Prologue

"Where have you been?"

Justin doesn't look all that surprised to see me in his apartment when he walks in. A trick I've learned from my good friend Jenny. And I wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been dodging me for months now.

I'm his goddamn manager. It's my job to manage him, but I can't do that if he won't talk to me. I don't get it. He was riding a damn high. Immoral—his rock band—has been back on tour all summer. He should be happy, but now he doesn't want to be bothered?

It makes no damn sense.

Grady Bell, the lead singer, was happy as hell to be back with the band over summer break, but he's now back at home with his kids and husband—who came on the tour with him.

Maybe that's why he's mad. That the tour ended. I mean, it was only supposed to be three months. He knew when he signed up what it would be, but I don't think that's it.

He tosses his keys on the table by the door with a heavy sigh and closes the door behind him. Then he's stalking into the living room, where I'm currently camped out on the couch. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I shrug. "I have a key."

"For emergencies," he deadpans and walks over to the bar tucked into the corner of his apartment.

"Yes well, I haven't talked to you in months. It damn well could have been an emergency. I had to check to make sure you didn't slip and fall getting out of the shower or something."

He rolls his eyes at me, pushing his dark hair with his fingers, his sharp green eyes hitting me from across the room as he grabs a bottle of scotch and pours some into two glasses. He screws the lid on the bottle and walks over to me, holding out one of the glasses.

"It wasn't months."

I take the glass as I respond, "Seven weeks. Almost two months since the tour. I've texted back and forth with you maybe twice since then. And you gave one word answers the entire time."

I hate that my voice sounds hurt. But I've been his manager for a decade. Off and on, yes, because Immoral has taken some hiatuses, but still. I was there if he needed me, and now he's shutting me out.

I'm not sure why it hurts so badly. But it does.

He sits down in an armchair near the couch, his long legs spread as he leans back with the drink in his hand.

My eyes trail over him slowly. He looks ready for a concert—complete with ripped black jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. It's the look he's known for. His dark hair and bright green eyes make the fans squeal in delight.

Doesn't hurt that his face is so pretty it could make you weep, and his hair is thick and full, always looking like it's been swept with his hand and blown by the wind. He's mastered the I don't give a fuck look.

"I'm fine. The tour is over. What do you want from me?"

"What do you want from me? I'm your manager. I work for you. But I'm the one who's been chasing you down to see what you want the next step to be."

He laughs bitterly, taking a long sip of his drink and swallowing it down, his eyes on me as he lowers the glass from his full red lips. "Next step? What next step? I'm one step up from a former boy-band member."

"Hey. Don't knock boy bands. Their fan bases are unmatched."

He rolls his eyes, and I can't help but smirk, knowing boy bands drive him crazy. "I don't want anything, Waylon. I want to drift off into nonexistence."

"What the hell does that mean?" I place my glass on the side table and lean forward a little, hoping to keep his attention.

"Don't worry about it." He downs the rest of his scotch and stands up, heading to the kitchen and placing the glass in the sink. But I'm right behind him.

"Don't worry about it? Are you kidding me?" I ask angrily when he turns around. "You can't say something like that and then just walk off. What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't want to be famous anymore. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being told what I can wear. Where I can go. What I can do. Someone even runs my social media." He's standing close to me now, and I resist breathing in his clean scent.

"You hate social media. You wouldn't even have it if someone didn't run it," I point out.

"That's not the point," he says, moving even closer to me. So close, I close my eyes and remind myself that Justin is a client. He's untouchable.

I've known, or at least suspected, he's been interested in men for a long time—even though he's never said it out loud. He's had girlfriends—high profile ones—and I don't think it was for show, but I've seen him glancing longingly at men too. A curiosity or a wanting—I'm not totally sure. But I see it. I've seen it.

I've never asked him to talk about it because he has to know if he wants me to know, he can tell me. I'm openly gay and have been my whole damn life. Grady Bell, his own damn band member, is married to a man.

I open my eyes now, standing a foot away. And I could be wrong. Except the way he's looking at me right now. His eyes homed in on my lips, his breath coming faster and faster as he crowds against me, and his nostrils flaring. "What is the point?'

"The point is I don't want to be Justin St. James anymore. I don't want to be that guy from Immoral anymore."

I poke his chest with my finger, and let me tell you, that's a mistake because his chest is solid. "You are Justin St. James."

His eyes flare with anger, but then they're right back on my mouth. I know—I can feel it—that if I leaned into him right now, I'd be met with the kiss of my life, and I absolutely cannot do that.

I won't.

I've worked too hard and too long to get to where I am to throw it all away on someone who doesn't seem to know who he is or what he wants. He's lost. That's for damn sure.

"I don't want to be." His voice sounds so damn tortured, the sound strained as it falls from his lips. And goddammit, I lean in. I shouldn't. It's so damn stupid, but I do it anyway.

I tell myself it's just to comfort him. That maybe when I reach my hand around the back of his neck and wrap my fingers around it, it's to give him some sort of hug. But it's all a damn lie.

I use that hand to pull his mouth forward, and when his lips meet mine, the spark that ignites into a full-blown inferno is my own damn fault. I know that, but I can't seem to stop it as he grunts against my lips as we connect.

We kiss hard, both of us pushing against the other one for dominance. Years of pent-up frustration, back and forth, of having to fight him to get him to do every fucking thing, comes to the surface. And when my tongue moves over the seam of his full lips, he opens for me, letting me sweep inside and take the taste of him I've been dying to for years now.

We're around the same age. I'm two years older, but I've been babysitting his ass for years, and he's been pissing me off since day one. So when I thread my fingers through his perfect hair, I grip it a little too hard, making him grunt again but not push me away.

No. He leans into me, his hard cock pressing against my erection through our pants, making us both pant and moan. I should stop this, but I can't.

I'm tugging at his jacket before I can stop myself and it falls to the floor. His shirt follows before he starts working on the tie around my neck. "I hate this fucking thing."

"No, you don't," I breathe against his lips, my fingers still in his hair, holding on tight as I kiss him hard again, commanding him with my mouth. He removes the tie and then starts to work the buttons on my shirt.

I pull my suit jacket off and let it fall to the floor—a crime against the designer fabric, but I'm not really working with my brain at the moment. He removes my shirt as we work to get each other's pants off.

Before I can take my time and take in the sight of his nearly nude body before me, his hand wraps around my aching dick, and his mouth is on mine again. I grip his hard shaft at the same time as we kiss and rut together.

It's rushed and frantic, like we couldn't slow down for even a second. Like we're afraid it's a dream, and if we blink, the other one will be gone.

His mouth slides down my jaw and to my neck, his teeth leaving little bites as he goes. It only intensifies every moment. My head falls back as his big hand drags over my dick, twisting when he reaches the engorged head and then using the precum to slide back down. I pull his lips back to mine and kiss him hard, my fingers in his hair.

He cries out just as I feel his hot cum dribbling down my hand and landing on my hip. It sets off my own orgasm, and I nip and kiss his lips in a hard punishing kiss as my cum shoots from my dick and lands all over him.

We both stroke each other until we're too sensitive to the touch, and he rests his forehead against mine, still breathing heavy.

"You need to go."

I almost don't hear him, too lost in the ecstasy of an intense orgasm, my knees wanting to give out and my body wanting to succumb to the tired, satisfied feeling the orgasm brought.

"What?" I pull back to look into his eyes that are intensely watching me.

"You heard me." He steps back, and I watch as he tucks his wet dick in his pants and fastens them. He grabs my shirt and tosses it to me. I catch it, but I don't move or speak. I just watch him.

He grabs his shirt and jacket from the floor but doesn't put them on.

"Go."

I slowly pull my pants on and grimace at the mess, tucking myself away. "So that's it? You aren't even going to talk to me?"

"I'm tired, Waylon." Somehow I know it's not the kind of tired that's fixed by sleep that he's talking about. His shoulders are hanging heavy, and his eyes are wary as he watches me.

I pull on my shirt and button it slowly, trying to process what the hell just happened. I did not just jerk off a client. No way I just did that.

Except I know I did.

And not only that, I came my brains out when he did the same thing to me. His guttural cry when he came is now burned into my memory.

I pull on my suit jacket and find my tie, sticking it in my pocket. "I'll call you tomorrow," I say to him, not sure what else to say.

"Yeah," he says absently and there are so many things I want to say. So many things I want to ask him, but I don't. I just walk to the door, pull it open, and walk out.

I have no idea what he needs from me or anyone else.

That thought terrifies me to my core.

Because for the first time since I met him, I feel like I can't help him.

And that's just unacceptable to me.