Page 20 of Veiled

He sighs, still not bothering to hide his near nudity. At least I had the decency to put on a pair of sweats I packed before falling asleep. Not Waylon. No. He might as well just sleep naked. “I haven’t had a chance to look yet, but I think it’ll be fine.” He walks over to the bed he was sleeping on and grabs his phone. I try not to watch his abs that are flexed tight and his arm muscles doing the same thing as he scrolls through his phone. His face gives nothing away as he meets my gaze. “They’re obsessed. But I don’t think anyone followed us. There’s no mention of where you went after the show.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Thank. Fuck.”

He cocks his head to the side, studying me carefully and making me squirm before he finally speaks. “You really do hate it, don’t you?” He sounds like he’s having some sort of epiphany, and I want to scream.

All these years I put on a good front—I know I did. I was really good at the act, but I still... shit. I was hoping the people close to me would pick up on it. It’s not fair, but it is what it is. When it was announced that, because our lead singer was going to take some time off, we all were too, I was relieved.

I wanted that time so damn badly. The other guys wanted to quickly find another band to join or maybe go solo, but I just wanted out. “I don’t hate singing. I don’t hate being on a stage with my guitar.” I fucking love that actually.

“But you hate the crowds. The fans.”

I cringe. Our fans make us. I know that. I owe them so much. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t want to owe them for making me. I want to just exist. “I don’t hate the fans. I hate when they break into my place. I hate not ever having any privacy. I hate not being able to have a bad day.”

He frowns deeply, and I wonder what the hell he’s thinking. Usually, Waylon just says it. I’ve never seen him think so damn long about something, I swear. I start to squirm. “I didn’t see it.”

I cock my head to the side, studying him. “What? Didn’t see what?”

“The hatred you had for it. I knew you were...” His eyes meet mine, like he’s trying to be careful, which, if I’m honest, I hate. I don’t want him to be careful with me like I’m a fragile being or something. “Reserved.”

I laugh at that and shake my head. “I just wanted privacy. I wanted to be able to be me without some goddamn article about me spiraling. Or using or depressed or whatever the fuck they wanted to spin because I didn’t have a smile on my face. And everyone acted like it was the price of fame.”

“It is,” he answers quickly, and of course, that’s his answer. He’s the PR side of fame. It’s their goddamn go-to. You owe the fans. “But you also don’t owe anyone your soul. You need to do what makes you happy.”

I look at him in shock and don’t really know what to say. I didn’t really see that coming, to be honest. It’s not like Waylon ever came out and said I owed my fans or anything, but I never really pushed back. When we had to do a fan event, we did it. When we had to do interviews, we did them. And I usually forced a smile on my face for all of it.

I’d been just going along for so damn long, I finally couldn’t take it anymore.

“You really believe that?” I ask, and his coffee finishes brewing so he starts to doctor it up with a shit-ton of sugar and creamer.

“Of course I do.” He looks almost hurt as he turns to look at me, his coffee sitting on the dingy dresser. “I wanted to be the best, Justin. I wanted to...” He seems to bite his tongue, and I’m desperate to hear the rest of the sentence. I don’t know why, but before I can ask him to go on, he seems to straighten up, schooling his features and grabbing his coffee. “Next gig, I’m setting up an escape hotel. Not this side-of-the-road-motel shit.” He starts toward the bathroom. “I swear if this shower is a trickle, I’m going to lose my shit.”

I guess the conversation is over. I try not to let it annoy me too much when the door shuts and I hear the shower turn on.

He curses, so I’m guessing the pressure isn’t great.

I grin. Kind of serves him right for not finishing this conversation.

Although, I’m not really sure why I care so much.

Chapter Eleven

WAYLON

This shower is pathetic. Goddamn, I miss my shower back home, but I can’t leave Justin. I know it’s pathetic. I know this is so damn stupid, but I didn’t know. I truly didn’t fucking know he was so miserable.

And for some reason, I just can’t let that go. So I’m going to book him more gigs in small little dive bars across the country. I’m going to help him produce an album, if that’s what he wants, because the songs he wrote—they’re fucking beautiful. They need to be out in the world.

The world needs Justin St. James, even if they can only have a small part of him. I’m determined to make sure he’s happy. Again, I don’t know why it matters so damn much to me, but it does.

It bothers me that he was clearly so unhappy for so long, and I missed it. I want my clients happy. Happy clients equal a happy manager, as far as I’m concerned, and I feel like I failed him.

I don’t like to fail. It’s unacceptable to me.

I finish washing in the stupid drip of water this shower has to offer and down my coffee, staring into the mirror in the motel bathroom. I’m definitely planning ahead better next time. I cannot take much more of roughing it.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes catching on a faint bruise on my hip, likely from Justin’s fingers digging in as he fucked me. My body heats from the memory, my skin prickling and tingling all over.

No. No more of that.

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