6. Justin

Chapter Six

JUSTIN

O kay, I'm an asshole. That was cruel. There was a time when I needed him for what seemed like everything. My parents were barely around, once I started making money with Immoral and they got their cut of what they liked to call "management fees."

But then, Waylon stepped in. And he was a real manager. He managed the band, but he managed us all individually too. He's only a little bit older than me, but he's always seemed so much more mature.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, but Waylon is already going to extraordinary lengths to hide the hurt I saw in his eyes. He brings the cup down from his lips, and his eyes narrow at me.

"Fine. You don't need me. But the other questions. Do you even have a plan?"

"Do I even need a plan?" I bite out because I feel like my entire life has been structured up until now. Always on a schedule. On a tour. Recording on time. Nothing was ever done on a whim.

"Yes. You need a plan. Are you really just going to live in a cabin, out in the middle of nowhere with no Wi-Fi, for the rest of your life?"

I hate that when he takes another sip of coffee, my eyes dart to the way his bicep flexes, pulling it tight and the veins pop just slightly. Waylon isn't jacked, but the guy works out. That's for damn sure. He's on the leaner side, but he's toned to perfection. "Why do you care what I do?"

I watch him swallow a sip of coffee, completely unbothered by his near nudity. But I have to shift slightly in my spot on the couch—because obviously, my body is for sure bothered by his nudity. Far too damn hot and bothered.

I can't believe I gave into the stupid ass crush I've had on him since we first met. I kept the boundary up because we worked together—I didn't want things to get messy. But then, I told myself I wasn't going to see him again. So it was fine. I indulged.

Now I'm sitting here with him almost completely naked, and I can't stop thinking about the way his mouth tastes. About his lithe body against mine. The way he sounds when he comes.

I need to shake this off. I try my best to focus. "I don't want to tour anymore."

"Okay," he says calmly, finishing his coffee. "So what are you going to do for a living?"

I hate how calm he sounds. "I have plenty of money, Waylon." My tone is dead, and I just want this conversation over. But Waylon, being Waylon, doesn't drop it.

"Yeah well, living is about more than money."

"You're really going to lecture me about there being more to life than things?" The man loves the finer things in life. Not that there's anything wrong with that, honestly, but I don't need his hypocrisy right now.

He grins at me, his eyes lighting up with mirth. "You'll be bored. You need to keep busy. I know you do."

I look out the main window of the cabin and out into the great nothingness of the woods surrounding it. "There's plenty to do here."

He studies me carefully and then stands up, his crotch in my face, and it takes all my strength to look away from the bulge there in his tight briefs. He walks toward the kitchen, and I can't stop myself from watching the firm globes of his ass move while he walks. He puts the mug in the sink and then comes back into the room, his arms folded—but not trying to cover himself.

"I'm staying until I feel like you're settled. So if you want me to leave, that's up to you."

"You hate it here," I say, standing up to look him in the eyes. "Just leave. I don't need a babysitter."

"Oh, how I wish that were true," he says, not missing a beat, and I realize there is no making him leave. He's beyond stubborn.

"I just want to write songs, okay?" There's a hard edge to my tone, but he doesn't flinch. "I want to write songs that mean something. I don't want to write the next "Shake it Off."

"Hey, don't throw shade at Taylor. There's nothing wrong with making the world shake their ass and have fun."

I frown at that but have to stop myself from smiling. "Sorry I insulted your queen."

He gives me a half-smile. "You should be. Besides she writes her own songs and has a lot more than shaking to her lyrics."

"Maybe that was a bad example," I say, trying not to get lost in the conversation. I need to focus. I need to figure out how to make him leave. "I just want to write my own songs. I want soul in them. I want them to mean something."

I expect him to mock me, but surprisingly, he doesn't. "Okay. And you're going to do that here." It's not said like a question, but I hear it anyway.

I nod in answer. "Yes. I want to."

"And what about performing these songs?"

I watch his body as he stands there, just questioning me, getting lost in the sleek lines of all that tanned skin. I can't think straight. "Look, can we talk about this later? When you have some damn clothes on?"

His cocky grin grows on that handsome face of his. He knows the effect he has on me. The son of a bitch. I kept it hidden for so long, but now that he knows how my body responds to his, there's no going back.

He walks over to me, stopping only a foot away, letting his finger drag down my chest over the cotton of my shirt. "I thought you hated my suits."

"I do," I say instantly because I hate seeing him so buttoned up all the time. Waylon may think he's in control, but the truth is, he's just as shackled to the fame and life of celebrities as I was. That suit doesn't scream freedom to me—it's a tell of how damn restrained he is. "But this is not working for me."

My eyes drag over his bare skin, and he grins at me, dropping his hand from my chest and shrugging. "Fine. I'll go shower and put on a suit. But we are going to discuss this."

"Good luck with that water pressure. It's nothing like what you're used to, I guarantee it."

He curses and grumbles all the way to the door before he yanks it open and leaves my cabin.

Yeah, no way he won't crack soon. Waylon won't last long here, and then I can get back to getting some damn peace in my life.