21. Justin

Chapter Twenty-One

JUSTIN

I can feel his eyes on me. I don't know how because the place is packed, but I know he's here. He didn't tell me he'd be showing up to my gig tonight. He hasn't shown up for the last three since he left Nashville over a month ago. But he's here tonight.

I do my best to get through my set without looking for him in the crowded bar in LA. Despite him leaving and making me feel like an idiot, I've been doing pretty damn well.

Daisy and Waylon have kept me busy. My album dropped and is doing really damn well on the charts.

So why he felt he needed to be at this show tonight is beyond me. But it doesn't matter. Not at all. I'm perfectly fine without him. I don't need him.

I strum my guitar and own the crowd as I sing into the microphone. My songs. My way. In a place where you can feel the electricity coming off the audience, but it isn't stifling.

There's plenty of security, and I have a car waiting for me just outside. Just like the last few shows I've done. It's flawless, and it feels really damn good. Like what I've always craved.

I should be thankful to Waylon for making that happen, but I'm still too damn mad at him, so I just do my job and then escape into the car after the show ends. Not having to stick around for interviews or autographs.

I climb into the backseat and close the door. The car takes off just as I notice I'm not alone. My manager is here. Dressed impeccably in a stupid black, perfectly tailored suit. His hair is styled beautifully, as always, and his expression is professionally staunch.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him, trying to sound bored.

"I wanted to check in," he says easily, pulling off the nonchalant act far better than I did. Probably because it's not an act for him.

"I'm fine. You didn't need to take my car. You could see how well I'm doing during my show."

"You are doing well," he says, his lips quivering like maybe he's fighting a smile, but I don't care. I don't care if he smiles or not. I look straight ahead, pulling my gaze from him.

"I am. So why the hell are you here? I'm sure you have a trainwreck client or two to deal with."

"Justin," he sighs exasperatedly like I'm acting like a child. And maybe I am. He hurt me. There. I said it. He hurt me badly, just leaving me like I was nothing to him. No—worse—like I was merely a client.

"You should go back to Kansas City," I say, just as my car pulls up to the hotel I'm staying in. There's security here too, expecting me as I rush inside, but I can feel Waylon on my heels.

I ignore him and go straight for the elevator. Either security sucks or they know Waylon because he joins me inside the elevator, along with two security guards. They walk us to my room, and I slide the keycard in, opening the door and turning to the guards. I thank them, and they leave before I turn to Waylon. "You can go too."

"Just talk to me," he says, looking and sounding exhausted.

I relent because I'm a fucking idiot. I push the door open further, and we both walk inside, the door closing with a click. "What do you want?" I ask him, trying not to look at his face and into those eyes.

I don't want to be weak.

"I'm sorry I left you like that. It was sudden, and I know I didn't do it the correct way."

I laugh bitterly as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge in the suite. Opening the lid, I chug half of it before looking over at Waylon, who's still standing uncomfortably by the door. "But you still wanted to leave."

"I have a job." He says it, but it's almost in a defeated sort of tone.

"Then go do it," I say, anger bleeding through my words.

"Justin," he says again, and it sounds like he's almost pleading with me. Goddamn him. I was doing just fine.

But I can't take it. I toss the water bottle on the bed and march over to him on a mission. I grasp the back of his neck, my fingers digging into his flesh, just as I pull him to me and slam my mouth against his.

He grunts, but he doesn't push me away. His hands go to my hips, his fingers digging in and pulling me into him as he kisses me back, not missing a damn beat. It feels so damn good and so bad at the same time. Like my heart is being ripped out because I know he'll leave again.

He isn't mine.

But he feels like mine right now. I kiss him hard and strip his jacket from his shoulders, pushing it off him, and it falls to the floor. I work on his buttons as he pulls my t-shirt off, both of us falling into a flawless rhythm. I'm so damn mad at him, but I can't keep my lips off him.

I kiss him hard, bruising his lips as I press against him, removing his stupid dress shirt and tossing it before working his belt and pants open. "You're an asshole," I say, biting on his bottom lip.

"I know," he says, pushing my jeans and briefs down. I kick them both away and grab his hair, holding him there as I kiss his mouth.

He kisses me back, neither of us making any other move. Just a punishing kiss before I release him, and he kicks off his shoes before pushing his pants and underwear off. He moves to the bed, and I grab a condom and lube, watching as he climbs onto the bed, putting his ass on display for me.

I hate him.

I want to fucking hate him.

I want to punish him for leaving me. I put the condom on, lubing it up first and then moving a finger to his hole. I want to just shove into him, but I can't cause him pain. I prepare him quickly but efficiently before I wipe my hand on the bedding, and then I move into position behind him.

"Fuck me," he grunts, pushing back.

My fingers thread through his hair, and I grab on roughly. He doesn't complain, just tries again to thrust back against me, but I don't let him have the control. I wait until he's whimpering, and then I slide into him in one smooth quick motion that makes us both gasp.

I don't stop though. I fuck into him over and over, my hold on his hair tight, but he's not in pain. He's moaning and thrusting back onto my cock, fucking himself on it as I push into him over and over, my orgasm already threatening me.

It's coming too fast. Too soon, but when his ass clenches around me and he cries out, I know it's over. He's come untouched, and I can't even take the moment to be in awe over that fact. I can't relish in it because I come so damn hard, it nearly hurts, and then my heart just takes over.

It's like it's cracked in half because I know I made a mistake. That I shouldn't have taken him again. I shouldn't have kissed him again. All the pain from the night he left creeps back up and chokes me.

I pull out of him and stumble away from the bed in a daze. "You need to go," I barely manage. "Now."

Waylon slowly climbs off the bed, and I watch numbly as he dresses. He doesn't look at me, and I'm glad. When he's fully dressed, he leaves with the cold loud click of the hotel room door.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and try like hell not to let the emptiness creep in.

But it does.

I'm so very empty.