12. Justin

Chapter Twelve

JUSTIN

" O kay, so I talked to Dalton, and he's more than eager to take on new responsibilities. Apparently, he's been working with Jenny too, but the kid will be good in music and sports. So I'm not worried." Waylon seems to be full of energy this morning as he makes himself at home on the porch of my cabin.

He brought breakfast from the local café, so I didn't kick his ass out. Not that I would. Professional relationship.

He's my manager again. And working for free.

I don't know if this is a good idea or not, but so far, it seems to be working out, I guess. We made it back to the cabin last night, and he already has another gig lined up for next week.

It's five hours away in the opposite direction of the first one. And he has a place picked out with a few nice hotels in the area where we can escape afterward. It all seems ridiculous, I know, but it's still a damn relief to think that this place is my secret, and I don't have to worry about anyone showing up here.

"Are you sure?" I ask him, taking a drink from the coffee he brought.

"Positive. And I do have service on my phone sometimes, so it's not like I can't work at all for my other clients. This will be just fine." I think he's trying to convince himself, but I don't call him on it.

The truth is, I am grateful he found me, not that I'll ever admit it. Thinking about the first gig I got for myself—it would have been a disaster. I would have been on the run again in no time. I don't want that.

I just want a little peace.

"Okay," I say. "Thank you."

He gets that weird look on his face every time I say it. It's not like I've been totally ungrateful this entire time. I don't think. But I do owe him thanks. I want to record the album and get it out there, but I won't do that before working out the kinks first. It's important to get it just right, and for me, that means performing.

A lot.

"So what are you going to do in the meantime?" I have to ask. He's going to go out of his damn mind here. I know him. He can't stay busy in a little town like this.

He shrugs. "Meditate, I guess."

I snort. "You don't meditate."

"Guess I'm going to have to learn." He looks around at the trees and the sky, which is a bright blue and very clear this morning. "What the hell have you been doing here this whole time?"

"Writing songs. You gonna start doing that too while you meditate?" I tease, the tightness in my chest lifting slowly.

"I'll leave that to you," he says with a slow grin, sipping his coffee. I try really damn hard not to stare at those full lips and think about what kissing him was like. I also have to force myself not to suggest we could get naked to pass the time.

It's a terrible idea.

I know he's right about keeping it professional. But I can't seem to really, totally convince myself of that. I'm working on it. It'll be fine.

"You know you could fly back to Kansas City." His right eyebrow lifts, and I think it's in annoyance. He's ready to argue with me when I add, "We have a week until we need to leave for the gig. You could go back and forth. At least then you won't be bored."

Part of me—a part that I'm trying really hard to ignore—wants him to stay. And I don't know why the hell that is. It was only days ago that I wanted him the hell out of here. Now's my chance, and I'm silently pleading with him not to go.

Yeah, this is probably really not good.

"No. It sounds like a damn hassle, going back and forth. I'll just stay. I'll be fine."

My lips twitch with a smile, and I hate it, but I'm relieved he's going to stay here and not leave in between gigs.

I should be worried, but I tell myself it'll be just fine.

Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.

W ell, I managed not to jump him after the gig tonight, but I'm still on a total damn high from performing at the little bar outside of a charming town with a population of eight hundred people.

I kept my set short, at only an hour, and then we fled into the night. And I have to say I'm really damn proud of myself for not jumping Waylon because holy shit, he looks good tonight. Even in his damn suit.

The suit fits him perfectly, tailored to his tight, lithe body. His hair is done perfectly. He's gorgeous. There's no denying it, and there's no denying my attraction to him either. But I kept my hands to myself the entire two-and-a-half-hour drive to the nearest hotel.

He gets us a room, and we get settled inside. This place is definitely a step up from the first place we stayed. But it's not so grand and expensive that anyone would think to look for us here.

And yeah, the more I have thoughts like that, the more I feel like I'm on the run.

Waylon removes his suit jacket and places it on the back of the office chair by the desk in the room. I watch as he unbuttons the cuffs and rolls up his sleeves, showing off sinewy forearms I can't look away from.

Fuck, he's hot. This is not good.

His face says he can read my thoughts, but for whatever reason, he doesn't call me on it. He also doesn't indulge me either. "I'm going to go pick up some food. You stay here, maybe wash the bar off you."

I grin. "I can go too."

"You could, if you want to risk being seen," he says simply because he knows I'm not going to argue with him. I nod in agreement, and he leaves with a smile on his face.

This last week, I was certain he'd leave. Go back to Kansas City and tell me he just couldn't do it, but he stayed. And he actually seemed to be enjoying his time there. Mostly he just read, sitting out on his porch in a swing he had delivered from the same furniture store he ordered a new mattress and couch from. He seems to be making himself right at home.

That should not be a relief to me, but I think it is.

I go into the bathroom and flip on the light, seeing it's a major improvement from the last place we stayed too. I undress and turn on the water. Tonight felt good. Really damn good.

I hop into the shower and use the hotel shampoo in my hair, thinking about the small poorly lit bar and the smell of smoke and stale beer. It would have been wretched to anyone else, but I loved every second of it.

Just me and my acoustic guitar at the back of the bar. With Waylon's eyes on me.

Shit. That should not make my dick so damn hard, but it does. I'm rock-hard and aching, just from thinking about those eyes watching me. Like he really heard everything I was trying to say through the songs.

Analyzing and knowing. Before I know it, my hand is wrapped around my stiff cock and I'm stroking it until I'm crying out, my cum hitting the shower wall. Well, damn. I guess I needed that.

I try to calm my body, my dick still semi-hard even after coming. It has nothing to do with Waylon and everything to do with the high of the performance. That's all.

I rinse off, making sure to clean my cum off the shower wall, and then climb out, drying off, and wrapping the towel around my waist before walking out into the room. Waylon is just getting back, walking through the door with takeout bags in his hands, his eyes locking with mine and then dropping.

He silently peruses my wet and willing body, his eyes hungry, but then he clears his throat loudly and looks only at my face. "I got some burgers. Nothing but grease and carbs. Thought you'd need it after that."

My face heats for a moment, my stupid brain thinking he meant jerking off in the shower at first but then quickly realizing he meant the performance. Jesus Christ, I'm losing my mind.

"You okay?" he asks, placing the food on the desk. He's watching me with concern now.

"I'm fine. Just tired," I lie. I'm not tired at all. I'm wired and really fucking horny. This is really not good.

Thankfully, Waylon lets it slide and heads toward the bathroom, waving me off. "Okay then, eat. I'm going to go shower the stank off me, but you don't need to wait."

He leaves, disappearing behind the bathroom door, and I can't help but wonder if maybe he'll do the same thing I did in that shower.

Fuck, my dick hardens all the way now, and I seriously contemplate jerking off again for the second time in ten minutes before I finally decide to get dressed and eat something.

Maybe that'll get my mind off my dick for a bit. But just as I'm about to bite into the greasy hamburger, Waylon walks out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, and my eyes greedily eat him up.

Shit. This is going to be much harder than I thought.