8. Justin

Chapter Eight

JUSTIN

T his is all you could find?" I grump as we climb out of Waylon's rental car, and I look at the tiny bar in front of us. The parking lot is gravel, and the bar is on the outskirts of the last town we drove through about five minutes ago.

Off an old dirt road, and you wouldn't even know this place was here if the one neon sign outside wasn't flashing blue and red. There are several cars parked here though.

A hell of a lot more than I'd have thought.

"It's perfect." Waylon isn't at all bothered by my attitude as he closes the Jeep's door and straightens his tie, looking at the old bar with worn wood siding that looks like it could fall apart at any moment. "It's four hours from your precious little cabin. They were happy to have a live musician and probably have no clue who you are." For four long hours in the car with Waylon and his delicious-smelling cologne, I sat there, giving him the silent treatment for not just leaving me the hell alone.

But I knew when he mentioned the glaring flaw in my plan—that twenty minutes from the cabin wasn't nearly enough to keep up the anonymity I'd been enjoying and maybe I did need to accept his help.

I look at the bar, my heart hammering in my chest at the thought of walking in there with my guitar and playing the songs I wrote.

"And if anyone recognizes me?"

I hate the fear that sweeps through me, just thinking about it. I want to perform live more than almost anything—that one thing I want more than privacy and to live my life in peace. "Then we'll be headed back to the cabins four hours away from here anyway. It won't matter."

I nod my head slowly, hating that he really is good at the business side. I'm not really looking forward to the four hours in the car on the way back, but that doesn't lessen the adrenaline I'm feeling about performing live again in the slightest.

This is what it's all about for me.

This is why I agreed to letting my parents shove me into everything they could to get me in front of the camera from the time I could walk. For this chance to perform in front of a crowd.

For that high.

It's hard to explain because I didn't like anything else that came with that high. I didn't like the groupies—although yeah, of course when I was old enough to want sex, I was thrilled to be offered sex all the damn time—but I didn't like the attention offstage. I knew they were with me solely because I was Justin St. James.

I didn't like the cameras in my face when I got offstage. Or the interviews I had to do. Talking about playing music isn't what I want.

I want to play music.

That's it.

And Waylon is giving me that opportunity. I study him carefully, hating that after four hours in the car, he seems just as put-together as he always does. Not one hair out of place.

But I still can't trust it. He has to be getting something from this. Maybe he's trying to lull me into a false sense of security so he can get me to go back on tour. Or maybe he has some big interview set up. I don't know.

But I know he has to want something. No one does anything for free.

And he says it has nothing to do with our hookup—our mistake, as he so kindly called it.

I curse myself for the pang of pain I feel, just thinking about him describing it that way. It's stupid. It was a hookup, and it was a damn mistake. A stupid, beautiful fucking epic mistake, but a mistake, nonetheless.

Why can't I stop thinking about it?

I curse myself again and try to force all thoughts of Waylon and stupid fucking hookups out of my brain to just think about the music. I take a deep breath and grab my guitar from the back seat. "Let's do this then."

Waylon leads the way inside the smoky old bar, no one even turning to look at us as we make our way toward the back. There's an older man standing behind the actual bar, his eyes on us, sizing us up.

"Mr. Callahan?" Waylon says, stretching his hand out for the older man's.

The man stands there, doesn't move for the longest time, just staring at us both like outsiders. Dread forms in my belly, thinking about him turning us away. I'm sure Waylon called to set this up, but what if they hadn't actually agreed, or what if he's changed his mind?

The man looks at the guitar case in my hand, and then his eyes slide up to my face. Waylon drops his hand when it's clear the man isn't going to shake it, and we both just wait.

He nods his head toward the corner of the room, where a single microphone and a chair are sitting. "Not going to do some fancy introduction or anything, but the room is yours. If they start throwing beer bottles at you, I'd get out of here if you don't want to get hit. Not my job to break up a rowdy crowd either."

The guy is obviously thrilled I'm here.

Waylon looks amused though, and I just give a quick thanks and a nod before walking over to the chair to setup. Waylon hangs back, giving me space I'm grateful for. I don't need him to hold my hand through this, damn it.

I grab my guitar and set up, sitting down on the chair and placing the beautiful cherry red acoustic guitar on my thighs as I adjust the microphone. No one is paying any attention. The bar is pretty damn full. There are a couple of people playing pool. Some playing darts. Everyone has a beer in hand and is seemingly in a good mood.

And from the first strum of my guitar, it all fades away. None of it matters. I barely even notice when people start to listen. I just lean into the microphone and let my fingers slide over the strings of my guitar, singing the words I wrote, and playing the notes I constructed to go along with them.

And for the first time in a long damn time, I feel free.