Page 13 of Veiled

I move past him, walking into his cabin and barely manage not to jump when the door slams behind me. He could for sure murder me out here, and they’d never find my body. But it is what it is, and damn it, I need coffee.

He walks into the kitchen and grabs me a mug from the cabinet, filling it with coffee and then walks over to hand it to me. “Here. Now go.”

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay here and drink it,” I say, taking a seat on his couch—one he must have bought himself because it’s brand-new and so comfortable I have to catch a groan from falling from my lips as I settle into the plush fabric.

I take a drink of the coffee and close my eyes, savoring the wonderful life nectar.

I feel him sit down next to me on the couch, but I’m still enjoying my coffee with my eyes closed before he speaks. “Why are you doing this to me?”

I open my eyes and look right into his. “What exactly am I doing to you? Maybe I needed some peace and quiet.”

He glares at me angrily. “You’re drowning here already. There’s no way in hell any of this is relaxing for you.”

I smirk at that. He’s not wrong, but I’m very good at putting on an act when I need to. “I’ll admit the bed is lumpy, and I’m going to have to get some coffee, but I love it. The trees. The quiet. It’s lovely.”

His eyes narrow. “What do I have to do to get you to leave?”

I take another drink of my coffee and lift my shoulder. “Tell me why you left. Tell me what your plan is.” My eyes meet his. “Tell me you don’t need me.”

I swear that one knocks him off kilter for a brief moment, but unfortunately, he recovers way too fast. “That one is easy. I. Don’t. Need. You.”

I try not to rear back like he slapped me, but I’m not sure I manage. It hurts. It really fucking hurts, and it takes me a moment to catch my breath.

I try to cover it by taking a large sip of coffee to regain my composure.

Don’t let him see the hurt, Waylon. You’re better than this.

Chapter Six

JUSTIN

Okay, 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.”

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