Chapter 11

Chayce bowedand ran off the stage, the roar of the crowd following him.

Two encores were more than enough, and he had a private plane waiting for him to take him to the Aspen airport.

"Hey, you." Waylon met him at the car, standing by while he slid inside, then pushing in next to him. "Nice one tonight." He got a kiss that curled his toes.

"You two are gross," Kenny called, getting the limo rolling.

"Shut up, Kenny. Are you picking us up in Atlanta next week?"

"You know it, boss. I'll be at the airport Friday morning."

"Good deal." They had a pattern going now, a rhythm for touring. Same driver, same small security team, same pilot. It worked for them, and he had Waylon to thank for most of it.

Kenny had been his hire, though, dammit. Years ago.

"We'll take you to the Waffle House, Kenny," Waylon said.

"Promise? You're buying?"

"You know it." He snorted and changed out of his concert clothes and into comfortable jeans and a T-shirt. It took a hot minute, because Waylon kept touching, poking and tickling and sneaking in a grip of his ass.

"You ready to get home, baby?" Waylon asked. "The new gym is finished, and the recording studio is online."

"Then let's get it. I want to swim and bubble and write new songs." He was so ready to just be with Waylon for a while and recharge. Learn more of his lover than he ever had before.

His world was different—fewer long bus rides, more long lovemaking sessions, fewer restaurants, more cooking disasters. His mom loved Aspen, so she was pleased that they were spending their time there, and she and Waylon had a truce.

It had come in the form of a bulletproof Hummer. Waylon was over the moon.

"Man, I'm happy to go home," Waylon said, and he was glad to have done that. He'd given Waylon a home.

And Waylon had given him a reason to want to be there and not do reckless, wild shit anymore.

That was pretty much as solid as a gold record.

End.

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