Ashton

I give myself one last look-over in the mirror, smoothing out the white blouse that’s under my favorite denim jacket. I opt for a pair of black leggings since the meeting with Tom Bennington and the band isn’t supposed to be formal.

Yet, I find myself straightening out my naturally wavy hair, right before pulling out my favorite Passion Fruit pink lipstick and applying a layer on my thick lips.

“You look hot,” Teagan says from the doorway, grinning as she gives me a once-over. “Did you fail to mention you had a date after the meeting, or are you looking like that for a certain guitarist?”

I turn to her, hands on my hips, and narrow my eyes. “You think I’d go out on a date in this? This is practically what I write music in when I’m by myself.”

Her eyes linger on my painted-up face. “Funny, I seem to remember you wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt whenever you write music. And you definitely never put makeup on.”

“What’s wrong with makeup?” I challenge.

She puts her hands up. “Nothing at all. I just think it’s cute how you’re acting like you’re not dressing up for Dylan.”

“I’m not—”

“You straightened your hair, Ash. You hate straightening your hair. In fact, whenever I ask you if I can do your hair you spend at least ten minutes complaining about what you could be doing instead of letting me straighten it.”

Knowing she isn’t going to let this go, I relent. “Think what you want. There’s nothing wrong with dressing up a little for a meeting. I can’t exactly show up in my pajamas, now can I? I’m meeting their manager and going over the contract set in place for this collaboration.”

She shrugs, but the knowing smile is still carved into her naked lips. Since it’s her day off, she’s sporting her usual leggings and Teag, no makeup, and frizzy hair. We always stay causal whenever we’re lounging around the house.

“All I’m saying is that last night was intense between you. I’ve never seen you so flustered with a guy before. It was cute.”

Cute?

My nose scrunches. “Cute, Teag? Really? He was infuriating! And seriously, who lets a girl go down on him out in the open? It’s disrespectful!”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s LA, babe. He’s not the first person to do it, and he won’t be the last.”

I stare dubiously at her. “You don’t think that’s sick?”

“I wouldn’t do it, but I won’t judge anybody who does. The guy is cocky, I’ll give you that. But so is Rhys, babe. Most guys like that are. They know they’re hot and can get anything they want. And based on the way Dylan was taunting you, you’re what he wants.”

“Well he isn’t getting me.”

A warm smile softens her face, but there’s doubt etched into it that I choose to ignore. “That’s up to you then. But there was some serious sexual tension in that hallway, and it wasn’t between him and his blower.”

My jaw drops. “There was not sexual tension between us!”

“Oh there so was. I’ve got a talent for that kind of thing. If I didn’t pull you away, he so would have kissed you. And you would have let him.”

I deadpan, “Are you forgetting I kneed him in the balls when he tried touching me?”

“I always thought the hard-to-get angle worked wonders on men,” she muses.

“I’m not playing any game, Teagan. So can you just stop? Plus, you think there’s sexual tension everywhere.”

“Not everywhere.”

“What about when I asked you to come with me to my Uncle Eddy’s funeral? Remember what you said about Betty Hamden and her neighbor, Earl?”

“They were totally ready to get it on right there in the funeral home!” she argues.

Unbelievable.

“She’s like half his age.”

“There are little blue pills he could take if she really thought that was going to be issue, Ash. Believe me, they probably had sex right after the service.”

I cringe, not wanting to picture that.

As I’m busying myself by pulling on my boots, Teagan says, “Not that I’m sure you care, but word has it Dylan’s favorite color is red. Too bad you didn’t use that Ruby Slipper lipstick I bought you for your birthday last year.”

I grab one of the decorative pillows from the chair and throw at her. She laughs and dodges it, nearly getting hit in the boobs.

“Fine, fine, I’m shutting up.” She puts her hands up in surrender and backs out, but the glint her eyes tells me she’s just getting started.

My eyes go over to my makeup, seeing the red lipstick she’s talking about.

What are you thinking?

Dylan doesn’t deserve anything from me. Not my effort or my thoughts. His head is too far up his own ass to see anything other than himself.

I walk over to the mirror and grab a makeup remover from the package, wiping away any effort that the weak side of me put into my appearance.

I don’t have anything to prove to Dylan or anybody but myself. Hopefully one day I’ll see it and believe it, too.

My grandma used to tell me that you could tell a person’s character within the first five minutes of knowing them. Whether they’re good or bad, what their intentions are, if they’re hiding something.

She was always the type of woman who knew how to read people and figure out if they’re worth trusting. Me? I was never able to catch on that easily.

You trust too easily.

I never thought that was a bad thing until I grew up and saw how many people took advantage of that.

“I love that you see the good in people, baby, but that will be your downfall,” Grandma once told me.

I missed hearing the advice she and Grandpa gave me growing up. After my parents’ accident, I had no clue if I’d ever get the kind of advice that children got from their parents. But my grandparents had plenty to share with me over the years, and I’d never forget that.

I just wish I could be like them—let go of the weak side of me that wanted to let everybody in. I had to force myself to believe that there was more bad in people than good. To be cautious. Distant. Anything to protect myself.

“Ms. King,” Tom Bennington greets, shaking my hand. His warm smile creates crows feet at the corner of his eyes, as he guides me to sit back down at the end of the oak table.

Tom isn’t that old, but the discoloration of his hair and glazed eyes tells me that the job is getting to him. Or maybe it’s the musicians he represents. Relentless stayed on the press’ good side up until a year or so ago, and everything that led them in the media is because of Dylan.

I never made it my business whenever a headline came out that flawed their name, because I know everybody makes mistakes. But when they continue to make them, you start wondering how much they appreciate what they have.

Dylan is the type of rockstar that has everything to lose, but he’s too blinded by what he’s gained from the stardom to even think about the consequences.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Tom reminisces, taking a seat next to me.

Tom and I had only crossed paths a few times since he’s friends with my manager. Or, rather, he used to sleep with Meagan. Either way, we’d see each other at certain events that I’d show up at.

“Last time was, what? Four years ago?”

He smiles, swiping his palm across his jaw, drifting into memory. “Country Music Awards in Nashville. You presented the top female artist award to Carrie Underwood I believe.”

The memory comes back to me, my heart picking up speed like the adrenaline I felt when I stepped onto the stage in front of over 20,000 people for the first time. My stylist had me in a sequin fringed knee-length beige dress, something I wore long before Taylor Swift seemed to make it her trademark back before she went pop. I had on a pair of white cowboy boots, neutral tone makeup, and curly hair layered so it was styled up out of my face.

That night is one of my favorite moments to look back on whenever life becomes too much. Remembering where I started compared to now makes me see how much I’ve accomplished.

“My hands were shaking,” I admit, thinking back to holding the award before passing it to Carrie. Even she could see my fingers trembling as she took it from me, but the assuring smile she casted my way made me feel a little better.

“You were just starting out. A lot of the people I represent were nervous during their first shows, too.”

My eyes flick to his, curiosity lingering in the back of my mind. “Even Relentless?”

He leans back, his hands resting casually in his lap. “Sure, even them. Any human would be nervous when they’re put in a situation they’ve never been in. Even the cockiest of them all who act like they don’t give a shit are terrified when they start off.”

I snort in disbelief. “Dylan? No way.”

He chuckles. “Don’t let him fool you, Ms. King. Usually people like Mr. Hilton have a lot of layers to them. Unfortunately, his are a bit … thicker than others.”

One of my brows quirk. “Some might say that isn’t a good thing. It means that they’ve got a lot to hide.”

Amusement flickers on his face, the right side of his lips curving up. “I’d counter that usually the people who hide things tend to care the most.”

Head tilting, I stare at him. “Are we talking about the same person, Mr. Bennington? It seems like you wouldn’t be quick to defend somebody you’re practically forcing to work with me just for some good press.”

He flashes his white teeth. “Please call me Tom. And you’re right, I’m sure if I were any other agent I would have given up on Dylan by now. But I believe in him, despite his downfalls. Hopefully this experience will make him believe in himself.”

I let that soak in, wondering how working with me could make somebody so high and mighty believe in themselves.

“I don’t think I’m the answer, Tom.”

He shrugs casually, glancing at his watch. “I don’t think you’re the entire answer, but your part of the solution. A piece to the puzzle, if you will.”

“Aren’t we all?” I murmur, sighing.

Before he replies, the door opens and all four guys saunter in one after the other. Dylan is the last one to enter, his dark jeans slung low on his hips and a tight T-shirt melded to his muscled body with black ink wrapped around his arms and peeking out of his low collar. I didn’t notice them before, and I can’t tell what they are.

I try forcing myself to look away, but his presence demands to be known. The way he carries himself, struts around the table as his friends all sit down, and comes toward me with a predator’s grin on his face tells me all I need to know.

He’s dangerous. Playing a game that I refuse to let him win. That grin carved into his face can mean a thousand things, but it can also hide a thousand problems.

Whatever he’s hiding behind may mean that he cares like Tom thinks, but I only see the trouble he can get me in if I bother letting him.

He pulls out the chair next to mine, despite the fact there’s still a seat between Ian and their drummer, Ben. Sitting down, he shoots me a wink, and makes himself comfortable by sliding down until his legs are spread open in front of him and his arms are draped across the padded arms of the office chair.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Tom says sarcastically, shaking his head at him.

Dylan’s grin widens. “Don’t mind if I do, Tom.” He turns to me. “Miss me, princess? It’s a shame you didn’t help me with my little problem last night. Had to go home and take care of it on my own.”

I keep my expression indifferent, not letting him get a rise from me like he wants.

Based on the looks we’re getting, he never told anybody about our adventure at the club last night. Doesn’t bother me any, because I bet if he did it would have been twisted for his benefit.

“You two were together last night?” Ian asks, the surprise not hidden in his tone.

I refrain from snorting or rolling my eyes. “I was at a club with a friend when I saw Dylan.”

Ian and Bash’s brows arch up in curiosity.

Tom’s eyes are plastered on Dylan. “I’m sure whatever help you needed from her was better off being done on your own anyway.”

His tone isn’t accusing, it’s knowing.

I choose to ignore the conversation, not willing to be drawn into it further. “So now that we’re all here, how about we start talking?”

“I thought we were talking, princess,” Dylan states, eyeing me suspiciously. “Was the conversation not to your liking?”

Somebody throws a balled-up piece of paper at Dylan, hitting him in the side of his head, the paper bouncing off him onto the table. He shoots the culprit a glare, but all three guys are smiling innocently like they have no clue who threw it.

Tom decides to take charge again. “Ms. King is right, we’re here to conduct a meeting about your collaboration. Her manager and I have been talking, and we think we’ve come with a decent agreement.”

“Agreement?” Dylan snorts, leaning back casually. “It’s a song and some shows together. Not much to talk about, is it?”

Ian sighs. “Dude, come on.”

Dylan holds up his hands. “I’m just saying it’s not exactly rocket science. You said there would be a song on an album, some cameo in shows, and boom. Done. Never have to see each other again.”

Something about the last part rubs me the wrong way, my chest deflating before I can tell it to stop.

My lips twitch, and I can’t hide the snip in my tone. “We get it, Dylan. You don’t like me or the idea of working with me. But like it or not it’s happening.”

My tone seems to pique his interest. He straightens out, leaning forward so his elbows are resting on the edge of the table. His brown eyes darken into pools of black ink, appraising me in a new light.

“I never said I didn’t like you, sweetheart,” he says in a husky tone. “In fact, there’s a very specific part of me that wants to be better acquainted with you.”

Tom swears under his breath, but I hold up my hand before he can scold Dylan.

I lean forward, matching his challenging stance. “Let’s get something very clear, Dylan. This is as close as you and your dick will ever get to me. Because unlike the whores you like to cozy up to, I have no desire to catch an STD.” I send him a sultry smile, batting my eye lashes. “But feel free to keep sleeping around until your dick falls off. Last thing anybody needs is a Dylan Jr.”

The guys are howling with laughter as I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. My eyes stay locked with his, not letting him see anything other than the surface level.

He can’t get to me if I don’t let him.

Tom claps his hands together once, getting everybody’s attention back to the matter. “Okay, people. As entertaining as that was, we do need to finalize this.” He looks at the guys. “Your next show isn’t for another two months, which means you’ve got time to sit down together and start writing. Your sounds aren’t that different, but combined they could be something the industry hasn’t seen before.”

Bash shifts in his seat. “That only really gives us a month then, which is kind of limited. What if we don’t write one? It’s hard when you’ve got five people working on one thing. That’s bound to cause differing views.”

I notice Ben silently staring down at the table, his jet-black hair long enough to cover his eyes. His slumped posture and distant expression says he doesn’t really care on the matter. It makes me wonder if he even wants to be here.

After reading up on them, it seems like he’s the ghost of the group. The press never has a story on him, and rarely gets pictures of him by himself. It’s like he doesn’t exist outside the band, and it makes me wonder what his real story is. Somebody who tries that hard to go unseen has a lot to say.

Ben speaks up first. “You don’t have to worry about me. I just play the music put in front of me.”

Sebastian Everly, or Bash, nods in agreement, raking a hand through his short blond hair. “It’d be easier if the main songwriter worked with Ash. Less conflictions. Better chance at actually getting something done in that time limit.”

I’m about to agree when Dylan holds up his hand, body tense in defense mode.

Everybody looks at him skeptically when he says, “I can write.”

Bash snorts. “Since when, Hilton? You’ve always just let Ian do the writing. Pressured him into it, actually.”

Ian eyes Dylan, blue eyes narrowed. “Not that I don’t think it’s cool to write with you, but that is a bit odd. Even for you.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, offense crossing his face, weighing down the corner of his lips. “Is there something wrong with wanting in on this? I’ve got ideas.”

“Nobody said you didn’t,” Tom cuts in. “I don’t think any of us have seen you so ready and willing before. Any reason why you’re stepping in now?”

Dylan’s eyes cut to mine when he answers. “Maybe I just want to take advantage of the new opportunities we have. If we’re going to collaborate with Boots over here, we need to ensure our voices are heard.”

“Boots?” I scoff.

“Would you prefer princess? Sweetheart?”

“I have a name,” I remind him. “Why don’t you just use that?”

He gives me a slick grin. “Everybody gets to call you by that. I need something special to call you, Boots. And you can’t tell me it doesn’t fit.”

“All right, love birds,” Bash claps. “So are we agreeing to let Ian, Dylan, and Ashton work on the song together?”

Ian scrubs his palm against the dark scruff of his jawline. “Why not just them? Dylan knows what this band represents. If he wants our sound heard, who better to make sure it’s incorporated?”

I gape at his casualness. Me and Dylan? Working together alone?

“Um …” I clear my throat, trying to wipe the doubt from my voice. “If Dylan hasn’t written songs for you before, do you really think it’s a good idea for him to start now?”

“Thanks for the faith, Boots,” he mutters dryly. “I think you should be honest though. You don’t want to be alone with me.”

Damn. Sitting straighter, I glare at him, but don’t say anything for fear of risking him hearing the truth in my defensive tone.

I feel everybody’s eyes on me, and don’t bother looking to see the interest casted in their hues. Dylan wants a rise. A reaction. He wants me to break and give in to him. But if I do that, I lose another piece of myself.

“Fine,” I relent calmly. “But the second you try taking control or giving me more shit than I deserve, Ian takes over.”

He scoffs as if that’s hard to believe. “Fine. Let’s shake on it.”

He holds out his hand, which I eye in suspicion. It’s not like he did anything to it, but for some reason I don’t want to touch him.

“What’s wrong?” he muses. “I don’t have cooties, Boots. You want to make a deal, then you have to shake on it. I’m sure your good ol’ Southern parents taught you that.”

My heart tightens in my chest, instant tears prickling my eyes. He’s either darker than I thought, or has no idea what happened in my past. The accident. The hospital visits. The constant fear of losing the people who should never leave you before they’re ready.

But he didn’t he know who I was at the club when we met, so how could he know that my parents died after a brutal car wreck?

Jaw ticking as I reach out, our hands meld together. Neither of us actually shake, we just keep our palms locked together and eyes glued to one another’s, like if we look away the deal will become null and void.

“You guys going to hold hands while we keep this going?” Tom asks, voice woven with amusement.

A slow smile creeps on Dylan’s face. “I’d drop my hand, but it looks like little Ashton over here likes it too much.”

Instantly, I drop his hand, lips pressing in a firm line. His cocky image is blurred out with my narrowed glare, irritation settling into the pit of my stomach like it usually does when he’s involved.

Something tells me it’ll be a permanent feeling for the next few weeks.

Bash laughs. “She looks like she’s mentally chopping your dick off, bro.”

Dylan chuckles. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Nonchalantly, he turns his focus to Tom, ignoring me completely. And that only fuels the fire boiling my blood.

After a grueling forty-five minutes pass of scheduling recording time, and setting dates for shows, we’re finally set free.

To my surprise, Dylan is the first one out. I half expected him to stay behind and bother me some more, but I guess he got his fill during the meeting. He kept “accidentally” bumping my knee with his under the table, or nudging his elbow against my arm. Every time I’d shoot him a look, he’d appear innocent, like he had no idea what he was doing.

“You’ve got to ignore him,” Ian asserts, snapping me from my thoughts. It’s only him and me left in the room, a few of the guys lingering just outside.

I grab my phone from the table. “Something tells me that’s a lot easier said than done.”

He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Dylan’s the type of person that demands to be known. He doesn’t like being in the dark.”

I want to tell him that I disagree, that all I see behind those devious chocolate eyes of his is a man caged up and not fighting to escape. He can play any game he wants to make him look like the playboy, and I don’t doubt for a second that he is, but there’s a motive left unspoken. A reason he wants left out of the press.

I opt to shrug. “Any advice for me?”

A small smile creeps on his face. “Don’t fall for anything he says. The Dylan I know isn’t the same one he shows to you. He’s a good guy, but he’s got some serious problems. If he doesn’t take this seriously, call me.” He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands to me. Scrawled across it is what I assume is his cell number.

I look up from the paper. “So you’re saying there’s no secret to taming the beast?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” he admits. “But maybe it’ll take the right person.”

I frown. “If you guys have known each other for a while, you’d think you’re the person he needs to handle him. Or at least open up to.”

He studies me, seeming deep in thought, tongue wetting his bottom lip. “Sometimes friends are the last person you can open up to. If they see you differently then who do you have at the end of the day besides yourself? You can reveal anything to strangers because their opinion of you doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change things. And Dylan doesn’t like change.”

Who does?

I can see what he’s saying, but that doesn’t mean Dylan is going to open up to me. And if that’s what Ian wants, then he’s probably going to be disappointed. I may be a stranger to Dylan, but I’m also a challenge in his eyes. He won’t be honest with somebody who he’s trying to win in some sick game.

“I don’t think I’m capable of what you want,” I admit quietly, giving him a loose shrug.

“Just … look after him. I know you’re not here to babysit, but we’re worried about him. He’s not going down a good path, and every time he gets in trouble, it’s like another part of him is lost.”

I press my lips together and nod once.

“And Ashton? Look after yourself, too.” The sincerity in his tone loosens my tense muscles, and a foreign sense of warmth takes over.

I don’t force the smile that tips my lips, because I can see that he means it. “I will. I always do, Ian.”

His expression mirrors mine—friendly, but something knowing buried deeper than his expression can show. “It’s hard to live your life when you’ve got cameras pointing at you everywhere. I’m sorry for the shit show you’re going through. For the breakup.”

It isn’t until just now that I realize nobody has once said they were sorry to me about what happened between Rhys and me. It’s always been about the blame, and whose fault it is for happening. Choosing sides takes precedence over taking a step back and seeing that two people who once loved each other somehow fell out of it along the way.

I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

He must hear the sadness in my tone, because his eyes dull as he studies my stoic-turned features.

“I want to tell you that it gets better, but we both know that’s not always the case. All I can say is that I hope they find something else to focus on soon.”

I snort. “And let’s hope it’s not Dylan, right?”

His expression turns grim, my joke hitting him the wrong way.

“Sorry, I meant that as a joke.”

He looks out of the room, his eyes traveling between Bash and Ben. Dylan is nowhere to be seen, probably off finding his next hookup.

“It’s true though,” he says quietly, eyes returning to mine. He rubs the back of his neck, worry aging him. “If he keeps putting himself in the press, the label is going to drop him. Replace him.”

My brows arch up. “Tom would let them do that?”

He’s one of the few who cares about the people he reps. It wouldn’t be like him to let somebody get dropped that’s been a huge part of his success.

“Tom would do anything if it meant saving Dylan, even if it meant taking him out of the band—the spotlight.”

He’d do it because he cares.

“Tough love,” I conclude. “So is that what’s going to happen if Dylan’s reputation strikes again?”

Ian nods. “Tom is hoping this will help him. Maybe the good press will drown out the bad. And if he could change in some way then it would be better. Tom doesn’t want to let Dylan go, but he doesn’t want to watch Dylan destroy himself either.”

I nibble on my bottom lip. Seeing how many people care about Dylan causes jealousy to bubble up under my skin, but I beat it down before it becomes anything more.

“He’s lucky to have you guys.”

He shrugs. “I wish he would see that.”

“I’m sure he does. He’s just too prideful to admit it.”

He nods. “You’re probably right.”

Glancing at his phone, his smile widens. I used to look the same way when Rhys would text me.

“You should call her,” I say knowingly. He looks up at me, his eyes lit up. “I’ll see you later, Ian.”

I wave and walk out before him, taking a deep breath and fighting back nostalgia. There’s a weight in my chest as I think about what Rhys and I had, all the laughs, kisses, journeys.

Longing looks like Ian had on his face made me miss those texts. Even the simplest ones that he sent in between his shows made me smile or giggle like a love-sick puppy.

When the sun hits my face outside, I force myself to brush it all away. The last thing I need is to go back in time and remember all the things that don’t exist anymore.

One last deep breath, and I’m walking away from the past and into a better future.