Ashton

The woman curling my hair in front of the mirror tries making small talk with me as another does my makeup. Red lips, black winged eyeliner, light on the pale pink blush. I talk back, but my focus is on the sound of the crowd going crazy over the set Relentless is currently playing out on stage.

We alternate each show, both getting an hour to play some our top hits, then ending with the collaboration. Each show is basically the same, what we play already cemented long before we arrive to the venue.

Three hours before the show we have sound check to make sure everything is working right, then do a practice run. The last hour is dedicated to wardrobe, hair, and makeup with a few minutes to relax right before we go on.

My foot taps to their song “Right About Now” that they’re playing, silently singing along in my head with Ian.

“Ms. King?” the stylist asks.

I look at her reflection in the mirror.

“I asked how you liked that.” She smiles at me, despite my absent behavior.

I touch the soft curls, smiling back at the simplicity. Nothing too much, just loose curls that give my hair some dimension.

“It’s perfect.”

Thankfully the stylists they employed for the tour are ones I’ve worked with before, because nobody has tried putting me in clothes that are too country, too flashy, or too short. Rather, I’m in black leather leggings, a black and white pattered cutout shirt, and a pair of black cowboy boots with a higher heel than regular ones.

I give myself a onceover, assessing the overall look until I’m satisfied.

Meagan comes over with a smile on her face, gesturing toward the stage. “The crowd is really into it tonight.”

The open curtain to the stage lets me see a majority of the band, sans Ben on the drums, and I can tell how much they love being there. Ian uses his space, kneeling to touch some of the first row, causing them to go nuts.

Bash is grinning as he looks out at the crowd, taking in his surroundings, and I could only imagine Ben is doing the same.

But Dylan? Dylan dominates. He’s soaked in the moment, laser focused on making sure every chord is perfect, eyes closed, head tilted back, body moving to the rhythm.

“They’re good,” is all I say, eyes locked on Dylan the whole time.

“Have you two talked?” she asks curiously.

I shake my head. “I got in a little later than expected. He’s been busy since I got here.”

Busy avoiding me.

I don’t add that part.

“Well you’ll have time.”

I cringe at the thought, not even sure what there is to say if we do have the moment to talk. Realistically, we will. And what’s nerve wracking is that we’ve got to perform together and feel everything we did the first time we performed it. The practice run ran smoothly enough, but he wouldn’t even look at me. Hell, I couldn’t even record in the same studio as him, so we only kept building onto the distance between us—giving ourselves reasons not to feel.

But he insisted on pretending that we were nothing—pushing me away like he always does.

Maybe I just don’t want to settle for you.

It still burns, even though I know he didn’t mean it. I could see it in his eyes, the way he was shoving me toward the edge. He wanted me to hate him, but I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because despite what he thinks about himself, I know he’s better than that. I just hope he sees that one day too.

Just as they finish their last song, my name is called from the back. Meagan gestures for me to go, a small smile on her face that I can’t read.

When I walk into the dressing room, my lips part.

“Rhys?”

Ever since our phone call last month, things have settled between us. All it took was us to finally be honest with each other for it all to end the way it should have. Full closure and no regrets.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he says, smiling, walking over and pulling me into a hug.

My body tenses at the touch at first, but his familiar cologne finally gets me to ease up.

“You definitely did,” I admit drawing back. I take a moment to really look at him, and find myself giving him a genuine smile when I see how much he seems like his old self.

“You look better than before,” I note, tugging on the loose plaid button-down he’s wearing.

He flattens out the front. “I feel better. Stella nearly whipped my ass when she got her hands on me, and I can’t say I didn’t deserve it.”

“We were worried about you.”

He nods once, lips weighing down at the corners. “I know you were. And I know I already apologized, but—”

“Rhys, you don’t have to say you’re sorry.” I want to laugh at those words, ones I never thought I’d hear myself say, much less think.

He guides me over to the couch, both of us sitting down on opposite ends. “I do, though. Instead of putting you through all that shit, I should have just been honest. But when Conner pulled me into the drugs, I lost myself in them. Suddenly being me didn’t feel right.”

While a part of me would never forget the tradeoff he thought he’d get, I knew that holding on wouldn’t help me either.

“The program is helping?” I question, already seeming to know the answer.

He takes something out of his pocket. What looks like a poker chip, but has the number one carved in the center in gold. “One month clean. Not going to lie, it’s not easy, Ash. I still have moments where I want a hit, but I’ve got a sponsor who helps. Plus, Stella has been keeping an eye on me. She convinced my dad to make me take time off until I was six months in the clear, then let me start working again.”

“That’s good.” I examine the chip, brushing my fingers against markings. My eyes finally go back to him. “I’m really proud of you for sticking with this, Rhys. It’s good to see the old you back. The new version was scary.”

He averts his eyes, pain filling them. “Yeah, not one of my better sides.”

The crowd gets louder as the music fades out, and I know that means I’m on. We both stand up, Rhys following me out to where Meagan is standing. Ian announces they’ll be back for one more song after my set, and then they all walk toward us.

When Dylan sees Rhys, his expression immediately darkens, and based on the way his fists clench, I know what he wants to do.

Quickly, I stand in front of Rhys. “Dylan, he’s not here to cause any harm. He just wanted to see me.”

Dylan’s eyes snap to mine in disbelief. “And you fucking want to see him?”

I swallow back my surprise at how cold his tone is as he spits the words at me. “No, it’s not like—”

Rhys steps around me. “Listen, man. About what happened, I’m sorry. I should have apologized sooner, but I’ve been getting the help I need. I’m doing a lot better than I was.”

Dylan is still staring at me, jaw moving back and forth, teeth grinding.

Ian nudges me shoulder. “I’ll handle this, you go out there and do your thing. We’ll meet you out there when you’re done.”

I’m hesitant to leave Dylan and Rhys, but know I have no choice. Taking a deep breath, I make my way out on stage, grabbing my guitar along the way and waving at the crowd as I walk toward the mic.

“How about another round of applause for Relentless, huh?” I urge, adjusting the guitar strap over my shoulders and resting it across my chest.

Once they quiet down again, I announce my first song. One of my first hits from my first album, a throwback I always love performing that brings me back to the beginning like I’m a newbie again.

My eyes go to the opening in the curtain, but there’s nobody standing there anymore. Forcing myself to snap out of it, my eyes train back on the crowd, fingers picking at the strings as the song goes on.

By the time I’m done with my set, I’m covered in sweat from moving around so much, but feeling the adrenaline from the energy I’m getting. The crowd claps along to my last song, only causing my smile to grow wider as the music slowly starts to fade.

I take a few minutes to wave and clap with the crowd, catching my breath before I call the guys back on stage.

“I’m sure you all know that I worked with Relentless on a new song.” The introduction causes the crowd to go wild, screaming and cheering causing me to laugh.

“Well we thought it’d be a good way to end the show,” I say into the mic, backing up and toward the piano set up on the side.

The crowd begins chanting something that I can’t make out at first, but when more people chime in and Dylan waltzes out, I know exactly what they’re saying.

Dash.

Back when the rumors roared of Dylan and I being a thing, the public deemed our couple name Dash. The hashtag trended on Twitter and Instagram for weeks until it finally died down.

Apparently they still remember.

Dylan laughs as he sets up his guitar, stool perched right next to me. He leans into his mic. “I think they want us to make beautiful music together, Ash.”

The crowd’s reaction to his husky tone turns the room into a frenzy. He looks at me and winks, like I’m supposed to ignore the cold shoulder he’s been giving me.

That’s exactly what you have to do.

I put a smile on my face and find myself positioning my fingers over the keys that I haven’t stopped thinking about. When the music starts, both Dylan and I are thrown back to Nashville.

To the flirting.

The insults

The not-so-innocent touches.

With this song, our song, we come alive again.