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Chapter Fourteen

JUSTIN

“ W e shouldn’t have fucked again,” I try, but it’s weak at best. It felt so fucking good, grinding my cock against him until we were both shouting into each other’s mouths. There’s cum and sweat everywhere.

We haven’t climbed out of this bed all night, but I don’t care. I can’t seem to bring myself to care. I know the lines could easily get blurred. I know I need to be strong and resist this, but it feels good.

It feels performing-on-a-stage good. And I can’t seem to deny myself this after the shitshow that was tonight.

And yeah, I know I’m being a brat about the show. It wasn’t that big of a deal that people showed up, except I can feel the scrap of freedom—the veil of privacy—slipping away slowly.

I know soon I’ll show up to a crowded bar with cameras flashing in my face. I know I’m an asshole. I know people strive to have that level of fame, and I should be grateful, but goddamn it, I’m sick of it.

Really and truly.

I just want peace and the music. It’s not too much to ask, but it seems like maybe it is. Like I’ll never have it.

“Probably not. But we did,” he says matter-of-factly, and it actually brings a smile to my face instead of annoyance.

“I know I’m an asshole,” I say grimly. I realize he doesn’t have to be here. He doesn’t have to put up with my shitty attitude. But he did seek me out. I still wonder why. The unanswered question always hangs there.

“You don’t love the fame. I thought you did, but it’s clear now,”—he chuckles—“very clear that you hated it. You’re not an asshole. You just aren’t typical.”

“And that’s what makes me an asshole,” I say, rolling to my side. “It’s not just wanting to be different though. I just am.”

He rolls to his side, still blissfully naked and tucking his hands under the side of his head. “I know. And yeah, you’re going to have people calling you a spoiled brat and speculating that you just want attention or to be different. But I know.” His eyes bore into mine so hard I swear he’s looking right into me.

“The money is nice. I’m not . . .” I huff. “I’m not ungrateful, but . . .”

“It came at too high of a price,” he finishes for me, and I flush but then nod. “No matter what, there will be some people who think you owe them. You don’t.”

I want to believe him. But I think I might always feel that guilt gnawing away at me because I’ll never have to worry about money again. Even if I never sell another album or tickets to a show.

I’ll be fine financially.

“And what about this?” I ask, motioning between our bodies.

He grins at me, his hair adorably rumpled. “Well, this was weeks of stress and not getting laid.” I smile, not disagreeing. “And relieving some tension. A lot of pent-up tension, actually.”

I nod, not unhappy that he didn’t call it a mistake. Not unhappy at all. “And next time we get...”—I grin wryly—“tense...” I leave the question there for him to answer.

My heart is thumping hard in my chest, though, with anticipation because I want him to say this is okay. I want him to want to continue this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s unprofessional as hell.

I just want this.

“Well, I suppose it would be okay.” He looks curiously at me, watching my reaction. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults getting off together when needed.”

“Sexy,” I say dryly, and he laughs at that, pushing his hand against my bare chest and shoving me.

“Well, what do you think?”

I lick my dry lips, trying to think about the question and not about how the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen is lying next to me, naked, and his lips aren’t on mine. How badly I want to remedy that.

“I think we’re adults, and we know what this is,” I say trying to sound convincing. “I say it’s super professional, if you ask me.”

He cackles at that, tossing his head back and exposing his elegant throat to me, looking so damn gorgeous that way. His eyes meet mine, full of mirth. “And how is that? I have to know.”

I shrug, blushing slightly. “Well, it helps us work. Clears our minds. Keeps us from wanting to kill each other. I think that’s very professional.”

He grins and then wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me into him as he kisses my lips. “I don’t even care that it’s total bullshit. I’m gonna go with it anyway.”

I grin and kiss him hard. “Good.”

“ P lease tell me you’ve lined up a gig,” I say, kneeling at Waylon’s feet in the tiny-as-fuck shower in my cabin. The sex is good, but the space is not. I nuzzle his hard cock as his fingers slide through my wet hair.

“That’s what you want to talk about now?” he asks breathlessly, gazing down at me.

I lick and tease his hard shaft, stroking it with my hand at the same time. “I’m going crazy.”

“Jeez, way to make a guy feel special,” he deadpans, but it’s said jokingly. It’s been surprisingly easy and simple these past two weeks. We hook up, we hang out, then we go back to our separate cabins.

But I’m still losing my mind. “Don’t be like that.” I lick the head of his cock and stroke it in my hand, my other hand holding myself up by grasping his hip hard. It’s too small of a space, and I’m starting to cramp up, but still, no regrets. “You know, I can’t seem to get enough of this cock.” I lick the tip again for emphasis and then suck the head into my mouth, making him groan.

“Come here.” I do what he says because yeah, it’s cramped. When I stand up, we barely fit, but I don’t mind being this close to him, chest to chest. Cock against cock.

“Hi,” I say as he wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me into a kiss.

He reaches between us, grasping both of our dicks together and stroking, moving his hips in perfect rhythm. “Hi.” He kisses me softly, panting lightly against my lips as he brings us both intense pleasure. “It’s only been two weeks.”

“I need a gig,” I say desperately. I do. I wrote a new song, but it’s not quite right. I need to play it in front of a live audience. Test it out.

“I know.” The silky flesh of his cock slides against mine, and it feels so damn good, I tilt my head back, breathing heavily. He licks my throat and makes me groan. “I’ll book one for next week. We just need to be careful.”

I nod my head, happy he’s on board but protecting me. I’ve always felt safe with Waylon. Truth be told, leaving him behind was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I thought—I wanted to believe—I could do it on my own. That I didn’t need him or anyone.

Clearly, I was wrong. And there’s a part of me that really does like being taken care of. I come on a gasp, my cum making a mess between us. He uses it to slick up his own cock, stroking until his orgasm hits him, and then he presses his lips against mine.

I kiss him through it as he strokes and milks every bit of pleasure from us both. We dry off and then get dressed before going into the living room, sitting on the comfy couch. Waylon grabs his phone. I can only assume he’s working because Waylon always works.

Despite putting Dalton in charge of a lot of his clients, he checks in and makes sure everything is running well. He can’t help it. I get it. His job truly defines him, and he’s damn good at it.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he sighs deeply and then clasps the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger.

“Yeah, musicians are just idiots,” he says with a wink my way.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t disagree. “Who did what this time?”

He snorts, sends a message quickly on his phone, and tosses it next to him on the couch. “A rockstar spouting off political views that are abysmal.”

I cringe. “Yikes.”

“Yeah, fun times. Poor Dalton, but it’s sink or swim time. My bet is on the kid.”

I smile at that, liking that Waylon seems to be letting go of some of the control lately. “Who is better to work for? Rockstars or athletes?” I ask, waggling my eyebrows at him, and he laughs.

“Thank God, I was never interested in sports. Jenny has her goddamn hands full every day.”

I laugh. “Not shocked.”

He puts his bare feet in my lap, and I absently massage them with my hands. “Were you a jock?” he asks, and I laugh.

“Hell no. Scrawny as fuck and loved music class and art.”

He grins. “I can see that.” His eyes roam hungrily over my body. “Except the scrawny part.”

“Yeah, I hit my growth spurt later. What was high school like for you?” I ask carefully, realizing I don’t know much about him, despite knowing him for so damn long.

“Oh God, I also loved music but wasn’t very artistic. I was shy and awkward. Couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.”

“I can’t picture you shy.” He owns every single room he walks into with a quiet, understated authority, but still, he’s not shy.

“Oh, it was painful. I was so damn shy.”

“So what made you become a manager?” I should have asked him this years ago, I realize. But it seemed like every time we were around each other, it wasn’t like this. Not ever. Everyone was always busy. It was always chaotic shuffling.

He thinks on it for a while as I rub his feet that are still resting in my lap. “When I left home, I promised I’d prove everyone wrong. That I’d be successful. Powerful. That they were wrong about me.”

I stop rubbing his feet and gaze at him. “Fuck ’em.”

He laughs. “Yeah, it’s funny. Everything I did for the first few years after leaving, I realized I did to prove them all wrong. But that’s not what I wanted anymore. Finally, I realized I was still living for them, and I didn’t want to do that anymore. But I was already an intern at a management firm and went with it. Started to really love my job.”

“You’re good at it,” I say honestly.

He preens. “Thanks. But I suppose for that to be really true, I should get back to work.”

I chuckle at that as he withdraws his feet from my lap and grabs his phone. Researching places for my next gig because he truly is the best manager anyone could ask for.

I was stubborn and kind of an idiot to try to leave him behind.

Good thing he doesn’t give up easily.