Page 24 of Veiled

Just me and my acoustic guitar at the back of the bar. With Waylon’s eyes on me.

Shit. That should not make my dick so damn hard, but it does. I’m rock-hard and aching, just from thinking about those eyes watching me. Like he really heard everything I was trying to say through the songs.

Analyzing and knowing. Before I know it, my hand is wrapped around my stiff cock and I’m stroking it until I’m crying out, my cum hitting the shower wall. Well, damn. I guess I needed that.

I try to calm my body, my dick still semi-hard even after coming. It has nothing to do with Waylon and everything to do with the high of the performance. That’s all.

I rinse off, making sure to clean my cum off the shower wall, and then climb out, drying off, and wrapping the towel around my waist before walking out into the room. Waylon is just getting back, walking through the door with takeout bags in his hands, his eyes locking with mine and then dropping.

He silently peruses my wet and willing body, his eyes hungry, but then he clears his throat loudly and looks only at my face. “I got some burgers. Nothing but grease and carbs. Thought you’d need it after that.”

My face heats for a moment, my stupid brain thinking he meant jerking off in the shower at first but then quickly realizing he meant the performance. Jesus Christ, I’m losing my mind.

“You okay?” he asks, placing the food on the desk. He’s watching me with concern now.

“I’m fine. Just tired,” I lie. I’m not tired at all. I’m wired and really fucking horny. This is really not good.

Thankfully, Waylon lets it slide and heads toward the bathroom, waving me off. “Okay then, eat. I’m going to go shower the stank off me, but you don’t need to wait.”

He leaves, disappearing behind the bathroom door, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe he’ll do the same thing I did in that shower.

Fuck, my dick hardens all the way now, and I seriously contemplate jerking off again for the second time in ten minutes before I finally decide to get dressed and eat something.

Maybe that’ll get my mind off my dick for a bit. But just as I’m about to bite into the greasy hamburger, Waylon walks out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, and my eyes greedily eat him up.

Shit. This is going to be much harder than I thought.

Chapter Thirteen

WAYLON

Being professional is bullshit. I just want to go on record saying that. Watching Justin perform on his small stages all over the country for the past two weeks has been torture. Because the man is gorgeous on his very worst day doing absolutely nothing, but when he’s performing on stage—with his guitar and the microphone as his only props and dressed in tight jeans and a t-shirt—he’s the hottest man on the planet.

This is the fourth show I’ve booked for him, and let me tell you, it’s getting harder and harder to book places that don’t suspect it’s actually Justin St. James who’ll be coming to their bar.

I’m always very careful. I make sure to feel them out, but I know it’s just a matter of time before the bubble bursts. He’s more famous than he realizes. So much more famous. And the chatter online is just gagging for this guy.

They’re desperate to find out where he’ll be next. I think he needs to slow down. Maybe wait a month in between gigs, but I can feel how antsy he gets.

He loves this part.

I watch him in awe as his long fingers stroke the strings of the guitar and listen carefully to every single note he sings. It’s hauntingly beautiful. His new songs—the ones he wrote by himself out in the cabin—they’re deep. They’re real. And they hit you right in the chest.

He’s talented—there’s no denying it. And everyone in the bar is transfixed on him. Phones in hand of course. Most of them recording him. They know they’re part of history right now.

The few who get to see him in person.

I notice more people crowding into the bar, and that’s my signal that we need to get the hell out of here before he’s mobbed. I catch his eyes and motion with my chin toward the door. He knows.

He finishes his song and quickly puts his guitar away, thanking the crowd and heading toward the exit. People are reaching out for him, trying to get him to stay. Some even holding on.

“Don’t touch,” I say with a deadly fierce tone. I may not be a huge guy, but I still give off a don’t fuck with me attitude when I need to. The girl who was clinging to Justin’s arm pouts but lets him go.

Maybe we need to hire a bodyguard. This could be potentially dangerous. I make a note to address it with Justin later as he loads up his guitar and we hop into the car. I drive out of there, watching carefully for anyone following us.

I don’t see any headlights, and it’s dark as fuck, so when I get on the interstate, I’m reasonably certain no one is behind us. “Fuck, that was close.” Justin sounds tense.

I sigh, relieved that we made it out of there without anything major happening. “I think you need a month off. They’re getting wise.”

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