Page 11 of Veiled

“Goddammit. I did what you asked of me for years. I played the part. I was the quintessential rockstar. And yet, I still behaved. I did what you wanted. Why the hell can’t you do what I’m asking now?”

“Leave you alone out here in the middle of nowhere? Leaving all your friends behind?”

“I don’t have friends,” I say coldly. “I had bandmates, and they’re fine. You are not my friend either, Waylon. You never were.”

I know it’s not the nicest thing to say, but I can’t be bothered with that right now. He’s stone-faced, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I never really could. That’s the thing about Waylon—he’s smart. Very smart. So damn smart, he knows how to separate emotions from business.

And that’s what this is. Business.

“You’re fired.”

He swallows hard, and I try not to watch his throat bob with the motion and think back to our one and only hookup. That was exceptionally stupid. Beyond stupid. I knew better. But after years of lusting after the gorgeous man who wouldn’t stop bossing me around, I was struck stupid and couldn’t resist the chance to be with him.

I told myself it was goodbye.

Only he won’t let it be. He had to come after me.

“Well...” he starts, his voice cold and his eyes giving nothing away. “Then I guess I’m just your friendly neighbor.”

My jaw ticks with anger because I know he won’t back down. He’s not leaving. Still, I have to make one last plea. “I like it here. I was finally settled. Don’t do this to me.”

And for one brief second, I swear I see a sliver of guilt. Maybe even a moment of retreat. But then his eyes shutter, and he stands a little taller. “You mind letting me close my door, neighbor? Don’t want any bugs to invade my adorable little cabin.”

My heart drops, and rage flows through my body, but I remove my foot and allow him to close the door in my face.

I’m not leaving here. I like it here.

So I’m just going to have to find a way to make him leave.

Chapter Five

WAYLON

I’m not his friend. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic.

That’s totally fine though. Maybe we weren’t friends, but I thought we had a mutual respect. I thought he maybe gave a damn about me. I know I care about him.

I groan when I sit down on the old lumpy couch in the living room/dining room/kitchen of the world’s smallest cabin. How the hell am I going to make this work?

I don’t know.

And we aren’t friends.

I hate how much his words stung. It shouldn’t have bothered me. I’m very good at keeping things professional, but for some reason, that cut me deep. Though I’m pretty sure I did a great job of masking it.

I learned a long time ago that people believe what they want to see. When I was the lonely kid on the playground and teachers would come to check on me, I was great at laughing it off and making it seem like I was just fine.

When my parents tried to “get me right with the Lord,” when I came out to them at sixteen, my aunt—who was the only one in my family I ever liked—tried to get me to move in with her. Tried to make sure I was okay. I played that off too. Like I was totally fine with my parents telling me I’d go to hell if I didn’t—well I’m not sure what they thought I could do to “fix” myself. Pretend not to be gay, I guess.

That was never going to happen.

My aunt died a year later, and then I went off to college. Never looked back.

So in the end, I was just totally fine.

I know I need to pack my shit and cut my losses, but I can’t seem to do it. Maybe it’s my stubborn streak, but maybe it’s his that’s keeping me here. Because no matter how much he says he’s fine and he wants me to leave, I know he needs help. I know he’s all alone out here with no one to look out for him, and that’s dangerous.

My phone rings, and I pull it from my pocket, glancing at the screen to see I barely have any service inside.

---