1. Waylon

Chapter One

WAYLON

" O kay, so apparently you aren't going to answer your phone," I say, sipping my wine as I sit out on the deck of Grady and Ryan's massive home on Christmas night. It's snowing, and I'm freezing but bundled up. "You could though, you know, give me a call. Let me know you're alive." My tone is dry, and to most I'd probably sound bored.

Really though, I'm just worried. Really, really worried. I've managed Justin for a long time—well before he decided he was done with Immoral. Done with the band. Done with traveling. Done with everything and just took off. The day after our little hookup—or the Incident, as I refer to it in my mind—he was just gone. I went to his place, and everything was packed up.

The place was empty except for the furniture that came with the place, and that was it. I knew it was a bad idea to hook up with a client, but I didn't think he wouldn't ever talk to me again.

He just disappeared without a damn word. It's been months and nothing at all.

"Okay, well..." I swirl the red wine around in the glass as I stare out at the snow—thankful the deck is covered and snow isn't currently pummeling me. I need to move the hell out of Kansas City, I swear, but most of my clients decided to live here. "I guess that's all I can say. Merry Christmas. I hope you're alive."

I hang up the phone and just stare at the dark sky as the snow falls and watch my breath as it puffs out of my mouth into the cold night. There was more I wanted to say. So much more, but it's pretty damn clear I didn't mean much to him. I try not to let the bitterness take over.

I'm fine. I'm a strong successful gay man in my prime, and he's not my problem anymore. Good riddance to the over-hyped brat.

I wince at my own thought because that's what the world thought of Justin St. James—but I know him better than that. I know how passionate he is. How much he actually loves the music and can't stand the over-the-top grand performance of it all. I know he was struggling, and instead of forcing him to talk to me...

Well... the Incident . The stupid fucking mistake. I crossed a line with my client. I know that, and I regret it. I want him to answer his damn phone so I can tell him how sorry I am, but he won't fucking answer.

"There you are. You cannot leave me alone with the chaos. You know this. It's in our friend contract." I chuckle as Jenny shuffles outside through the sliding glass door. She's of course dressed spectacularly in a stunning black shimmery dress and to-die-for heels. I mean, she could literally die wearing those things out in this weather, but the woman fears nothing.

"Where is your coat?" I ask her.

"I'm hoping I won't be out here long. Are you fucking crazy? It's like zero degrees."

"Hence the coat," I say as I motion to my warm attire and shake my head as I take in her bare arms and legs. It's fine inside in the heat, but the woman is nuts, coming out here after me. "I'm fine."

"You're not," she says so matter-of-factly. I hate how well she knows me. We met when her client Ryan rekindled his friendship with my client Grady and then fell in love—or they were already in love and finally pulled their heads out of their asses and decided to be together. But out of that marriage, I gained my best friend in the form of the ball-busting badass standing before me now, who's currently freezing her ass off.

"I'm fine." I stand up and start toward the door to make her go inside, but she stops me. Her bony little hand pushes on my chest and forces me to stop and look at her.

"What's going on?" I sigh, knowing she won't let me by.

"Just checking on Justin," I answer her honestly because there's really no point in not answering her. She already knew what I was doing out here.

With a heavy sigh, she confirms that she did in fact know. "You sweet, sweet moron."

"Gee, thanks," I say but can't help the smirk. I'm being an idiot. I'm a manager for musicians. They are finicky fuckers. They come and go. I know this, and I don't know why I'm so damn hurt by Justin ghosting me. Hell, he ghosted the rest of the world too. They're fine, with the exception of some very dramatic preteens and diehard fans.

Of course, they probably don't know exactly what he sounds like when he comes and probably haven't kissed his sweet lips, but still. I'm not special. I know this.

I've had so many hookups over the years, I don't even remember all their names. But this is the one that's getting to me?

Why the hell my brain is choosing now to be all needy and clingy is beyond me. It makes no sense.

But I cared about Justin before the Incident , and damn it, I still care now. I need him to be okay. That haunted, lost look the night I left his place can't be the last time I see him.

I, however, can't stop worrying about the man.

"He's gone. But he won't be gone forever. You know he'll be back. Probably when he can't figure out how to use the Uber Eats app and is starving to death. Or when he has to fill up his own car with gas."

I laugh, but he's not helpless, and he can do all those things with no problem. He's not a child. He's nearly thirty. Still, she does have a point. He was a member of Immoral—a wildly popular band. He's had the privilege of money for well over a decade and hasn't had to do much on his own for a long time. "He's been gone for months. Surely he's figured it out."

"Hey." Her voice softens and so does her attitude, which is pretty weird for Jenny. "He's fine. He's doing some damn diva bullshit—probably off on a wild vacation, partying and being a dumbass—but he's totally fine. He'll come back."

"Why wouldn't he tell me he was going to do that?" You know, other than me being a total dumbass and putting my hands and lips on him, even though I know I shouldn't have.

"That I have no answer for, other than he's a thoughtless shithead." I wince at that because she doesn't know what happened between us. Why? I'm not totally sure. We've always shared our disastrous hookup stories before. And our triumphant ones. But for some reason, I just couldn't tell her what happened with Justin.

The sliding glass door slides open, and there's Grady wearing a Santa hat on his head and a jovial smile. "Jen-Nay! Where did you go?"

"I will smother you," she says with a dead-eyed stare I know isn't full of hatred the way she wants it to look. She's grown awfully fond of Grady over the years. Don't tell her I told you that though.

I smile to myself as Grady stumbles out and wraps his arm around her small shoulders. "You're freezing."

"You're drunk," Jenny says, and again, she doesn't sound nearly as annoyed as I'm sure she wanted to.

"Nah." He waves her off easily. "Just festively tipsy."

That actually gains a smile from Jenny as she shoves him off her. "What do you want?"

"We're going to play charades. You're on my team."

"Goddammit. Why do I always draw the short straw when it comes to you?" she asks with a smile she lets slip, and I can't help but laugh.

"You're on our team too, Waylon, my boy," Grady says happily, and I can't help feeling some of that festive joy he's spreading. The kids went to bed shortly after the dinner Ryan and Grady had catered, but some of the adult guests are still lingering.

"Sounds good. Who else do we have?"

"Okay, if we're going to discuss teams, I'm going inside. I'm freezing my tits off," Jenny interrupts and pushes past Grady, walking into the warmth of the house.

Grady and I follow as I tuck my phone into my pants pocket and remove my coat and gloves. Grady answers my question while pulling the door shut. "We also have Sebastian, Dawson, and Royal."

I look around the fancy living room—that still seems really homey, despite the price tag of it all. "So that leaves, Axel, Maverick, Ryan, Cooper, and Soren on the other team?"

Grady grins. "Yup. And if we lose, Ry will never shut up about it. So we have to win."

I shake my head at him. Ryan is a nice guy, but the dude played professional baseball for years and is competitive as fuck. And most of the other guys here are professional racers—somehow even more arrogant and competitive than any other sport I've seen.

So who wins is anyone's guess.

"I need more wine," I say, walking over to the bar in the living room.

"Me too," Soren says, sauntering over, and I wrap my arm around his shoulder.

"Good to see you, by the way," I say happily as I give my cousin a squeeze. I was thrilled when he fell for the Hotshot, I gotta say. Having my cousin at every social event I attend has been really damn nice.

"Good to see you too. You look a little tired though."

"Gee thanks." I grin and pour more wine into his waiting glass as he just stands there, eyeing me with those investigative reporter eyes and his brows raised.

"What's wrong?"

Did I say it was nice, him being here? Maybe I'm nuts.

I sigh and pour some more wine for myself and take a sip. "Nothing."

"Waylon . . ." He's still eyeing me.

"Justin is still not returning my calls."

He frowns and then brings his glass to his lips, taking a drink. "I'll do some digging after the holidays."

I start to tell him not to bother—that I'm moving on—but I don't get the words out. I'm too curious. I need to make sure he's okay. I want to know what the hell he's doing. Why he left. And Soren is a damn good reporter.

I just give him a nod before Grady hollers at us. We join everyone on the large sofa and start the game that most don't take seriously but is really fun all the same. Because with this group—everything is fun.

Eventually.