Living in Fast Forward

By BA Tortuga

Hollis Lee is an aging rock star with a country edge who needs a little TLC. Or a lot, according to his manager Charlie. He's been drinking and partying, and he's not getting any younger, so Charlie hires a personal trainer to get Hollis back in line. Before he ruins his career. Jeremy is just the trainer for the job. Even-tempered and able to put up with anything Hollis throws his way, Jeremy is determined to do his job and get that fine rock star back into fighting trim. And ignore the attraction to Hollis that plagues him on a daily basis. Fighting Jeremy takes more effort than Hollis can summon, and soon he's getting back in shape, despite the occasional foray into sausage biscuits and hamburgers. Things are going well for Hollis and Jeremy both, in their jobs and their blossoming personal life. They're playing with fire, though. Hollis is trying to keep his sex life a secret, and Jeremy's livelihood depends on his discretion. As long as Hollis is on tour, Jeremy has the perfect excuse to hang around. But when a terrible accident separates them, Hollis and Jeremy have to start sneaking around to see each other. Can their newfound love survive the web of deception and pain they've created?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turtlehat Creatives
• Release date: Jul 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951532505

Book preview

1

W hat the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy? Charlie Gill, his manager, could shout like a sumbitch, even over the phone. Normally it made Hollis growl. Tonight it just made him laugh.

He watched his right boot go sailing across the little bunkroom of the bus, then his jeans. What’re you talkin’ about, man?

I saw you on that fucking awards show, son. You were drunk as a skunk. You looked swollen on camera.

Oh, fuck you, Charlie. The way his boxer briefs hung up on the hook on the back of the door made him laugh like a loon. That show was a waste of fucking space. You shoulda never booked me. I mean, Christ….

He tried to get up, staggered, and fell on the bed with a thud that rattled his brain.

What? Hollis? You okay?

’M fine. He frowned down at his legs, telling them sternly to work. I just needed to get through the night. I mean, what were you thinking? Fashion Forward, for Christ’s sake. Am I a fashion icon? Fuck, no.

He was a fucking redneck who happened to look good in jeans and sing good old-fashioned rockabilly.

I was thinking you could clean up your image, Charlie said. After that arrest in Tampa….

Which came to nothing, as I was so not guilty. Scratching his belly, Hollis squinted at the ceiling, which was spinning slowly but getting faster. Damn, Sam.

Name’s Charlie…. You’re in big trouble, boy.

Uh-huh. Sure. Look, Charlie, I gotta go. I’m gonna go puke. He hung up the phone and tossed it off into the ether, needing quiet and either more JD or less… maybe more.

In the end he decided just to stay where he was and sleep.

There should be no spinning involved in that.

2

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The place looked like a fucking bar exploded inside a McDonald’s.

Jeremy glanced over at the little blonde who was standing at the door of the floating monstrosity they called a bus. You have got to be kidding.

No, honey. He got a grin and a wink from… Amy? Angie? Angela? Ann Marie. Right. Ann Marie. He needed more gingko biloba, man.

Okay. I faxed you my grocery needs. I want them here as soon as possible. And he needed some trash cans.

Weights.

Air freshener.

Lots of air freshener. In lemon. Apple. Something not smelly man and whiskey. Christ.

I got it. We stop in Dallas next, and it’ll be ready for pickup, along with the supplies you requested. Mr. Gill said you were the boss about food and stuff.

Yes. Food, exercise, health. God, Jeremy hoped this Hollis Lee man was worth all the money his label was throwing at him.

The bus sure showed the cash. It was one of those custom things with two bathrooms, a kitchenette, all the couch space a man could want, and huge guitar racks. It had a bedroom in the back with a sliding door. Hell, the thing should have been high-class, done up in silver and black and green as it was. Too bad you could hardly see the decor for the junk-food wrappers, scraps of paper with words scrawled on them, and shredded award-show programs.

Oh, and whiskey bottles.

Lots of them.

Is there a dumpster in this parking lot, ma’am?

What?

A dumpster. I need a dumpster and a couple of guys to work for half an hour. They were dumping everything.

Food.

Booze.

Trash.

No one could be healthy in a pigsty.

Well, except pigs, and he’d seen pictures of Hollis Lee. The man was not a pig.

Jeremy grinned at himself and tossed his duffel on a spare bunk. Pigs. Good Lord. Seven years of school, five years in the most exclusive gym in Houston, and then he’d hit the jackpot. Shelly LeBeau. Queen of Nashville and friend of huge studio execs.

Now he was cleaning trash from a sick rock star’s bus.

Um. I imagine so. Let me go see. She was a little wild-eyed when she backed out the door. Either she was going to laugh her ass off or cry.

Okay. Where to start. Right. Refrigerator.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that… lump?

An hour, three roadies, and fourteen trash bags later, the bus looked better. Not good. But better.

Excellent work, guys. Much better.

Jeremy grinned over at blonde, blue-eyed, and stunned. Too bad he was queer; she was a little baby doll. What do you think, honey?

I think I’m glad it’s you and not me. A thump sounded at the back of the bus, and the roadies disappeared like roaches when a light comes on. Ann Marie backed away, grinning wide all of a sudden. Have fun, honey.

Then she was gone too.

Oh, goodie.

Mr. Gill had warned him that Mr. Lee was going to be a bit recalcitrant. Maybe even grumpy. In fact, the words start out like you can hold out had been used, as well as the phrase two hundred thousand dollars.

He washed up, got into something warm and soft, rubbed his hands over his buzz cut, and then headed back to knock on the bedroom door. Good morning, Mr. Lee! How’s it going?

Something heavy hit the door, the loud bang enough to make him wonder if he really wanted to do this. What the hell was he talking about? For that kind of money, people could throw shit at doors all they wanted.

You missed, man. Time to get up. You want an omelet or a smoothie for breakfast? Thank God he’d brought a few supplies.

What the fuck? That voice had rocked a thousand stadiums, but this morning it was rough as a cob, growly as hell. The door opened, and Hollis Lee stood in the doorway, naked as a jaybird.

Good morning, Mr. Lee. I’m your new trainer, Jeremy Winger. I’m sure Mr. Gill told you I was starting? Excellent. He took the man’s hand, shook it. Good Lord, there was a good body under all that abuse.

What? The man had the most amazing eyes, light brown, sorta whiskey colored. Even bloodshot, he could see why they’d graced the cover of a hundred magazines.

I have the ingredients for omelets or smoothies. Which one floats your boat?

Start out like he could hold out.

Hollis Lee stared at him for another moment before turning away, muttering curses, and rooting through all the detritus on the floor and bed.

Nice ass.

Really.

Dude, he was going to have to get another trash bag for the bedroom.

A little black phone appeared, and Hollis dialed it, turning to glare at him. Charlie. What the fuck…?

Oh, that was going to be a fun conversation.

He headed for the little kitchen and started chopping vegetables and mixing egg whites. It was fucking amazing—this bus was better outfitted than most homes, and he could tell no one cooked. Spoiled man. The omelet was almost done when Lee appeared, wearing a pair of ancient board shorts and looking pissed off as hell.

You’d best be glad we’re moving. I’d toss your ass off otherwise.

From what I understand, you don’t have that option. Omelet? Mr. Gill had said Hollis wasn’t his boss; the studio was. Thank God.

No. I want cereal. Or a donut. That man could growl. He really could.

We can discuss cereal and soy milk in a few weeks. Right now, you need protein.

Soy milk. Lee went to the fridge, a sound of pure rage coming out. Where the fuck is my beer?

Hmm? Jeremy put the omelet on the table, grabbed some tomato… no. Grapefruit juice. Tomato juice stained.

Beer. You know. Wheaties in a can? Looming was a good look for the guy too. Chest hair, broad shoulders, strong jaw. Looming.

He could appreciate looming.

Sorry. No beer. It’s not on your plan.

He could also appreciate that rage. It promised good energy on workouts.

My plan. I have a plan, mister. I’m going to kill you now. Those big hands flexed, curling into fists. Good muscle in the arms. That was a start.

Promises, promises. Sit down and eat, old man. Man, this was the fun part.

Old…. Woo. The guy was gonna stroke out. Look at that vein throb. I am not old. And I don’t want your omelet. I want a fucking sausage biscuit.

Then earn one. He was willing to be reasonable.

Earn. You fucker. I earn lots of people lots of money every fucking day. If I want a goddamned biscuit, I should get one.

Moderation in all things, man. You stop treating your body like a Burger King dumpster, I’ll think about the biscuits.

"Who are you? The Wicked Witch in disguise? I swear to God, I’m a grown man." A grown man who was gravitating toward the omelet.

You are. I’m just here to make sure you live to be an old man. Go on, try it. It was actually good, and God knew, Hollis was going to need the protein.

You said I was one. Snorting, Hollis dropped down at the little table and sprawled impressively. The man took a tentative bite of the omelet. Man, can’t I get a yolk?

Maybe tomorrow. He poured himself a glass of tomato juice. Your cholesterol is through the roof.

Bullshit. Those eyes met his, the fury in them completely at odds with the relaxed sprawl. I just had a physical. Why wouldn’t they tell me that?

Because they’re liars. Because they’re studio executives. Because you let them. Pick one. They didn’t pay him to lie.

Fucker. Pushing the plate away, Hollis got up and drained the grapefruit juice, making a face. I’m going back to bed. Tell Angie to wake me when we’re three hours out.

No, sir. You’ve got a workout for the morning. You can nap after lunch. That was going to go over like a lead balloon.

A workout. Are you just stupid or what? I’m not gonna eat that shit, and you? You’re a lot smaller than me, man. No fucking way are you gonna make me work out.

I beg to differ. He was little, but he was stronger than advertised. Mr. Gill said you were my client. You’re working out.

Make me. Flat, bald words, and the man stood there like the immovable mountain.

Your choice. He walked over, poked Hollis right in the belly. You need crunches. I’m surprised you can fit in your jeans.

You fucker. Hollis took a swing at him, not really meaning it, he thought. He hoped. It was way too slow.

Is that like a request? Me fucker, you fuckee? He ducked idly, pinching a love handle.

You couldn’t if you tried. Would you fucking stop that! This time the blow landed, an open palm slap to his shoulder with some major force behind it. Not enough to really hurt him. The guy was holding back.

That wasn’t bad. You need a heavy bag. Another poke, this time to the ass. This is your moneymaker, man. Tighten it up.

My moneymaker. Christ. I woke up in hell. That has to be it. Muscling past him, Hollis headed toward the bedroom. Fucker.

Jeremy followed, shaking his head. There’s not enough room in there for crunches.

The man was going to blow a vein.

Hollis whirled on him, all but shaking with rage. Leave me alone, man. Before I hurt you. I’m tired. I have a show tonight. Those people deserve my time. You don’t.

You’re tired because you’re out of shape. I’m not asking for hours. I want thirty minutes. You want to hurt me? Bring it on. Felicity Martin was my last client. Her tits are scarier than you.

He got a hint of a grin, that hot mouth curling up at one corner. They’re even more terrifying up close.

Oh, man. Those things are horrible. You gotta have better taste than that. Too bad. The man was hot.

What? That look was pure horror. No, man. I sat next to her at the ACMs once.

Thank God. There is hope for you. He laughed good and hard, shaking his head. Look, man. I’m not the devil incarnate. I’m here to make you feel better. Really.

Uh-huh. Sure. Hollis sighed, running his hand over his short brown hair. I’ll make you a deal. Gimme a peanut butter sandwich and another hour of sleep and I’ll do crunches.

He thought that over. He had organic peanut butter and some great bread. It’s a deal, but you welsh on me and I’ll kick your ass.

I’m a man of my word. One eyebrow kicked up, that half smile showing again. You’ve done your research, right? So you know that.

Yeah. People had said he was an asshole but an honest one.

I know that. You want that sandwich now or when you wake up?

Now. My belly is empty as a worm. Now he was getting an almost pathetically grateful expression on that face.

You got it. He held one hand out to shake. Pleased to meet you, man.

Hollis took his hand, staring at him for a moment, right into him. I’d say the same if we met any other way, man. But I got to tell you, I ain’t looking forward to this.

I don’t take it personal. Just wait until I get you doing yoga. He patted Hollis’s hand, then headed to make that sandwich as the man gaped at him.

Oh, yeah. This was gonna be fun.

3

Hollis went back to his bed and sat, head in his hands. His head was gonna explode.

Kaboom.

Fucking Charlie Gill. If he hadn’t made a career for Hollis out of a decent voice and a desire to entertain, Hollis would fire the asshole.

That little trainer was just… perky. Obnoxious. Little dog yapping at the heels of a Great Dane. It was gonna kill him.

He flopped back on the bed, wanting a beer, a biscuit, and a bath. In that order. Maybe he still had some smokes tucked away… aha. Secret panel. Score!

He lit up, letting the smoke trickle out his nose, deciding he could wait until tomorrow to kill the little guy.

Oh, I so don’t think so. You sing for a living, man. You want to hack through a song? The cigarette was pulled right out of his lips, and a peanut butter sandwich was pushed into his hands.

Hollis stared. It was like a surreal universe he’d been dropped in. It seemed like his bus. Looked like his stuff. But it had to be Wonderland or something. I want you to leave me alone.

You have an hour. Then we work out. The little shit was lean but quick, scooting across the room to snag his smokes and get out of his reach just like that. Wear something comfortable.

Christ. Get out. He’d spend the hour sleeping. After he wolfed down the sandwich. He could hear the bastard whistling, the sound tuneless and irritating and grating. Pulling his pillow over his head, Hollis sacked out. If that was the only way he could escape, then so be it.

The pounding on the door woke him, the rhythm matching the pounding of his head. Time’s up. Move, old man.

Fuck you, fucker. I’m sick. He was going to eat that little fuck and puke him back up. That would be the best hangover cure ever.

I told you, man. You said you’d get up. It’s time.

No. He just wasn’t gonna do it. No way.

Are you sure? You said an hour.

I know what I said! Goddammit. He was a man of his word. It was the one honest thing he’d held on to in his whole fucking lie of a career. Hollis rolled up off the bed, wavering a bit before bolting to the little bathroom.

When he finished brushing his teeth, he came on out and grabbed some soft shorts. Okay, you have a half hour.

Excellent. You have any exercise you like? The little fuck looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, all in loose white clothes. Jackass.

Sex. There. Let the little fuck mull that over. Goddamn, his