10. Justin

Chapter Ten

JUSTIN

I am a total fucking idiot. I blame the high of performing again. I always loved doing a performance. Being on stage. People swaying to the music I created, but I hated the afterward.

I hated when we were swarmed by fans. When I had to be polite and talk to the news crews. I didn't want to. I didn't want to be Justin St. James at that time. Only on stage. But last night, playing at that tiny little dive bar. Fuck, it was nice. So damn nice.

I couldn't help myself. I wanted to celebrate. So like a total dumbass, I chose to do that by sinking inside Waylon's tight as hell body. And holy shit, it felt good. Way too damn good.

"I can hear you thinking from here."

Damn him. I grumble and turn my head to look at him. He's lying in the other bed in this dank hotel we picked last night. It's two hours away from the place I played, and I'm hoping that will be far enough.

I don't want to have to deal with anyone today. Except for my annoying-ass ex-manager, I suppose. We didn't talk after our hookup last night. We just climbed back into the car and drove until we spotted a small town off the interstate.

He grabbed us a room, and we passed the hell out.

But he's wide-awake now. And he looks as irritated as I feel. "I wasn't thinking. I just woke up," I grumble, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting upright.

"Right." He glares at me from his side of the room, not sitting up. In fact, he seems to bury himself further into the bed, yanking the covers over his head.

"I can't believe you can lie under that comforter, man. God knows what's on it."

He makes a strangled noise and tosses the entire comforter off him, glaring daggers at me. "That's disgusting."

I laugh. I don't even mean to, but it's funny. He looks really pissed off, his hair a mess, his eyes tired from sleep, just glaring away at me like an angry little bird. He's also only wearing those ridiculously tiny briefs he apparently loves to wear. I try like hell not to stare at his body.

I've seen it. I've been inside it. I do not need to stare.

"That's what I was saying. Fucking gross."

He grimaces and stands up, not making it easy not to stare at his tight little ass as he walks over to the dresser that appears to have a coffee maker on it with a few packages of coffee and sugar. "If this doesn't work, I may murder you. I can't be held responsible."

"Noted," I say rolling my eyes. The guy is really addicted to caffeine. "Do you think they know where we are?" I have to ask, my heart sinking with the vulnerability of it all. I don't want to be followed back to the cabin.

It's my own little oasis, and I want it to remain that way. No reporters. No bloggers. No screaming fans. Waylon starts the coffee maker and snorts as he turns to face me. "You sound like you're on the run."

I kind of am, but I don't say that out loud. I feel like a goddamn fugitive who never did anything wrong. "Ha," I deadpan.

He sighs, still not bothering to hide his near nudity. At least I had the decency to put on a pair of sweats I packed before falling asleep. Not Waylon. No. He might as well just sleep naked. "I haven't had a chance to look yet, but I think it'll be fine." He walks over to the bed he was sleeping on and grabs his phone. I try not to watch his abs that are flexed tight and his arm muscles doing the same thing as he scrolls through his phone. His face gives nothing away as he meets my gaze. "They're obsessed. But I don't think anyone followed us. There's no mention of where you went after the show."

I let out a relieved breath. "Thank. Fuck."

He cocks his head to the side, studying me carefully and making me squirm before he finally speaks. "You really do hate it, don't you?" He sounds like he's having some sort of epiphany, and I want to scream.

All these years I put on a good front—I know I did. I was really good at the act, but I still... shit. I was hoping the people close to me would pick up on it. It's not fair, but it is what it is. When it was announced that, because our lead singer was going to take some time off, we all were too, I was relieved.

I wanted that time so damn badly. The other guys wanted to quickly find another band to join or maybe go solo, but I just wanted out. "I don't hate singing. I don't hate being on a stage with my guitar." I fucking love that actually.

"But you hate the crowds. The fans."

I cringe. Our fans make us. I know that. I owe them so much. But that's the problem, isn't it? I don't want to owe them for making me. I want to just exist. "I don't hate the fans. I hate when they break into my place. I hate not ever having any privacy. I hate not being able to have a bad day."

He frowns deeply, and I wonder what the hell he's thinking. Usually, Waylon just says it. I've never seen him think so damn long about something, I swear. I start to squirm. "I didn't see it."

I cock my head to the side, studying him. "What? Didn't see what?"

"The hatred you had for it. I knew you were..." His eyes meet mine, like he's trying to be careful, which, if I'm honest, I hate. I don't want him to be careful with me like I'm a fragile being or something. "Reserved."

I laugh at that and shake my head. "I just wanted privacy. I wanted to be able to be me without some goddamn article about me spiraling. Or using or depressed or whatever the fuck they wanted to spin because I didn't have a smile on my face. And everyone acted like it was the price of fame."

"It is," he answers quickly, and of course, that's his answer. He's the PR side of fame. It's their goddamn go-to. You owe the fans. "But you also don't owe anyone your soul. You need to do what makes you happy."

I look at him in shock and don't really know what to say. I didn't really see that coming, to be honest. It's not like Waylon ever came out and said I owed my fans or anything, but I never really pushed back. When we had to do a fan event, we did it. When we had to do interviews, we did them. And I usually forced a smile on my face for all of it.

I'd been just going along for so damn long, I finally couldn't take it anymore.

"You really believe that?" I ask, and his coffee finishes brewing so he starts to doctor it up with a shit-ton of sugar and creamer.

"Of course I do." He looks almost hurt as he turns to look at me, his coffee sitting on the dingy dresser. "I wanted to be the best, Justin. I wanted to..." He seems to bite his tongue, and I'm desperate to hear the rest of the sentence. I don't know why, but before I can ask him to go on, he seems to straighten up, schooling his features and grabbing his coffee. "Next gig, I'm setting up an escape hotel. Not this side-of-the-road-motel shit." He starts toward the bathroom. "I swear if this shower is a trickle, I'm going to lose my shit."

I guess the conversation is over. I try not to let it annoy me too much when the door shuts and I hear the shower turn on.

He curses, so I'm guessing the pressure isn't great.

I grin. Kind of serves him right for not finishing this conversation.

Although, I'm not really sure why I care so much.