Page 27 of Veiled

We haven’t climbed out of this bed all night, but I don’t care. I can’t seem to bring myself to care. I know the lines could easily get blurred. I know I need to be strong and resist this, but it feels good.

It feels performing-on-a-stage good. And I can’t seem to deny myself this after the shitshow that was tonight.

And yeah, I know I’m being a brat about the show. It wasn’t that big of a deal that people showed up, except I can feel the scrap of freedom—the veil of privacy—slipping away slowly.

I know soon I’ll show up to a crowded bar with cameras flashing in my face. I know I’m an asshole. I know people strive to have that level of fame, and I should be grateful, but goddamn it, I’m sick of it.

Really and truly.

I just want peace and the music. It’s not too much to ask, but it seems like maybe it is. Like I’ll never have it.

“Probably not. But we did,” he says matter-of-factly, and it actually brings a smile to my face instead of annoyance.

“I know I’m an asshole,” I say grimly. I realize he doesn’t have to be here. He doesn’t have to put up with my shitty attitude. But he did seek me out. I still wonder why. The unanswered question always hangs there.

“You don’t love the fame. I thought you did, but it’s clear now,”—he chuckles—“very clear that you hated it. You’re not an asshole. You just aren’t typical.”

“And that’s what makes me an asshole,” I say, rolling to my side. “It’s not just wanting to be different though. I just am.”

He rolls to his side, still blissfully naked and tucking his hands under the side of his head. “I know. And yeah, you’re going to have people calling you a spoiled brat and speculating that you just want attention or to be different. But I know.” His eyes bore into mine so hard I swear he’s looking right into me.

“The money is nice. I’m not . . .” I huff. “I’m not ungrateful, but . . .”

“It came at too high of a price,” he finishes for me, and I flush but then nod. “No matter what, there will be some people who think you owe them. You don’t.”

I want to believe him. But I think I might always feel that guilt gnawing away at me because I’ll never have to worry about money again. Even if I never sell another album or tickets to a show.

I’ll be fine financially.

“And what about this?” I ask, motioning between our bodies.

He grins at me, his hair adorably rumpled. “Well, this was weeks of stress and not getting laid.” I smile, not disagreeing. “And relieving some tension. A lot of pent-up tension, actually.”

I nod, not unhappy that he didn’t call it a mistake. Not unhappy at all. “And next time we get...”—I grin wryly—“tense...” I leave the question there for him to answer.

My heart is thumping hard in my chest, though, with anticipation because I want him to say this is okay. I want him to want to continue this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s unprofessional as hell.

I just want this.

“Well, I suppose it would be okay.” He looks curiously at me, watching my reaction. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults getting off together when needed.”

“Sexy,” I say dryly, and he laughs at that, pushing his hand against my bare chest and shoving me.

“Well, what do you think?”

I lick my dry lips, trying to think about the question and not about how the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen is lying next to me, naked, and his lips aren’t on mine. How badly I want to remedy that.

“I think we’re adults, and we know what this is,” I say trying to sound convincing. “I say it’s super professional, if you ask me.”

He cackles at that, tossing his head back and exposing his elegant throat to me, looking so damn gorgeous that way. His eyes meet mine, full of mirth. “And how is that? I have to know.”

I shrug, blushing slightly. “Well, it helps us work. Clears our minds. Keeps us from wanting to kill each other. I think that’s very professional.”

He grins and then wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me into him as he kisses my lips. “I don’t even care that it’s total bullshit. I’m gonna go with it anyway.”

I grin and kiss him hard. “Good.”

“Please tell me you’ve lined up a gig,” I say, kneeling at Waylon’s feet in the tiny-as-fuck shower in my cabin. The sex is good, but the space is not. I nuzzle his hard cock as his fingers slide through my wet hair.

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