Page 15 of Veiled

“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.”

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