she felt wrapped around my cock and the noises she made when she was close to coming.
I don’t know what the hell got into her tonight and I don’t care. I just know that I want to do whatever I can to make that Layla—the confident, sexy, take-charge one—come out to play every single day. Watching her own that stage and the smile that lights up her face makes my dick swell and my chest ache. She doesn’t look anything like that when she does a concert. I haven’t known her very long, but I’ve become very well acquainted with the two different Laylas. One only acts confident and happy. The other actually is.
When I first walked into that bar, I had no idea what to expect. I assumed June invited me there to keep an eye on Layla while she drank away her troubles. Fuck, was I wrong. I walked through the door just as she sat down on the stool behind the microphone. I stayed to the back and kept to the shadows so she wouldn’t see me. I have no idea why I did that. I could have just walked right up to her and asked her what she was doing, but something told me to hang back and watch what unfolded. It looked like she was having words with Finn at first—angry words. I cheered a little inside because she was giving him hell again after the shit he pulled with her that morning. I saw her grab the guitar from his hands and turn around to face to the audience, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, and it killed me to not know what was going on in that head of hers. As soon as she began playing the guitar and the first couple of words left her mouth, I sagged against the back wall with my eyes bugging out of my fucking head and my mouth gaping open and shut like a fish out of water. I remained that way for the entire thirty minutes that she sang.
After the third song, a cover of Hurt by Nine Inch Nails, June walked over to me.
“Ah, you made it. Good to see you again, Mr. Marshall,” June said with an easy smile as she patted me on the shoulder and brought me out of my stunned stupor.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked dumbly, my hand gesturing to the stage where Layla currently thanked the crowd and told them she’d be doing a little Sheryl Crow next.
“That, my dear man, is our girl doing what she was made to do.”
I had to forcibly remove my eyes from the woman on the stage to turn and look at June.
“If she can sing and play like that, why in the hell does she put on concerts like the ones she does?” I demand.
June let out a huge sigh and shook her head sadly as she stared up at Layla belting out the first line to Strong Enough.
“I’ve asked myself that exact same question for years, son. I used to think she really liked what she did. I mean, it’s not exactly what her father had in mind for her, but I figured she found her niche in life and ran with it.”
I cocked my head and looked at her quizzically, thoughts of what I’d read in the tabloids and the research Gwen did on Layla coming to mind.
“What do you mean it’s not what her father had in mind for her? He was a record executive mogul who had a talented daughter. Why wouldn’t he have wanted to cash in on that?” I asked.
June took a minute to ponder my question before finally answering me.
“I’ve known Layla her entire life. I’ve been around for her highs, and I’ve been around for her lows. I never butt in or gave my two cents because I always just assumed she was doing what made her happy, and that was all I’ve ever wanted for her. She’s not the type of person to complain or do the whole ‘woe is me’ bull crap, but I figured if things were really bad, she would tell me. She would tell someone,” June explained, wringing her hands together nervously. “This is the first time I’ve seen her in person in over a year since she’s been on tour, and I’ve got to tell you, something is wrong with that girl. I can see it all over her face, and I can practically