Page 49 of Sweet Oblivion

The crowd grumbled a little, but Nash picked and plucked his guitar faster as he hummed—that mesmerizing hum that made my knees weak and my body warm. He hummed a bit louder, the melody to the song he planned to play.

The crowd wavered, and the women began to holler and scream for more, more, more! Then Nash played in earnest. Cam stepped back, taking the rhythm-guitar role. When Nash leaned into the microphone, I would have sworn he’d been performing for years. He wasn’t just a natural; he had an innate instinct for how to lift the crowd, how to create a fever pitch of emotion, and how to soothe them back into harmony. I pressed my clasped hands to my chest, tears pooling in my eyes.

Nash Porter, superstar, was born tonight, and I couldn’t have been prouder. While I was the first one Nash hugged when he strode off stage, sweaty from the stage lights and clearly high on adrenaline, Steve was there, too, pulling him into a hard embrace. He thumped Nash on the back.

“Damn, you’re someone a man can be proud of,” Steve said, his voice wobbly.

Nash cast him a questioning look just as he was caught up by Chuck in a bone-crushing hug.

The night turned into a whirl of people congratulating Nash, of girls yelling his name, of reporters shoving closer to us as they called out questions, trying to scoop everyone else with the story of the new rock god—and get the real story behind Nash and Quantum’s success.

Nash and I had talked about that over the past few weeks, and Nash had also spoken with Cam. Nash had chosen not to comment on his father or his father’s band with the press, but Cam and some other stars, including Asher Smith, had questioned Brad Porter’s composition skills—and whether he’d stolen his son’s work.

Nash had blocked his father from his phone and social media, a bold but necessary step. While it made things more peaceful now, I wasn’t sure what would happen when we returned to Austin—how Brad would handle the fallout from his ailing tour in combination with Nash’s rising stardom. My guess was not well.

Nash handled his new fame with an ease I found disconcerting. Even now my skin itched, and I wanted to shrink away—except Nash had his arm around my shoulders, snuggling me against his side.

“Who’s the girl?” a reporter yelled.

I cringed, and Nash looked down at me, his gleaming eyes dimming as he took in my uncertainty.

“Is that your girlfriend?”

“What’s your name?”

“Smile for us, sweetheart.”

“Why don’t you give him a kiss?”

“Ignore them,” Nash whispered.

I nodded, but unease crept through me because I knew the reporters would find their answers eventually—and I knew Nash’s new fan base would work to tear me apart.

18

Nash

My adrenaline high lasted through the rest of the evening, even as I tried to fully appreciate the iconic venue. Madison Square Garden—I’d just performed my own song here. Holy hell. Life was amazing. But the best part was Aya. She never left my side, and I liked her there. I held her hand on the way out of the building to the tour bus parked in the lot.

The song I’d shared tonight was a piece of me, one Aya held safe and close, inside herself. She understood the longing, the fear, the joy of whatever this was we were doing. And because she shared it, she made me feel brave enough to offer it out to the world.

Tonight I’d shared something, and it had proved magical, but I’d need to guard against the desire to offer up too much more. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head. No need to leave myself vulnerable.

Cam had been saying he’d introduce me to Asher Smith for a while now, but our timing had always been off—until now. Reality hit hard as I watched him approach. I gripped Aya’s hand, unable to slow my breathing.

She wiggled her fingers enough to return circulation and then leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, giving me the comfort I needed to calm down.

“You just faced down a crowd of how many thousand people?” she asked.

“They didn’t matter. Not like this.”

She sighed. “This is one on one, not all those fans you have to convince. This is easy.”

Sure, easy for her to say. She wasn’t supposed to have a conversation with Asher Smith. The Asher Smith. Oh, holy hell…the guy was on the bus, shaking hands with Cam and Chuck. I rose, tugging Aya up with me, unable or unwilling to let go of her hand.

Asher strode across the bus like he owned it—probably because he’d spent more of his life on one of these than I’d been alive. Like Cam, he wore black motorcycle boots. The shiny silver chains jangled with each step. His jeans were faded and worn—they looked comfortable, not designer. His pin-stripe button-up shirt was untucked, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His face was clean-shaven and his brown hair a tumble of waves—as if he’d been running his fingers through it, not using the product guys my age preferred. His intense eyes bored into mine, causing my palm in Aya’s to sweat.

“Mr. Smith—”

---