Resist: Gavin

by Heather C. Leigh

  “You can say it. I’ve heard worse. And I’ve seen some of the notes.”

  “Alright. He threatens you for being gay. Which, considering very few people know this,” his gaze meets mine and I shrug. “Since we’re assuming very few people know this, it’s disturbing just from that basic fact. It points to an ex-lover, most likely.”

  “Except I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I admit. “The studio… forget it.” I wave him off, not wanting to discuss the studio giving me constant grief over my public image. “And lots of people suspect I’m gay. There are a ton of articles and discussions about it. All you have to do is Google ‘Gavin Walker gay’.”

  Mitch blushes again. My guess is he already looked me up and discovered this.

  “Well, that’s the other part. The studio, in particular, doesn’t want you to come out. Am I right?”

  I nod.

  “Is it possible this guy is taking care of a problem for them?”

  An icy tendril grips the back of my neck. “What are you saying, Mitch? That the studio is threatening me in hopes of keeping me in the closet?” The thought is sobering, and one that’s occurred to me before.

  “Maybe. But that’s where the inconsistency comes in. The anti-gay threats are one part. The other stuff is more…I guess I’d say more typical of a true psychopath.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Psychopaths don’t have empathy. They simply do whatever they want to do to get their desired result. We’re all lesser beings to them and in their minds we’re most definitely not as smart. They’re the cats and we’re just the mice to play around with until the day they get tired of the game and finish us off.”

  “That’s horrible.” I shudder at the thought of people acting like animals.

  “It’s what I did for years,” Mitch reveals.

  “How did you end up doing that? Serial killers, I mean. You have to admit it’s kind of gruesome.”

  Mitch leans back in his chair until the front legs leave the ground. He scratches his fingers through his thick morning stubble. “I received a dual degree in behavioral science and forensic science thinking I’d be a police detective. There were FBI recruiters on campus one day…” He looks at me. “I lived and went to school in D.C. Anyway, they described their career track and it sounded interesting. I joined the bureau right after graduation.”

  “Why law enforcement, then? It seems you were always drawn to it.” I don’t know why I keep asking questions. But as long as Mitch is willing to answer them, I’m not stopping. He’s fascinating. And it gives me a legitimate reason to stare at his perfect face.

  “I’m not sure, exactly. My dad worked security at the embassy in London. I learned a lot about crime from him. I was originally going to study psychology. When I got to college the psychology of criminals interested me, so I pursued it.” Something tells me this isn’t the reason for his chosen profession, but I let it go to ask something more interesting.

  “You lived in London?”

  “My mom is British. I was born in London, lived there for eight years, and had dual citizenship until I joined the bureau. They made me surrender my U.K. passport.”

  “That explains a few things.”

  “Like what?” Mitch is looking at me expectantly.

  I smirk. “Sometimes you have a slight accent. I couldn’t place it. It makes sense now, Utah.”

  “Hmph,” he grunts. “Most people don’t notice.”

  “My mom is from London, so I grew up with it. I also spent a year there after getting out of the inst—I mean after getting out of high school. That’s where I met Adam and Dax.”

  “Interesting.” Mitch slugs back the rest of his coffee, gets up, and rinses the mug in the sink. He winces as he shuffles across the kitchen. “We should get going.”

  “Going where?”

  “I told you, we can’t stay here. It’s too open, too accessible, and this guy knows where you are.”

  At least Mitch isn’t talking to me like I’m a kindergartner this time. I wash my bowl and put it on the counter to dry. “I guess I should pack.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  “Where are we going? I have to be close enough to work. A new album is about to launch so there are tons of parties and interviews scheduled.”

  Mitch sighs. “I still have to work that part out, but you’ll be able to work.”

  Great. I guess I should just trust Mitch. After last night, I have no intention of making that mistake again.

  Mitch

  This is dumb. Right up there with the dumbest ideas I’ve ever had. If I made a list, it would be at the top. But until a better option comes up, it’s the best I can do.

  “So, uh, this is it,” I mumble as Gavin looks around my tiny kitchen.

  “It’s nice,” he observes.

  “I’ll talk to Ross later about renting a house.” I stare at the worn tile floor. Why the fuck did I bring him here?

  A warm hand wraps around my wrist. Until now, I never knew my wrist had a line directly to my dick, but apparently it does. My eyes dart up to find Gavin giving me a small smile. “It’s fine. I can prove to you that I’m not the spoiled brat you think I am.” His eyes sparkle with mischief.

  “Okay.”

  I stand there, mesmerized, as subtle changes happen to Gavin’s gorgeous face. The smile fades and he swipes his tongue out to wet his lips. His pupils enlarge and his eyes drop to my mouth. When his lids lower, I notice how long and dark his eyelashes are. Christ, he really is good-looking—like grace the cover of magazines and sell designer underwear good-looking.

  A rosy flush speads up his neck to his defined cheekbones, cutting deep red slashes across the tan skin. I try to swallow but my own tongue is too thick and too dry all of a sudden. Gavin leans in a little closer. Close enough for me to get a whiff of coconut, sending even more blood rushing to my dick.

  I swear I’d think Gavin is about to kiss me.

  With that realization, I jump back as if electrocuted, pulling my arm from his grasp.

  “Uh, yeah. So your room is down that way. I’m going to, uh, grab a shower,” I stammer.

  Without looking back, I flee for my bedroom as fast as my aching knee allows and shut the door, leaning against it. Jesus. What the hell was that? Untapped lust zings through my blood, pounding behind my eardrums.

  I rub my forehead and groan. I can’t even begin to comprehend what just happened in the kitchen. He’s a fucking client for Christ’s sake. He’s a fucking man! That’s the more important bit in this scenario. The bit I’m determined to ignore.

  My cock, however, is determined to remember every single part of my encounter with Gavin. I press down on it with the heel of my hand, but that only makes things worse.

  Annoyed and feeling grubby from not having brushed my teeth or changed my clothes in twenty-four hours, I strip and start the shower, turning it as cold as I can stand. After shivering for five painful minutes without my dick budging an inch, I give in and crank it up to a normal temperature.

  “Dammit,” I mutter, staring at my traitorous cock. “You stupid bastard.”

  Now I’m talking to my dick.

  I can’t go back out there with a massive erection in my pants. That’s something I expect Gavin would notice immediately. Screw him for putting me in this position! I’m not attracted to men. It’s just been awhile, that’s all.

  Uh-huh.

  Thoroughly pissed off, I grab the soap. When I pour some out and lather up. I think about the soap at Gavin’s house. It’s why he always smells like a day at the beach. His soap. Shaking my head, I wash everything except the pulsing red hard-on jutting out angrily from my groin.

  The temptation is too great and the ache is too unavoidable, especially thinking about Gavin’s scent. Unable to hold back any longer, I wrap my hand around the hot length and give my cock a firm squeeze. That action sends sensations so powerful through my body and down to my toes that my legs almost buckle. A long, slow, pull draws a groan fro
m my chest.

  Jesus, it’s been too long since I’ve come. After the disaster with Hailey and the case and everything else, I haven’t so much as touched my dick. And now the need for release is bordering on desperation.

  I stroke faster, swiping my thumb over the bulbous head with each pass. The pleasure is so intense, I have to brace my free hand on the tile wall so I can drop my head and piston my hips to fuck my fist. The orgasm begins deep in my balls, rapidly building into the perfect storm of ecstasy that gathers toe-curling power.

  The first pulse takes me by surprise, and Gavin’s face flashes in my mind as I stroke and groan my way through each jet until I’m drained. Panting from one of the strongest orgasms of my life, I rinse away the evidence and turn off the water.

  My cheeks heat up with shame. Then I get angry. Who cares? It’s only a fantasy, right? It’s not like I actually want the guy.

  Not entirely sure if I convinced myself, I pull my clothes on so I can get started on solving this damn case.

  Chapter 4

  Gavin

  A doorbell followed by the loud noise of feet pounding unevenly down a flight of stairs lures me out of my room. After the horrifyingly uncomfortable moment I shared with Mitch this morning in his kitchen, I locked myself into the only spare room with a bed and haven’t been out since.

  I can’t even look at the guy without sprouting wood. Especially not after passing the master bedroom earlier and hearing him moan in the shower. I stood there like a creeper, listening and briefly entertaining the idea that Mitch might be jerking off to images of me. Afterwards, I realized how stupid I was being.

  The man is straight. Quite obviously so. He probably went to his room to look at het porn in order to bleach his brain of any trace of my gayness.

  But the sounds he made in the shower, the grunts, the groans, that shocked gasp at the end? I want to see what Mitch looks like when he makes those noises. I want to be the one to cause Mitch to make those noises.

  And don’t those thoughts just make me hate the man even more.

  “Gavin!” Mitch’s deep, decidedly angry voice booms from downstairs. I put down my guitar and descend to the main floor, where I find Mitch fuming in the kitchen.

  “Yes?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare, letting him know I don’t care for his tone of voice.

  “Did you tell your assistant to come here?” he snarls.

  Fuck him. He is one snotty comment away from getting a fist to his perfectly rugged, uptight face.

  “I did. I need to work, Mitch. She brings me my important documents, we go over my schedule, and do other things relevant to my livelihood.”

  That dark head of hair drops and I watch Mitch’s broad shoulders move up and down as he huffs, trying to rein in his anger.

  “Is that a problem, Utah?” I challenge.

  “Is it a problem?” Mitch barks out a very unamused laugh. “Yeah, it’s a problem.” He lifts his head to stare at me, stormy grey eyes meeting mine. “The stalker could follow her right to you. To my front door! You said you would do what I tell you to!” Mitch shouts.

  I flush with embarrassment at my now obvious mistake, but my spine still prickles with fury. “You never said my assistant couldn’t come over! How the hell was I supposed to know?”

  The way Mitch is acting reminds me of how I felt when my dad would show his disappointment for being saddled with such a pussy for a son. How he would belittle me every chance he got.

  “Stop spending so much time diddling your guitar, Gavin!”

  “Real men join the armed forces, son! You’re such a disappointment. Surfing and music aren’t going to pay the bills.”

  “Drop and give me twenty! Now! If you weren’t such a fag, I wouldn’t have to do this to turn you into a man!”

  “Do I need to get you a girl, Gavin? You can’t get laid on your own?”

  “Christ,” Mitch grumbles. “Use your head, Gavin! That’s all I’m asking!”

  Mitch’s hand darts towards me in a way that reminds me of my dad reaching out to backhand me across the face. My fight or flight instincts kick in and, unfortunately for Mitch, fight wins.

  Lightning fast, I grab his arm, digging my fingers into the hollow space between the tendons just below his elbow and squeeze. Mitch yelps in pain and goes down to his knees immediately. I lower myself with him, not wanting to let go and give him a chance to fight back. The man can fight, of that I have no doubt.

  “What. The. Hell.” He gasps between heavy, strained breaths.

  “Don’t ever try to hit me,” I growl, squeezing harder.

  “Jesus, Gavin. I was—” he groans in pain, “reaching for my drink.”

  “What?” I twist my neck up. Sure enough, on the shelf next to where I was standing is an open bottle of beer.

  I let go of his arm and jump back.

  “Oh my god. I’m sorry, Mitch,” I sputter. He staggers to his feet while I spin around to fill a dishtowel with ice. “You’ll need to put this on your arm.” I turn to face him and wince. “It’s going to hurt for a few days.”

  “Holy—” Mitch rubs his forearm and snatches the icepack, scowling. “Where did you learn that?”

  I feel my face and ears heat up. “I took martial arts when the band first got together. My teacher showed me how to use pressure points to prevent a fight or stop someone larger than you.”

  Mitch balances the icepack on his arm and braces it on his chest so he can use his free hand to swig his beer. “Why?”

  “Why?” I ask, scrunching up my face.

  Despite the large amount of pain he’s sure to be feeling, along with the accompanying sharp buzz in the nerve I pinched, Mitch smiles.

  “Yeah, why? Why did you take martial arts?”

  “Oh.” I duck my head, embarrassed. “Can we sit?”

  “Sure.” Mitch heads for the living room and collapses onto the large sectional sofa. Damn, busted knee and now a seriously bruised nerve—being around me is not good for Mitch’s health.

  “Where’s Vera, by the way?”

  “Vera?” Mitch repeats.

  “Yes. My assistant. Where is she?”

  Now it’s Mitch’s turn to look sheepish. “I sent her away.”

  “Well what the hell, Hale. She was already here. I do need to make a living, you know.”

  What a high-handed asshole. And once again, I’m ashamed to admit that it totally turns my crank. The thought of Mitch all bossy and demanding as I get on my knees in front of him…shit.

  “Sorry.” He sounds contrite and I did just injure him, so I let it go. “So,” he continues, “tell me about the pressure point trick. Why you learned it.”

  I sigh. “My dad was—is a complete douchebag. He never felt that I was,” I make air quotes. “Manly enough.”

  Mitch laughs and his gaze travels up and down my body, stroking me like a caress. “You look like a man to me.” Then he realizes how that might sound and his cheeks pink up. I notice that faint twitch in his eye.

  Hmmmm, embarrassment equals twitching? Interesting. And fuck, he’s adorable in a big, powerful, non-swearing, uptight FBI kind of way.

  “Yeah. Most people can’t tell I’m gay. I know that. I just wasn’t interested in the same things as my dad. He was career military—Air Force. While in the service he wrote a military thriller, sold millions of copies, a producer bought the rights to the franchise, we moved to L.A. and now he’s just another Hollywood asshole.”

  I glance over and notice Mitch’s beer is gone. “Want another?” I ask, pointing at his bottle.

  “Sure.” I take the empty and return with a new one for him and one for me.

  “So your dad does what now?” Mitch asks, adjusting the melting icepack on his arm.

  “Besides make my life miserable by reminding me what a failure I am? He’s a producer and a consultant on military films. You know, making sure everything is authentic. That was after his own movie franchise finished.”

  “What franchise is that?�
� Mitch takes another long sip. I watch, entranced, as his full lips wrap around the neck of the glass bottle and his throat works to swallow the beer.

  Christ, it’s hot in here.

  “The Hero Series,” I murmur, waiting for the inevitable response.

  “The ones with Reid Tannen? I love those movies! Man, Anti-Hero is one of my favorites.”

  Of course he loves them. Who doesn’t? I shouldn’t complain. Those movies gave me a privileged upbringing. Private schools, a mansion in Beverly Hills, I could surf every single day because I lived on the beach and had more free time and money than most kids.

  “I’m sorry,” Mitch says, reaching out to put a hand on my leg. It’s cold, from gripping the beer, but I can still feel the heat of his touch through my jeans.

  I glance down at his hand then up at his face. “Sorry for what?”

  “For your dad being a douche.” Sincerity exudes from his kind face.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, caught up in those gorgeous eyes.

  “What about your mom? You said she was from London.” Mitch pulls his hand back and adjusts the sopping wet towel. When he can’t get it to sit right, he gives up and dumps it on the coffee table with a wet splat.

  I shrug. “After, ummmm, high school, she brought me to London to live with my grandmother, her mother. Hawke came with me. He had…personal reasons of his own to want to leave L.A. The intention was for me to stay in London long term, but I met Adam and Dax and Hawke’s uncle was able to get us into some big clubs here, so I came back.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She stayed behind and filed for divorce. Still lives there.”

  My head hurts, I’m emotionally drained, and I’m still horny as hell from hearing Mitch whacking off in the shower this morning. I stand up and stretch.

  I have to hide my shock when Mitch’s eyes zero in on the strip of skin that is revealed at my waist before quickly dropping back to his beer.

  “It’s been fun, but think I’ve had enough of the heart to heart for tonight,” I admit.