Veiled, p.1
Veiled, page 1
VEILED
NICOLE DYKES
Copyright © 2024 by nicole dykes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CONTENTS
Foreword
Prologue
1. Waylon
2. Waylon
3. Waylon
4. Justin
5. Waylon
6. Justin
7. Waylon
8. Justin
9. Waylon
10. Justin
11. Waylon
12. Justin
13. Waylon
14. Justin
15. Waylon
16. Justin
17. Waylon
18. Waylon
19. Justin
20. Waylon
21. Justin
22. Waylon
23. Justin
24. Waylon
25. Waylon
Epilogue
Untitled
Note From the Author
The Rookie Vs. The Ace Chapter One
The Rookie Vs. The Ace Chapter Two
Immoral
Immoral
Discovery—Entire Short Story Bonus
Discovery
Discovery Chapter One
Discovery Chapter Two
Discovery Chapter Three
Discovery Chapter Four
Discovery Chapter Five
Discovery Chapter Six
Discovery Chapter Seven
Discovery Chapter Eight
Discovery Chapter Nine
Discovery Chapter Ten
Untitled
Follow Me
All Books
FOREWORD
Fight for what you want in this life. Life goes by too fast to be unhappy. Don’t ever settle. You really, truly can have it all. Sometimes you just have to fight for it. And you don’t owe anyone your peace.
PROLOGUE
Waylon
“Where have you been?”
Justin doesn’t look all that surprised to see me in his apartment when he walks in. A trick I’ve learned from my good friend Jenny. Though I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been dodging me for months now.
I’m his goddamn manager. It’s my job to manage him, but I can’t do that if he won’t talk to me. I don’t get it. He was riding a damn high. Immoral—his rock band—has been back on tour all summer. He should be happy, but now he doesn’t want to be bothered?
It makes no damn sense.
Grady Bell, the lead singer for Immoral, was happy as hell to be back with the band over summer break. But now he’s back at home with his kids and husband who came on the tour with him.
Maybe that’s why Justin is mad. Because the tour ended. I mean, it was only supposed to be three months. He knew when he signed up what it would be, but I don’t think that’s it.
He tosses his keys on the table by the door with a heavy sigh and closes the door behind him. Stalking into the living room where I’m currently camped out on the couch. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I shrug. “I have a key.”
“For emergencies,” he deadpans and walks over to the bar tucked into the corner in his apartment.
“Yes well, I haven’t talked to you for months. It damn well could have been an emergency. I had to check to make sure you didn’t slip and fall getting out of the shower or something.”
He rolls his eyes at me, pushing his dark hair back with his fingers, his sharp green eyes hitting me from across the room as he grabs a bottle of scotch and pours some into two glasses. He screws the lid on the bottle and walks over to me, holding out one of the glasses.
“It wasn’t months.”
I take the glass as I respond, “Seven weeks. Almost two months since the tour. I’ve texted back and forth with you maybe twice since then. And you gave one-word answers every time.”
I hate that my voice sounds hurt. But I’ve been his manager for a decade. Off and on, yes, because Immoral has taken some hiatuses, but still. I was there when he needed me, but now he’s shutting me out.
I’m not sure why it hurts so badly. But it does.
He sits down in an armchair near the couch, his long legs spread as he leans back with the drink in his hand.
My eyes trail over him slowly. He looks ready for a concert—complete with ripped black jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. It’s the look he’s known for. His dark hair and bright green eyes make the fans squeal in delight.
Doesn’t hurt that his face is so pretty, it could make you weep, and his hair is thick and full, always looking like it’s been swept with his hand and blown by the wind. He’s mastered the I don’t give a fuck look.
“I’m fine. The tour is over. What do you want from me?”
“What do you want from me? I’m your manager. I work for you. But I’m the one who’s been chasing you down to see what you want the next step to be.”
He laughs bitterly, taking a long sip of his drink and swallowing it down, keeping his eyes on me as he lowers the glass from his full red lips. “Next step? What next step? I’m one step up from a former boy-band member.”
“Hey. Don’t knock boy bands. Their fan bases are unmatched.”
He rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but smirk, knowing boy bands drive him crazy. “I don’t want anything, Waylon. I want to drift off into nonexistence.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I place my glass on the side table and lean forward a little, hoping to keep his attention.
“Don’t worry about it.” He downs the rest of his scotch and stands up, going to the kitchen and placing the glass in the sink. But I’m right behind him.
“Don’t worry about it? Are you kidding me?” I ask angrily when he turns around. “You can’t say something like that and then just walk off. What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t want to be famous anymore. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being told what I can wear. Where I can go. What I can do. Someone runs my social media.” He’s standing close to me now, and I resist breathing in his clean scent.
“You hate social media. You wouldn’t even have it if someone didn’t run it,” I point out.
“That’s not the point,” he says, moving even closer to me. So close, I close my eyes and remind myself that Justin is a client. He’s untouchable.
I’ve known, or at least suspected, he’s interested in men for a long time—even though he’s never said it out loud. He’s had girlfriends—high profile ones—and I don’t think it was for show, but I’ve seen him glancing longingly at men too. A curiosity or a wanting—I’m not totally sure. But I see it. I’ve seen it.
I’ve never asked him to talk about it because he has to know if he wants me to know, he can tell me. I’m openly gay and have been my whole damn life. Grady Bell, his own damn band member, is married to a man.
I open my eyes now, standing a foot away. And I could be wrong. But the way he’s looking at me right now makes me think I’m right—how his eyes are homed in on my lips, his breaths coming faster and faster as he crowds against me, and his nostrils flaring. “What is the point?’
“The point is, I don’t want to be Justin St. James anymore. I don’t want to be that guy from Immoral anymore.”
I poke his chest with my finger, and let me tell you, that’s a mistake because his chest is solid. “You are Justin St. James.”
His eyes flare with anger, but then they’re right back on my mouth. I know—I can feel it—that if I leaned into him right now, I’d be met with the kiss of my life, and I absolutely cannot do that.
I won’t.
I’ve worked too hard and too long to get to where I am to throw it all away on someone who doesn’t seem to know who he is or what he wants. He’s lost. That’s for damn sure.
“I don’t want to be.” His voice sounds so damn tortured, the sound strained as it falls from his lips. And goddammit, I lean in. I shouldn’t. It’s so damn stupid, but I do it anyway.
I tell myself it’s just to comfort him. That maybe when I reach my hand around the back of his neck and wrap my fingers around it, it’s to give him a sort of hug. But it’s all a damn lie.
I use that hand to pull his mouth forward, and when his lips meet mine, the spark that ignites into a full-blown inferno is my own damn fault. I know that, but I can’t seem to stop it as he grunts against my lips as we connect.
We kiss hard, both pushing against the other one for dominance. Years of pent-up frustration, back and forth, of having to fight him to get him to do every fucking thing, comes to the surface. And when my tongue moves over the seam of his full lips, he opens for me, letting it sweep inside and take the taste of him I’ve been dying to for years now.
We’re around the same age. I’m two years older, but I’ve been babysitting his ass for years, and he’s been pissing me off since day one. So when I thread my fingers through his perfect hair, I grip it maybe a little too hard, making him grunt again, but he doesn’t push me away.
No. He leans into me, his hard cock pressing against my erection through our pants, making us both pant and moan. I should stop this, but I can’t.
I’m tugging at his jacket before I can stop myself, and it falls to the floor. His shirt follows before he starts working on the tie around my neck. “I hate this fucking thing.”
&
I pull my suit jacket off and let it fall to the floor—a crime against designer fabric, but I’m not really working with my brain at the moment. He removes my shirt as we work to get each other’s pants off.
Before I can take my time and take in the sight of his nearly nude body before me, his hand wraps around my aching dick, and his mouth is on mine again. I grip his hard shaft at the same time as we kiss and rut together.
It’s rushed and frantic, like we couldn’t slow down for even a second, like we’re afraid it’s a dream, and if we blink, the other one will be gone.
His mouth slides down my jaw to my neck, his teeth leaving little bites as he goes. It only intensifies with each moment. My head falls back as his big hand drags over my dick, twisting when he reaches the engorged head, then using the pre-cum to slide back down. I pull his lips back to mine and kiss him hard, my fingers in his hair.
He cries out just as I feel his hot cum dribbling down my hand and landing on my hip. It sets off my own orgasm, and I nip and kiss his lips in a hard punishing kiss as my cum shoots from my dick and gets all over him.
We both stroke each other until we’re too sensitive to the touch, and he rests his forehead against mine, still breathing heavy.
“You need to go.”
I almost don’t hear him, too lost in the ecstasy of an intense orgasm, my knees wanting to give out and my body wanting to succumb to the tired, satisfied feeling.
“What?” I pull back to look into his eyes which are intensely watching me.
“You heard me.” He steps back, and I watch as he tucks his wet dick in his pants and fastens them. He grabs my shirt and tosses it to me. I catch it, but I don’t move or speak. I just watch him.
He grabs his shirt and jacket from the floor but doesn’t put them on.
“Go.”
I slowly pull my pants up and grimace at the mess, tucking myself away. “So that’s it? You aren’t even going to talk to me?”
“I’m tired, Waylon.” Somehow I know it’s not the kind of tired that’s fixed by sleep that he’s talking about. His shoulders are hanging heavy, and his eyes are wary as he watches me.
I pull on my shirt and button it slowly, trying to process what the hell just happened. I did not just jerk off a client. No way I just did that.
Except I know I did.
And not only that, I came my brains out when he did the same thing to me. His guttural cry when he came is now burned into my memory.
I pull on my suit jacket and find my tie, sticking it in my pocket. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say to him, not sure what else to say.
“Yeah,” he says absently, and there are so many things I want to say. So many things I want to ask him, but I don’t. I just walk to the door, pull it open, and walk out.
I have no idea what he needs from me or anyone else.
That thought terrifies me to my core.
Because for the first time since I met him, I feel like I can’t help him.
And that’s just unacceptable to me.
Chapter One
WAYLON
“Okay, so apparently you aren’t going to answer your phone,” I say, sipping my wine as I sit out on the deck of Grady and Ryan’s massive home on Christmas night. It’s snowing, and I’m freezing but bundled up. “You could though, you know, give me a call. Let me know you’re alive.” My tone is dry, and to most I’d probably sound bored.
Really though, I’m just worried. Really, really worried. I’ve managed Justin for a long time—well before he decided he was done with Immoral. Done with the band. Done with traveling. Done with everything and just took off. The day after our little hookup—or the Incident, as I refer to it in my mind—he was just gone. I went to his place, and everything was packed up.
The place was empty except for the furniture that came with the place, and that was it. I knew it was a bad idea to hook up with a client, but I didn’t think he wouldn’t ever talk to me again.
He just disappeared without a damn word. It’s been months and nothing at all.
“Okay, well . . .” I swirl the red wine around in the glass as I stare out at the snow—thankful the deck is covered and snow isn’t currently pummeling me. I need to move the hell out of Kansas City, I swear, but most of my clients decided to live here. “I guess that’s all I can say. Merry Christmas. I hope you’re alive.”
I hang up the phone and just stare at the dark sky as the snow falls and watch my breath as it puffs out of my mouth into the cold night. There was more I wanted to say. So much more, but it’s pretty damn clear I didn’t mean much to him. I try not to let the bitterness take over.
I’m fine. I’m a strong successful gay man in my prime, and he’s not my problem anymore. Good riddance to the over-hyped brat.
I wince at my own thought because that’s what the world thought of Justin St. James—but I know him better than that. I know how passionate he is. How much he actually loves the music and can’t stand the over-the-top grand performance of it all. I know he was struggling, and instead of forcing him to talk to me . . .
Well . . . the Incident. The stupid fucking mistake. I crossed a line with my client. I know that, and I regret it. I want him to answer his damn phone so I can tell him how sorry I am, but he won’t fucking answer.
“There you are. You cannot leave me alone with the chaos. You know this. It’s in our friend contract.” I chuckle as Jenny shuffles outside through the sliding glass door. She’s of course dressed spectacularly in a stunning black shimmery dress and to-die-for heels. I mean, she could literally die wearing those things out in this weather, but the woman fears nothing.
“Where is your coat?” I ask her.
“I’m hoping I won’t be out here long. Are you fucking crazy? It’s like zero degrees.”
“Hence the coat,” I say as I motion to my warm attire and shake my head as I take in her bare arms and legs. It’s fine inside in the heat, but the woman is nuts, coming out here after me. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she says so matter-of-factly. I hate how well she knows me. We met when her client Ryan rekindled his friendship with my client Grady and then fell in love—or they were already in love and finally pulled their heads out of their asses and decided to be together. But out of that marriage, I gained my best friend in the form of the ball-busting badass standing before me now, who’s currently freezing her ass off.
“I’m fine.” I stand up and start toward the door to make her go inside, but she stops me. Her bony little hand pushes on my chest and forces me to stop and look at her.
“What’s going on?” I sigh, knowing she won’t let me by.
“Just checking on Justin,” I answer her honestly because there’s really no point in not answering her. She already knew what I was doing out here.
With a heavy sigh, she confirms that she did in fact know. “You sweet, sweet moron.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say but can’t help the smirk. I’m being an idiot. I’m a manager for musicians. They are finicky fuckers. They come and go. I know this, and I don’t know why I’m so damn hurt by Justin ghosting me. Hell, he ghosted the rest of the world too. They’re fine, with the exception of some very dramatic preteens and diehard fans.
Of course, they probably don’t know exactly what he sounds like when he comes and probably haven’t kissed his sweet lips, but still. I’m not special. I know this.
I’ve had so many hookups over the years, I don’t even remember all their names. But this is the one that’s getting to me?
Why the hell my brain is choosing now to be all needy and clingy is beyond me. It makes no sense.
But I cared about Justin before the Incident, and damn it, I still care now. I need him to be okay. That haunted, lost look the night I left his place can’t be the last time I see him.
I, however, can’t stop worrying about the man.
“He’s gone. But he won’t be gone forever. You know he’ll be back. Probably when he can’t figure out how to use the Uber Eats app and is starving to death. Or when he has to fill up his own car with gas.”
