Veiled, page 4
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.
Chapter Seven
WAYLON
He wasn’t lying about the water pressure. Holy shitballs, I’ve never had a worse shower in my life. I’d be better off letting the kitchen faucet run over my head than the little dribble from the shower.
This is torture. But when I’ve shaved and dressed in one of my suits, I feel a little better. Not to mention finally having coffee flowing through my veins.
And Justin is willing to talk. That’s a step. A small one, but it’ll have to do for now because after that shower and terrible sleep, I need a win. So when I’m fully dressed, I make my way back over to his cabin, only to find him sitting on the porch, waiting for me.
The porch of his cabin has two—what look like handmade—rocking chairs, and he’s sitting in one, so I take the other. “Ready to talk?” I ask him.
“Ready to listen?” he shoots back, and I can’t help the smile that crosses my face because damn it, I do love this feisty side of him.
“I am. Tell me what you want.”
His eyes meet mine for a moment, and in that very brief time, I swear I see hunger there. Desire. Want. But then he quickly shutters it and takes a deep breath, looking out at the view. A view I can’t deny is supremely beautiful.
“I told you. I don’t want to be famous anymore. I want to be a songwriter.”
“And you want to perform,” I point out because I know him. As much as he may not have reveled in the fame part, he’s a performer by nature. He loves to listen to the crowd responding to him. And if he’s going to be going solo and writing his own songs, I imagine that will only be amplified.
“I do,” he confirms. “I have a gig tomorrow actually.”
“A gig?” I ask curiously. “Where?”
“It’s a tiny little dive bar about twenty minutes from here. It’s perfect. I booked it myself.”
“Do they know who you are?”
He shakes his head. “No. I told them I was a new songwriter and wanted to test out my songs on a live audience at no charge.”
I take in the information, hating how I can hear the excitement in his voice, even though he’s trying to hide it, and really hating that I need to squash it. “Justin,” I start before huffing out a deep breath. “You like this place, right?”
He rolls his eyes at me, already irritated, but at least he answers, “I do. I paid for a year in advance.”
“So you,”—I point at him just to add emphasis to my point—“Justin St. James, are going to show up at a bar and play for only twenty minutes from the place you want to be for the next year?”
I can see when the realization hits him, and he does exactly what I expect him to. He gets defensive. “They won’t recognize me. It’s a small bar out in the middle of nowhere. It’ll probably be an audience of twenty people at the most, and that includes the owners and the waitstaff. No one will even be paying attention. Don’t try to ruin this for me.”
“I’m not trying to ruin this.” I remain calm. “I’m trying to help you out because whether you like it or not, you are Justin St. James.” His jaw clenches tight, but he doesn’t say anything. “Someone will recognize you.”
“No, they won’t,” he says stubbornly, but I can see the uncertainty there.
“You gonna wear a wig, sunglasses . . . maybe a little hat?” Okay, now I’m being a dick, but I swear I’m trying to help.
He glares at me, and I can’t help grinning like a fool. “No, asshole. But no one around here even knows who Immoral is.”
I can see why he thinks that, but it’s not a totally safe bet. “And if someone does? A new waitress or anyone with internet—which, okay, around here might not be many— but someone might. And if they do, it’s only a matter of time before people are swarming your new place and you’ll be forced to leave.”
“It won’t happen,” he says stubbornly.
“It could, and then you’ll have to leave or have absolutely no privacy whatsoever. Which I’m guessing is why you’re here.”
I can’t help looking around at the desolate place. “I am,” he says so quietly, I almost don’t hear him and turn my head to look at him just in time to see he’s also looking out at the land around us. “I wanted this goddamn veil of privacy so bad, I could taste it. I used to dream about it. After shows.” I watch as he swallows hard, and then his eyes meet mine. “A place just like this, out in the middle of nowhere. No one breaking into my apartment. No one following me everywhere I go. A place where I could go to the store or for a walk without a camera in my face.”
I nod slowly because I know. I’ve worked with a lot of celebrities over the years, and they all seem to have a varying need for that veil of privacy Justin is talking about. Some don’t seem to need it at all and thrive on the attention. Some don’t mind smiling for the camera sometimes, but Justin was always different. He loved being on that stage, but after he was done playing, he wanted out of the spotlight.
“Then you can’t play at that bar.” I’m really not trying to be an asshole this time, but his jaw clenches hard all the same.
“It’s fine. I know it’s fine. You’re just here to mess with my head.”
“You know deep down that’s not true.”
He stands up, moving to the edge of the porch. “I need this,” he says so desperately, I have to give in. But in my own way . . .
“So let me set up some gigs. Small, but far enough away from here.”
“Why?” He turns to face me, his arms crossed over his lower stomach.
I try to hide the hurt I feel, just from that simple question, but I doubt I’m successful. “Because you need this, and I’m a damn good manager.”
“Ten percent of zero is still zero. Not a great business move.”
I shrug and stand up, but don’t move toward him. “It’s not about business, and you know it.”
His eyes lock on mine, nearly making me stutter and fall as I start toward the porch railing. I catch myself quickly and make it to the edge, letting my hands rest on the railing as I look out. “Is this because . . . ?”
I don’t bother turning to look at him, but I shake my head. When he stops talking, I know he must have been watching me. “No. That was a mistake.”
I feel him tense next to me and know it wasn’t a nice way of putting it, but there’s just no other way to describe it. I shouldn’t have done it. I knew it then. Although . . . I don’t regret it.
Even though I should.
But it can’t happen again.
I need to help him get settled in whatever it is that will finally make him happy. And then I need to get the hell out of here and back to my life.
“Then why not just let me fuck up so you can say I told you so?” he asks bluntly, and I can’t help smiling at the fact that he didn’t shrink back in the slightest, despite my words being sort of shitty.
“Because you may not believe this.” I turn to face him. “But I want you to be happy. I need to know you’re doing what you love and you’re safe.” His eyes are intense as they remain on mine, sending an unwanted shiver through my entire damn body that I force myself to ignore.
It can’t happen again.
Which also brings me to the next thing on my agenda. “Did you come here so you could . . .” He’s waiting for me to be as blunt as I usually am, and for some reason, I can’t seem to get the words out. My fingers grip the railing, and I look away from him.
“I could what?” he asks carefully. I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my head, but I refuse to look at him.
“You weren’t exactly out then . . .”
He lets out a harsh laugh, understanding what I’m asking. “You think I came to the hills of Tennessee to live my best gay life?”
I roll my eyes at him, but my fingers only grip the railing tighter, thinking about him doing just that. I mean, he should. He absolutely should if that’s who he is and what he wants. I want that for him.
I do.
Sort of.
Damn it.
“Or bisexual life,” is the only response I can come back with.
“I am bisexual,” he confirms, and I nod, even though his identity doesn’t make a difference to me, one way or another. Just as long as he’s able to be as open and loud about it as he wants to be.
“I understand this may not be the best place to hook up, but if you’re wanting this veil of privacy you’re talking about, maybe that’s because you want more freedom to do that.”
He shakes his head, sighing deeply and looking out at the horizon. “It’s about the music for me. That’s why I’m here. Not the fame and not hookups. I want to be free. Can’t you get that?”
I can.
I don’t say it though. I don’t say anything for a while as I look out at the trees and absolutely no traffic, cars, or people of any kind. “I’ll help you. And then I’ll leave.”
He doesn’t say anything at all, but I see the subtle nod he gives me.
That’s good enough for me.
Chapter Eight
JUSTIN
This 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.
