11. Waylon

Chapter Eleven

WAYLON

T his shower is pathetic. Goddamn, I miss my shower back home, but I can't leave Justin. I know it's pathetic. I know this is so damn stupid, but I didn't know. I truly didn't fucking know he was so miserable.

And for some reason, I just can't let that go. So I'm going to book him more gigs in small little dive bars across the country. I'm going to help him produce an album, if that's what he wants, because the songs he wrote—they're fucking beautiful. They need to be out in the world.

The world needs Justin St. James, even if they can only have a small part of him. I'm determined to make sure he's happy. Again, I don't know why it matters so damn much to me, but it does.

It bothers me that he was clearly so unhappy for so long, and I missed it. I want my clients happy. Happy clients equal a happy manager, as far as I'm concerned, and I feel like I failed him.

I don't like to fail. It's unacceptable to me.

I finish washing in the stupid drip of water this shower has to offer and down my coffee, staring into the mirror in the motel bathroom. I'm definitely planning ahead better next time. I cannot take much more of roughing it .

I look at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes catching on a faint bruise on my hip, likely from Justin's fingers digging in as he fucked me. My body heats from the memory, my skin prickling and tingling all over.

No. No more of that.

I look into my own eyes through the mirror. "We will not be fucking," I say into the mirror, scolding myself. This is business.

Last night was a weak moment and maybe a moment of celebration. That's fine, but we won't be doing that again.

I nod my head at my own reflection, as if that's that, and wrap a towel around my waist, grabbing my coffee and walking out into the main part of the motel room. Justin is lying on the bed, still only in sweats, perusing the channels on the crappy television.

I try like hell not to let my eyes roam over all that tanned, tattooed skin wrapping his tight muscles.

Nope. No.

And then he notices I'm in the room, his eyes sliding all over my nearly nude body, and goddammit. My cock twitches under the towel, wanting to jump him right there on the bed. I want to lick all that smooth skin. Trace the veins that pop in his sinewy muscles.

"You can have the shower now," I say, trying to look him in the eyes and not any lower. Lower is dangerous, but honestly, so are his eyes. I see that intensity in them. Intensity that makes me want him even more. I want to find out what's behind those eyes. Behind the forced smile.

I want to know why he didn't tell me a long time ago that he hates the fame part of his celebrity. That he was tortured by all the goddamn interviews and autographs. I want him to talk to me, but I also think talking is dangerous.

He climbs off the bed and tosses down the remote, his body stalking toward me, making my breath hitch and my cock harden fully. Shit, this towel hides nothing. But I refuse to acknowledge it.

I try not to breathe him in like some creeper as he walks past me and heads into the bathroom. I quickly get dressed and go straight to my phone, now that I've had my caffeine fix. I of course have messages from Jenny about the performance last night and a picture of torn-up shoes, with the comment, "Fido is going to the pound."

Shit. I'm going to owe her so many shoes by the end of this. It's fine. I text her back quickly, telling her more shoes are on the way before I go on social media to assess the damage.

People are going wild for Justin's performance. Everyone's freaking out that he showed up for only one night in a tiny little town. They're reasonably upset that they had no warning and therefore couldn't go, all speculating if it was a one-off or if he'll be back. All hoping it means he's coming back.

They're going to be a little disappointed that no big concerts are coming up, but they'll live. Immoral was huge as a whole, but Justin has quite a few fans on his own too.

He comes out of the bathroom, still wet with a tiny scrap of towel around him. I will not ogle him. Nope. I just look down at my phone, ignoring the gorgeous naked man as he gets dressed a few feet away from me. Mostly. I manage to mostly ignore him. I'm only human, damn it.

He sits down on the edge of his bed, looking at me expectantly. "You know you can go home." It isn't a demand this time. He doesn't tell me that I'm fired and I need to leave him alone.

It's progress.

My eyes lift and meet his slowly, thankful and kind of sad at the same time that he's now fully clothed. "Look, I want to help you. I want to help you do this thing..." I wave my hand, trying to find the right thing to say. "I didn't know."

"You didn't know what?" he asks, but his voice isn't nearly as prickly as it's been since I found him in his little cabin.

"I didn't know you were so damn miserable," I say honestly because at this point what the hell else do I have to lose? "I feel like I failed you, and I hate to fail." I keep my head held high and my shoulders straight as I say it. I don't want him to see my shame.

He studies me carefully, his pink tongue darting out to lick his lips, and I hate that my eyes track the movement. "Okay." My eyes widen when he agrees, shocked to the core. "But don't you have other clients who need you?"

I grin at that and then shrug. "Of course, but I've been training this young reporter wannabe, Dalton, for a while now. I think he'd make a fantastic manager instead of a reporter, and he's finally starting to see things my way."

He scoffs, but he's grinning. "Is that so?"

"It is." I nod. "He's ready, so I'll have a discussion with him later. Jenny likes him too, so I think she'll be happy to take him under her wing. She'll help."

"Why?" He shakes his head slightly. "Why do you care so much about letting me down or whatever."

I did let him down, but I can tell he's uncomfortable with the idea of ever needing me. "Because I don't fail," I answer him, my chin lifted. "Ever."

He huffs, but I don't think he's nearly as annoyed as he'd like to be. "So it's about your ego."

"Of course," I say easily and wink. He just rolls his eyes at me. "But I think you deserve to have your true passion. If touring dive bars in tiny little towns is what you want, we'll do it. And we'll keep your whereabouts secret while you perfect your songs and get them how you want..." I peer over at him carefully. "I'm assuming you want to record them eventually." I make sure to keep it a secret.

He gives a clipped nod. "I want the songs out there, but I don't want to do a tour to sing them live. I want to live on my own schedule."

I nod. It's not the normal way of doing things, but it works. He really does have enough money to live very comfortably the rest of his life, and this way, he still gets to make music.

But it'll only be about the music.

"Works for me," I say easily as I stand up and start packing all my things into my bag. "Let's go back to the cabin, and I'll get the next gig lined up with a better plan for a place to stay after." I look around the motel room and shudder.

He laughs, shaking his head at me as he grabs his bag too. "And they call me a diva."

I snort. "Wanting some damn sort of comfort in a room I'm staying in isn't being a diva." I totally am though.

"You can't work for free," he says, trying to be firm, and it's kind of cute, but I wave him off easily.

"Unless you start charging..." I look pointedly at him, and he glares at me. "It looks like I am."

"Waylon..." he starts, but I wave him off again.

"I know. I'm fired and all that."

"No," he says quietly, sighing. "Thank you. I guess you're rehired. At least for a few months, while I perfect the songs and maybe even enjoy performing a bit."

I give him a nod, seeing on his face that he's hoping I won't argue or call him out. That I won't gloat. But I don't need to do any of that. "Okay then." I hold out my hand to him, and he takes it. I shake his hand firmly. "Good to be working with you again."

He grins and shakes my hand back before letting it drop. He looks serious again though, like he wants to discuss something. And by the slight blush of his cheeks, I can pretty much guess what it is.

"Right," I say, standing up tall and swinging my bag over my shoulder. "We have a professional relationship again, which means last night doesn't happen again."

I can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed as he lifts his chin and then nods. "Right. Professional."

I smile and pat him on the shoulder. "We can do that. Now let's get on the road because that coffee was godawful, and I have to have another cup or I'll die."

He rolls his eyes excessively and huffs as he grabs his bag and heads toward the door. "So fucking dramatic."

I shrug it off, following him. "I make no apologies."

I can't tell from the back of his head, but I'm pretty sure he's smiling as he leaves the motel and heads to my car.

This will be fine. I am nothing if not professional.