The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  As soon as I left Nashville and flew back to New York, I expected to jump into recording. After all, Ash and I had spent a month getting the song perfect, and it only made sense to jump into phase two. Yet the videos sparked too much attention to the possibility of Ashton and I being a thing, so Tom ordered a four-week break before we started recording the song.

  Four weeks left a lot of time to think, and being trapped in my head only caused more damage than it did good. PR chose not to dispel the rumors, letting them fizzle out on their own when nothing rose out of it. No pictures of us, no communication. The world that had dubbed us ‘Dash’ and ‘The Next Best Country-Rock Hit’ gave up on us the second there was no dirt to dig up.

  It shouldn’t have pissed me off, but it did.

  Because I spent a month trying to get Ashton in any way I could, and while I wish I could have kept her, kept the feeling she made me feel for the first time in almost a decade, there was nothing that could make me convince myself it was best for her.

  She needed to figure herself out, and me being around her would only complicate that. So I stayed holed up anywhere but my hometown, calling home to check in on my family once a week, and being pestered by the guys not to start my shit up again.

  As far as they knew, I reverted to the guy they couldn’t stand. The drinking loud-mouth who had no filter when it came to the press and women. Since they all went back to their lives and I stayed out, I never corrected what they weren’t around to witness.

  Truth be told, I’d rather them think I was fucking groupies than moping. After I got my music book back, I’d spent a lot of time going through it, writing new songs, revising old ones.

  Ashton taught me to get lost in the music, so that’s what I did.

  Bash takes his seat again, shaking his head. “I have a chance at starting over in Clinton, and I need to take it while I can.”

  “A chance?” I repeat doubtfully. “Where is this house exactly?”

  His eye twitches. “Maybe if you responded to one of my many texts, you would have seen it by now. It’s near the old school.”

  I snicker. “You mean near Opal’s apartment complex?”

  The history between he and Opal was one for the books, and too heavy to study. But what I did know is that she secured herself a small apartment near her family home, right above the café she works at.

  Some people were okay with settling for a simple life, but I always strived for more—needed more to survive.

  He rolls his eyes, sidestepping the question.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I tell him, causing the three of them to look at me in astonishment.

  “Somebody mark a calendar,” Bash jokes, swiping his jaw with his hand. “Dylan Hilton said the sacred words. That girl really did a number on you.”

  I throw my bottle cap at him, which he dodges with an easy smirk.

  That girl. Ashton deserved more than that title, but it was all I let them call her. Any time they tried getting details out of me about what happened back in Nashville, I’d shut them down. They didn’t need to know.

  Yet, there’s no denying the chemistry in the videos and pictures still lurking online. The way we sang to each other in the bar, or how we laughed, touched, or joked around at the museum. The world saw the truth without either of us putting words to it.

  Nobody needed a confirmation to see that we were more than just two musicians collaborating on a song.

  “One more time,” I tell all of them. “I’ll get my shit straight so we can get out of here. Deal?”

  They all nod. I give Tom the go ahead, who motions for Richard to start recording again. We all take our positions and begin playing, the familiar words leaving my mouth, but still empty without the other half of my muse sitting beside me.

  I brush it away, thinking, It’s for the best.

  Based on Richard’s face, I say that this take is going more smoothly than the other ones, and the tension in the room disappears.

  Thank, Christ.

  After another forty-five minutes of last minute playbacks and tweaks of our part, we’re let go. Now all they need to do is fuse Ashton’s recording with ours, and polish it before we’re set for the road.

  Tom stops me as I walk out the door, the others already long gone.

  “You need to make a decision,” he tells me, hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “We can’t have performances where you’re not all there, so you need to figure it out.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but I’m not really feeling the Dr. Phil moment with you.”

  I go to walk away, but he stops me, a stern fatherly expression set on his face. I want to remind him that I already have a father, and the last thing I need is a second one sprouting advice I probably won’t listen to anyway.

  But his eyes tell me not to say a word, so I opt to keep my mouth shut. It’s rare, but it happens. Not that I tend to let anyone get used to it. Rumor has it I like the sound of my voice too much.

  “I’ve seen that type of look before, you know,” he states casually, a glint of humor in his eyes. “And after seeing that video, I can see why you have it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t go there.”

  “Too late. Everybody I represent is like part of my family, and I take care of my family. I also tell my family when they’re being little shitheads.”

  I snort. “I doubt you tell your eight-year-old that she’s a shithead.”

  He grins. “No, but I think it. You’re old enough for me to tell directly to your face. I’m not saying that whatever you and Ashton King have will work out, but you won’t know unless you give it a try. Worked out for Ian.”

  “Ian isn’t dating a celebrity.”

  He raises one of his brows. “Don’t you think starting something with Ashton would be a hell of a lot easier than what Ian started with Kasey? Kasey isn’t part of the music scene. Ashton knows what it’s like, and it’s pretty damn obvious that she’s seen a hell of a lot of you.”

  My eyes flash in memory. “Well now that you mention it—”

  He holds his hand up, stopping me. “I’m not talking about the physical shit. I’m talking about what’s in here.” He taps my chest. “You were all about standing out and drowning in the noise of fame, but as soon as you got back from Nashville you went into hiding just like she did. Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you’ve changed.”

  I look away from him.

  He nudges me to gain my attention. “And I have to say, I like this guy a lot better than the one I kept covering for over the past year.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not a shithead anymore?”

  He laughs. “No, something tells me you’re always going to be a shithead, you’re just a little more bearable.”

  I can’t help but chuckle over that, knowing he’s probably right. About more than just that.

  Am I willing to keep that change?

  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 simpl
icity. 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 r
eaction 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.

  Dylan

  I want nothing more than to smack Ian upside the head when he admits to asking Rhys to our show. Unfortunately, I don’t get the chance before the crowd starts cheering for me to grace the stage with my presence again.

  “I learned a long time ago that jealousy is the best way to jumpstart things,” he informs me with a smug grin. My palm itches to smack the grin straight off his face, but damn if he isn’t right.

  Thinking for even a second that Ashton was back together with Rhys, whether he’s some saint now or not, made me want to go postal. And if she didn’t get that pretty little body in the way, I probably would have, consequences be damned.

  Even Ben chuckles over Ian’s old ways, back to playing matchmaker like he did in the past.

  Bash gestures toward the stage, the crowd chanting out the pet name they gave Ash and me. “They want their favorite couple back.”

  “We never were a couple, dumbass.”

  He smirks. “Maybe you should fix that. If you don’t, somebody else will.”

  My eyes go to Rhys, who’s been watching Ashton perform from the side of the stage.

  Ian clasps my shoulder. “And we seem to know how you react to that possibility.”

  “You know I could have decked him, right?” I question. “Then I would have gotten my ass chewed out because of you.”