that you still haven’t told me the whole story.”

He steps forward and stops when I flinch at his jerky movement. Lips parted, shock overpowering his anger, he stares at me.

“Ash …” His voice breaks as he watches my fear-filled eyes. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Do I?” I doubt in uncertainty. “You already did, Rhys. But this?” He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Not since he showed up at Teagan’s house. He’s got bags under his eyes, a thick dusting of stubble across his jaw, and his eyes are glazed over.

He takes another step forward, so I step back.

“Ash. Baby—”

“No!” I shake my head furiously. “No more. Tell me what’s going on, Rhys.”

He glances around the mess he made, eyes locking on the broken trophy at his feet.

“Is it drugs?” I ask quietly. Looking at him falling apart in front of me tells my gut what I don’t want to believe. “Even you’re better than that.”

He laughs like a madman. “Drugs? That’s what you think?”

“You’re not being rational. You’re angry.” I gulp. “Have you even slept? It makes sense. Just be honest.”

“I’m not on drugs,” he deadpans. “I just need the song. Where is it?”

I take a courageous step forward. “Not until you tell me why. You say you won’t hurt me, then prove it.”

A pained expression crosses his face. “I told you already. I can’t.”

Blinking, I quip, “Can’t or don’t want to? There’s a difference.”

His fists clench. “Dammit, Ashton!” he barks. His eyes snap to my notebook, and he snatches it before I can get it first.

“Give it back!” I demand.

I charge toward him, but he sidesteps me, keeping the notebook out of reach.

“Rhys!” I demand.

“Sorry,” he whispers, sounding genuine, something heavy weighing down his tone. “I can’t let him ruin me.”

Ruin him? What isn’t he telling me?

He bolts out before I can ask him, and as I’m trying to run after him I trip on a broken piece of award on the floor. I barely catch myself, the palm of my hand catching on the edge of the shelf but the skin being stabbed with a sharp piece of glass that must have flown up during his rampage.

Regaining my balance, I look down at my bleeding hand, tears welling in my eyes. The pain radiates up my arm, but fear is what causes the tears.

Disregarding the wound, I kneel to start cleaning up the mess Rhys left. It seems like that’s a hobby of mine lately.

There’s a gasp at the doorway followed by Stella pulling me up with concerned eyes.

“Stella—”

“Hush, now. We need to get this cleaned up.”

I think she means the broken awards everywhere, but her eyes are focused on my cut hand. She drags me to the bathroom, forcing me to sit on the closed toilet seat. She digs through the small wooden cabinet, taking out a first aid kit.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She tilts my head up. “What in the world do you have to be sorry for? I saw Rhys tear out of here like his house was on fire. Something tells me he made that mess. Not you.”

My eyes go to my palm, Stella getting tweezers to carefully remove the shard. I wince when I see the blood trickle out, but she quickly puts my hand under running water and helps wash it away.

“It doesn’t look deep,” she says softly. “I think cleaning it out and putting a bandage on it will be enough.”

I nod.

“Ashton, what happened?”

I blink, gathering my thoughts. Because even though I was there, I’m not sure I even knew.

“He was just so angry,” I murmur, lost in my thoughts. I shouldn’t worry about somebody like him, but it’s hard to act like I don’t care for someone that my heart used to cling to.

I cared, and I probably always would.

“Stella, I’m worried about him. He looked like he hasn’t slept, and he’s just … off. I think maybe drugs are involved.”

She pulls out an alcohol wipe next. “I really hope that’s not the case, but it’s better to be sure. I can get a test run on him.”

My brows go up. “You can do that?”

“He’s under his father’s label,” she explains calmly, focused on the task at hand. “I own my fair share of the company, therefore I’m just as much boss as his daddy. If I think there’s reason to make him take one, then he has to.”

I’m surprised by the news, not knowing she owned the company. Which means that his whole family’s fame was passed down.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he? He didn’t do this?” She gestures toward the clean cut, fear of my answer in her eyes.

I shake my head. “No. I cut myself on the broken glass. He got upset over … It’s not important. He broke some stuff and I’m clumsy.”

“Intentional or not, be caused this.”

“He’s …”

Stressed? Upset? Nervous? Why am I defending somebody who is so willing to go behind my back? To go against me?

“I’ll make sure he gets help,” she promises. “For whatever is causing this. But if you know something, it’s time to ’fess up, girly. Can’t help if I’m left in the dark.”

Pressing my lips together, I watch silently as she applies the bandage to my palm.

I haven’t told anyone about the night of the after party. Not even Teagan, and she was there. She came as my plus one since Rhys was invited separately. But the truth is, I blame myself for that night. I lead Conner Mason on, gave him witty banter, flirtatious nudges.

He tried taking advantage of me and I freaked out, but it’s my fault he got the signals mixed up. I just wanted Rhys to be jealous, to show that he cared about me. He stopped long before then, so I needed validation. Something that made me feel a connection to him. Jealousy was my game.

But it backfired. People took pictures of Conner and me. They joked about us getting together. And when he dragged me to the media room, I should have guessed what his intentions were—that I’d taken it too far. But it was too late and the damage had been done.

Even though nothing happened that night between us, what did transpire was all because of me. And if those pictures leaked to the press, then I’d have nobody to blame but myself. All because I craved my boyfriend’s affection.

The guilt eating me up inside makes me tell Stella everything. The whole truth. What Conner is threatening to do. How Rhys is in on it somehow. It’s a mess, like my life is a domino effect of bad luck.

After spilling my guts, I expect the weight on my shoulders to lessen, but it doesn’t. It eases, but there’s something still there weighing me down.

Stella sighs, cleaning up the counter and putting the kit away. “You can’t keep blaming yourself, Ash. It may not have been smart playing with fire like that, but you’re human. You were hurt and lonely and wanted to feel validated. It doesn’t make what Rhys and Conner are doing right.”

“It doesn’t make what I did right either.”

“We’re human, kiddo. We make mistakes.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I admit defeatedly. “I messed up and have no clue what it’ll take to make it better. Rhys is hiding something from me, but he won’t tell me what.”

She pats my good hand. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. You need to keep your head in the game for now. You’ve got a good opportunity to build yourself up. Don’t waste it.”

“I don’t think I can focus right now.”

“Find a way to. You can’t keep letting Rhys hold you back. You’re free of him now. You’re your own person. Live your life.”

I don’t know how …

The admission crashes down on me, realization sputtering like a plane out of control. This whole time I know that music is my life, that writing and singing makes me happy. That making Rhys happy made me feel good. But outside of those things, I don’t know what to do with myself.

Maybe the problem the whole time is the fact I lost myself a long time ago. Lost sight of who I am when I tried gaining a career. Conformed to what my label wanted. What the press did. I could wear leather pants and cowboy boots to make a conundrum for reporters, but it’d take more than my style to show them who I really am.

Is that what happened between Rhys and me? All this time I saw a change in him, but maybe he saw one in me, too. Laying the blame on him isn’t fair when I’m just as much part of the problem.

“You should go home,” she suggests, breaking away my string of silent worries.

I stand up, my good palm running down my thigh. “Yeah, Teagan is probably expecting me. I was supposed to be home an hour ago.”

“I don’t mean back to her house. Go back to Tennessee, Ashton. Go home to Nashville.”

Eyes wide, I stare at her. “I can’t just up and leave, Stella!”

“Who says? Does your contract tell you that you have to write a song in Los Angeles? Just because you met them here doesn’t mean any of you have to stay. None of you live here.”

“It’s not fair to Dylan. He doesn’t live in Nashville. His home is in New York. I can’t just drag him with me. There’s no reason to.”

“Mental health is a good reason.”

Mental health?

“Kid, you need a break from here. This has never been your scene. You need a familiar perspective. Your roots are the only way you’ll find that again.”

The idea of going back to Nashville does bring a serene feeling into my bones. I’ve been homesick since I left, but my job is the reason I can afford to keep my childhood home.

“And what about Dylan?”

“Best you can do is ask him,” she tells me. “I know he’s seen as a sporadic kid, but something tells me he’s a reasonable one underneath all that war paint.”

There’s a small smile playing on her lips that I can’t figure out.

“I guess,” I relent slowly, studying her brazen expression.

She rubs my back. “I’ll clean up after my grandson and then make some calls. Don’t you worry, Ashton. This will work out in the end. It always does.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, hoping that she’s right. Stella usually is, but when it comes to me I can never tell when the luck will run out.

Teagan soaks up the news about as well as I think she will. Her eyes are tear-rimmed and blurry, and her jaw quivers even though she’s trying to remain calm.

“Teagan,” I plea, feeling my own tears come center stage. I hate seeing her get emotional over me.

Knowing Stella had a good idea, I couldn’t just ignore it. So as soon as Teagan got home from meeting up with her agent I broke the news and asked for her advice. And of course she wants what’s best for me, because she knows that going home will help me in ways that staying in LA can’t.

But it doesn’t make leaving her behind any easier, knowing she’s the only original thing in my life.

She sniffs. “I’m sorry, Ash. Ignore the bumbling idiot. I’ll just miss my best friend. Having you around makes me homesick.”

“So come with me!”

She frowns, which makes me mirror hers. “I can’t. My agent has auditions lined up for me around the premiere schedule. I think this is my moment.”

“Oh, Teagan!” I pull her into a hug, squeezing her in comfort. “I’m so happy for you. You’ve worked so hard to get here. You’re going places.”

We’re both crying now, holding each other and not wanting to let go.

“Whoa,” a new voice intervenes in our moment. We pull away, looking at an intrigued Dylan standing at the door, stroking his jaw and staring between us.

“Don’t stop on my account. Think I saw a porn that started this way once.”

Teagan laughs and brushes away tears. “I hate to disappoint you, but unless I’m paid to kiss a girl for the big screen, it ain’t happening.”

Dylan shoots us a crooked smile. “I’ve got a few hundreds I’d be willing to give to the cause.”

I scoff just as Teagan pinches my butt, causing me to yelp. “Although if we’re both old and single I’d go gay for that. Just saying.”

I smack her hand away. “Oh, please. Like you’re staying single your whole life. If either of us is destined to be the crazy cat lady it’s me.”

Dylan snorts. “You ladies don’t want cats, believe me. Plus, neither of you will be single long.”

Teagan crosses her arms. “Is that a promise?”

He grins. “Guys would be stupid not to snatch you up.” He may be telling us both that, but he’s only looking at me, and those eyes pierce through me.

“Question,” Teagan prompts, body shifting toward his. “Hypothetically, if you were to choose one of us lovely ladies to date, who would it be?”

My jaw drops. “Teagan!”

I want to tell her that there’s no way he’d pick either of us, because dating isn’t his thing.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says, and I think, here it is, “but it’d be Boots.”

My eyes snap to him. “Um. Excuse me?”

Teagan has a smug expression on her face, like she just won the lottery of all assumptions.

“You’re a spitfire, Ashton. You’re feisty. You don’t take people’s shit. And you’re beautiful. Any guy would be stupid not to acknowledge that if he’s got it.”

Teagan makes a sound of admiration.

I laugh a little, hiding my face so he can’t see my reddening cheeks. His admission makes my limbs fire up and heart skip.

I manage to clear my throat. “Okay, Romeo.”

Teagan squeezes my arm. “I’ll let you two talk,” she murmurs, giving me a comforting smile.

Dylan’s brows pinch together when she leaves us alone. He walks into the living room, hesitantly sitting down on the couch and looking at me from across the room.

“What’s up, Boots?”

I rub my palms together nervously, forgetting about the mild flesh wound. I wince when the friction rubs against it, and Dylan quickly notices the source, eyes darting to the bandage.

“What the hell happened?” he demands icily, shoving off the couch and sauntering over to me with intent in his eyes. He grabs my arm and holds out my hand palm-up.

His eyes burn into the bandage like he’s trying to melt it away and assess the damage. It’s alarming to see him so stricken over something so little, and if he’s not careful it may be mistaken for him caring.

Pulling my hand away, I assure, “It’s nothing, Dylan. I had a minor accident at the studio after you left.”

His eyes flare with anger. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

His eyes tell me to stop arguing. Pressing my lips together, I watch as a hundred emotions cross over his face. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. I let him go through the phases, even though I want to cup his cheek and whisper for him to stop.

But I don’t. I don’t because I can see that the pain he puts himself in makes him feel alive somehow, like the raw emotions wake him up. Clear the fog. And once they all pass, his eyes return to their usual endearing color, with just an edge of hardness in the chocolate puddles.

I walk over to the window and sit on the edge of the sill. “I wanted to ask you something in person, because I thought texting it would be pathetic.”

His crooked grin reappears. “If you’re finally asking for a piece of me, I told you the day would come.”

If I had something in close range to throw at him, I would. Instead, I give him a mock glare and shake my head. “Nice try, but that’s not it. I want to go back home. I’m planning on leaving tomorrow, but it’ll all depend on you.”

“Home …” He stares at me inquisitively. “As in Tennessee?”

I’m only able to nod.

He blows out a breath. “And you want me to go with you.”

Another nod.

“Going to need words, Boots.”

After a moment, I sigh. “I need to get a clear head, and I can’t do that here. I’ve got a private studio on my property back in Nashville. If you’re willing—”

“It’s not that I’m not willing,” he cuts me off abruptly, offended I’d think so. “I just want to know why. That’s all.”

I wet my lips. “I think I’d be better off there,” I admit, shrugging. “And Stella seems to think so, too. In fact, she mentioned that Rhys is going on tour, so he won’t be there.”

Rhys’ name causes his expression to harden, and he looks more pissed than I do on any given day when Rhys is a topic. “So this is about him then?”

“It’s about me.”

He huffs. “What if he wasn’t on tour? You’d have to go back to Nashville. It’s not like you can avoid it because of one person.”

“Him being gone is just a bonus, okay?” I snap defensively. “Nashville is both of our homes, and nobody can take that away from me. Not even Rhys, and he took plenty of other things.”

“Like what?” he whispers, taken aback.

I shake my head. “Things you wouldn’t understand,” I opt out. “So are you willing to go? My house has plenty of space for us both. Even the guys if they want to come.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No to the guys going,” he explains firmly. “I’ll go with you, but it’s just you and me, Boots. Nobody else.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out why he’s intent on isolation. But because I’m desperate to go home, I agree.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, I rock back on the heels of my bare feet. “So … I’ll see you tomorrow? I booked a flight for ten.”

“Ten’s a bit early,” he exasperates. “But I guess I can manage it. Is this your way of kicking me out?”

I give him a small smile. “I’ve got a lot to pack. Plus, Teagan and I should really spend some time together since I’m leaving. We’re leaving,” I correct.

He gives me a once over and then slowly nods.

I walk him to the door, giving him a wave good-bye before closing it. When it’s just me again, I let out a heavy breath and walk to my bedroom.

Teagan is sitting on my bed smiling. “So … you and Dylan?”

“Don’t start,” I deadpan.

She puts her hands up. “I think it’s adorable. You guys will be chilling, writing, hopefully heavy petting. I wish I could witness Dylan in Nashville. Send me pics.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that, Teag. You know that.”

She sighs, standing up. “A girl can dream.”

I pat her shoulder. “Whatever makes you happy, Teagan. As long as that isn’t rooting for the worst couple ever.”

She’s about to reply but I stop her.

“I should get packing,” I say.

She nods once. “I’ll leave you be. Want to order in tonight? Pizza? Chinese? Both?”

Crinkling my nose at the idea of the combination, she laughs. “Okay, so maybe one or the other. How about I deal with the menu, and you figure out what movies to binge. Deal?”

I smile. “Sounds perfect.”

We hug before she walks out, leaving me staring at my empty baggage that she put on my mattress.

After a few minutes of transferring my clothes from the borrowed closet to my bags, I notice my workout clothes resting on the top of the dresser.

Picking up my running shoes, I feel the temptation bubble in my stomach. Drawing in my bottom lip and nibbling it, my eyes return to the workout gear.

Maybe one last run will help clear my mind.

Just as I reach for my spandex capris, a hand intercepts my wrist. Gasping in surprise, I whip my body around, staring at Dylan.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. I swallow, letting him lower my arm away from my workout clothes.

“I thought you left.”

He shakes his head, eyes softening. “You were going to run again.”

“It helps.”

“It’s hurting you.”

“Listen, Dylan. I know you said that I can’t run from my demons, but—”

“I can help you,” he cuts me off. “If you’ll let me. I can show you another way. An outlet that won’t do so much damage.”

My brows go up. “Please tell me it’s not talking or sex. I’m not up for either with you.”

My attempt at lightening the mood works.

He snorts. “No, it’s not.” He grabs my workout gear, red racerback sports bra and black capris, and passes them to me. I hesitantly take them, brows drawing together in confusion.

He picks up my sneakers and slips them under his arm. “You can change when we get there,” he states. He looks at my outfit. “Maybe bring a dress. You’ll be too sweaty after.”

“Uh …”

He rolls his eyes. “Just …” he winces, “trust me. Temporarily, at least. This helps me, so I think it’ll help you, too.”

Studying his seriousness for a microsecond, I grab my sundress out of my suitcase and drape it over my arm. Wherever he’s taking me he’s serious about. I can tell based on the foreign ease on his face that he’s leading me to the perfect answer.

“Well? What are we waiting for?”

He chuckles and follows me out of the house, a curious Teagan left in the entryway with Dylan not letting me explain anything to her. He pulls my arm toward his truck and I’m surprised to see it’s an older model blue Chevy—rust, dents, and all. Nothing new. No fancy buttons. Definitely not what I would have expected from someone like him.

He opens the passenger side. “Need me to pick you up or think you can handle getting in the beast?”

I roll my eyes and climb in effortlessly, not giving him a chance to feel me up like he wants. I expect the smugness on his face to dissipate, but even when I’m perched on the bench seat and buckled, he looks at me with strong appraisal.

“What?” My self-conscious seeps into my words, my palms flattening out against my thighs in nervousness.

He studies me, eyes looking enticed at something that he saw. His lips slowly quirk up, then purse as he shakes his head. “Just admiring the view, Boots.”

I wiggle my sandaled feet. “No boots today.”

He chuckles. “Almost didn’t recognize you,” he teases. His eyes lock on my painted red toes. “Red is a good color on you, Ashton. You ready?”

I nod. Ready for what, I have no idea. Yet excitement finds its way into every crack of my being, engrossing the unknown into something I never thought I could look forward to.

He closes the door and jogs over to the driver’s side, hopping in.

“I think you’re going to like this.”