“No need.” Talbot holds up a hand and a server appears out of thin air. “What is it you want?” he asks.
“Ummmm, Jack and Coke, I guess.”
The server vanishes to fetch my drink.
“Lets sit, shall we? I have a table over there.” Talbot turns and leaves without waiting for confirmation that we’ll follow. It’s assumed, rightly so, that we will.
Rachel shoots me a concerned look, which I ignore. I know what this is about. She doesn’t have to say a word.
We arrive at the table at the same time as my drink. Talbot unbuttons the jacket of his five thousand dollar custom Tom Ford suit and slides gracefully into a chair.
The three of us take our own seats. Uncomfortable, I gulp my drink, glancing around the room to catch a glimpse of Mitch. He’s nowhere to be found.
He wouldn’t leave, would he? He can’t. He’s been hired to catch my stalker. But after the incident in the bathroom—
“Gavin, you mind telling us what the hell happened today?”
Talbot’s deep voice snaps me from my thoughts. “Happened?” I repeat, feigning ignorance.
Talbot’s perfect Roman features crumple up in distaste. “Don’t play stupid, Gavin. It doesn’t become you. I know you’re smarter than that.” I shift in my seat and throw back another big slug of my drink as I take a quick look around the club. Still no sign of Mitch.
“I’m not playing stupid, Talbot. I guess I don’t think I did anything to warrant the third degree. Why don’t you just say what you want to say?”
I glance over at Ross. He’s pleading with his eyes for me to stay calm. He and I have had this same discussion dozens of times over the last ten years—whether or not I should come out. Ross has told me he will stand firmly behind any decision I make. Rachel as well, although she has mentioned it could cost us some fans.
Talbot? Well, I have no idea what his opinion is on the matter. I’ve never cared enough about his feelings to ask.
“Gavin, what the hell were you thinking? Bringing a male date to a launch party for the band’s album.” Talbot scowls and folds his hands, resting them on the table.
His cufflinks are tiny vinyl records, which I would find humorous under any other circumstances. Not today. Not if he’s going to give me shit about my personal life. Not after what happened in the bathroom with Mitch. My very first public date was not only a lie, but it exploded in my face about five minutes ago.
“I’m sorry, Talbot. I was under the impression that dates were allowed. Dax brought Kate, Adam brought Ellie, and Hawke brought his flavor of the month. I didn’t realize the courtesy didn’t extend to me.” I narrow my eyes and glare at the executive.
He sits back, assessing my words.
“He’s right, Talbot. He can bring a date of his choosing,” Rachel pipes in.
Thank god for Rachel Whatley. She gives me a ghost of a smile, letting me know she’s on my side.
“That’s not the point and you know it. You should have given us a heads up. The media is now laser-focused on your personal life, not on the album, which is the entire point of this party—to sell music. This isn’t the Gavin Walker show,” he growls.
“Yes, I agree. It’s not the Gavin Walker show. It’s my personal life,” I snap. “I have no comment for any of them in regards to my date tonight or any other date I may or may not have in the future.”
Ross gives me a pained look and I feel like shit. I probably should have told him about the fake date with Mitch. Most likely, Ross now believes I’m fucking my employee.
Talbot huffs in exasperation. “You know damn well they aren’t going to take ‘no comment’ for an answer, Walker. This little stunt of yours might cost us.”
I stand up and lean on the table, crowding into my boss’ space. “We make more money for you than any other artist on your label, Talbot. Take your greed and shove it. I’m not hiding anymore. Fuck them if they don’t buy our album because I’m gay. Fuck anyone who doesn’t like it. I’ve hidden for ten years and I’m not doing it for one more minute!”
With more confidence than I feel, I shove off the table and walk away. If I stay, I’ll do something I’ll regret. Like punch Talbot Putnam in his soon to be imperfect Roman nose.
I’m halfway to the front door, ready to call a cab so I can escape everything and everyone—Mitch, a stalker, the crowd, Talbot Putnam—when I hear a familiar voice.
“Gavin?”
I whirl around to see Adam’s wife who also happens to be one of my best friends. “Hi, Ellie.” She leans in and wraps her comforting arms around my neck. I return the embrace, confused. “What’s this for?”
Ellie releases me and steps back. “You looked like you could use a hug, that’s all.” She offers me one of her brilliant smiles.
I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, El.”
“Love you too, Gav. Smile. You’re too gorgeous to mope around,” she chastises, pinching my cheek. Her lilting British accent always makes me feel better.
Despite my shitty mood, I can’t help but grin at her teasing.
“Now,” she chuckles, “where’s that hunky fake date of yours? I want to have a chat with him.” Ellie stands on her toes, trying to find Mitch in the thick crowd.
My skin heats up in humiliation from his disappearance, and possibly from the memory of Mitch manhandling me in the bathroom.
“I-I’m not sure,” I stammer. “Listen, El. I’m taking off. Tell the guys I’ll see them later.”
Her beautiful face crumples. Feeling like a jerk, I duck out before she can ask any more questions about me or Mitch or my miserable attitude.
The dark sidewalk outside the club is quiet. Only a few people are walking around, none of them on my side of the street. Perfect. Now to find a cab.
“Hey!”
My mind cringes at the sound of Mitch’s voice, but my body? Yeah, it has something else in mind. My heart pounds inside my chest as blood races south.
Always stubborn and more than a little mortified after Mitch blew me off, I put my back to him and hold out a hand to flag down a cab.
“I know you don’t think you’re calling for a taxi,” Mitch scoffs.
His heavy footsteps echo across the pavement. No silent ninja moves tonight. I continue to ignore him. If I turn around, I’ll lose it. We’ll end up fighting or kissing, and fuck…I’d take either one or both right now, but not on a public street. Not outside the launch party for the band’s album. I’ve done enough damage for one night.
“Fuck off, Hale.”
“I don’t think so. You’re coming with me,” he insists.
Incensed by his bossiness, especially after he crossed a very fine line tonight, I whirl around with every intention of handing him his ass.
“Don’t even think it,” he hisses when he sees me ready to attack. His angry expression dissolves, leaving one of concern. “Come on, I’ve got the car.”
Baffled, I let down my guard. “Car? We left the car at the label and came in the limo.”
Mitch smiles, avoiding my gaze by staring at his feet. “I sent someone to get it. I kind of figured you’d want to leave.” He shrugs.
I watch as his rugged, stubble-covered cheeks turn crimson. Holy shit he’s adorable. I’m pissed as hell, but he still manages to charm me.
“Fine,” I agree. “Where is it?”
Mitch jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Just down the block.”
The walk to the car is awkward, neither of us knowing what to say. We get inside and Mitch starts the engine. Just as I’m about to broach the subject of the kiss in the club, he breaks the silence.
“I need to get a few things from my place, so we’re going to swing by there first if it’s okay with you.”
I have to blink a few times to make sense of his random comment. “Sure.”
Mitch nods and continues staring out the front window. He drums on the steering wheel, his rigid body language screaming discomfort like a blinking neon sign. I jam my hand in
my pocket, grasping my stone.
We pull into the garage at Mitch’s townhouse. With the engine off, the silence becomes a thousand times more uncomfortable than it was during the drive. My solution to break the tension would be to fist the front of Mitch’s shirt and yank him over the console so I can attack his mouth.
The slamming of a car door gets me moving. Apparently, Mitch’s solution is to go inside the house. I follow Mitch up the stairs to his kitchen and run smack into his delectable backside when he stops short on the top step.
I wobble, nearly tumbling backwards down the flight of stairs. Scrabbling, I reach out and grab onto Mitch’s firm bicep to break my fall. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me forward, holding me up so I don’t go tumbling down ass first.
“What the hell?” I ask, holding a hand over my heart, which is hammering in my chest from my near accident.
“Shhhhh,” Mitch looks over his shoulder and shakes his head. He mouths the words, ‘break-in’.
My hand tightens around him and a spike of fear stabs at my throat. Is the burglar still here? Are we in danger? Mitch lets go of me to bend down and hike up one leg of his way-too-tight jeans. He produces a small handgun from a battered combat boot.
“Christ, Mitch,” I whisper, still clinging to his arm like a pathetic damsel in distress. But damn that was hot. Danger or not, a man with weapons hidden on his body is a total turn on.
“Shhhhh,” he repeats.
Mitch steps into the kitchen, making no move to shake off my hand. In fact, when he pulls forward, my hand slides down his arm into his palm where he wraps his fingers around it. If my heart beats any faster I’m going to drop dead.
I’m standing in the middle of a terrifying break-in, and I’m getting giddy because a hot guy is holding my hand. There are not enough drinks in the world to deal with this.
When I step out of the stairwell and glance around, I’m astonished. Mitch’s kitchen has been trashed. Every cabinet is open, dishes broken and the pieces littering the countertops and floor.
“Shuffle your feet,” he whispers. “So the glass doesn’t crunch.”
I squeeze his hand so he knows I understand. Carefully, we make our way to the living room. The damage is similar. The television is smashed, the couch cushions sliced open and scattered. A quick sweep of the upstairs brings similar results. Everything is ruined, with no sign of the suspect.
“Fuck!” Mitch shouts once he deems the house clear. “Fuck!” He lets go of my hand, sheaths his gun, and kicks his mattress, which is lying on its side with the stuffing pulled out.
I can’t form any words. This is too much to take in. It’s scary as hell and Mitch’s violent fury is equally intimidating.
“Come on. I need to check my computers,” he snaps.
“Jesus, Mitch. Who do you think did—?”
“Really, Gavin?” He shoots me a look that makes me feel like an idiot. “Who the fuck do you think did this?”
My earlier anger comes roaring back. “Don’t yell at me, Mitch! I didn’t ask for this, all right? None of it! So if you’re going to be a bitch, you can fuck off!”
Mitch spins around, his eyes wild, his mouth pulled up in a sneer. I watch as those damn eyes flick down to my mouth before coming back up to meet my gaze.
Desire sizzles down my spine like an exposed electrical wire. The memory of his mouth on mine—his taste, his smell, the brush of his stubble across my chin–burns fresh in my mind. Raw testosterone clouds the air so thick I can almost feel it. At the same time I realize that I’m getting turned on in the middle of a crime scene, Mitch steps back.
“I’ll check my computers, then we need to leave. He could still be around outside watching,” Mitch states calmly.
I don’t bother responding. I don’t know if I can respond. Right now, I’m trying my damndest to talk my half-hard cock into backing down. Plus, we’re both too edgy and combustible. Saying the wrong thing would be like tossing a lit match into a pool of gasoline.
Mitch approaches a door that has a stainless steel panel next to it. He presses his thumb to a small screen and the door opens with a hiss.
“Stay with me,” he insists.
I follow him into the room. It’s filled with computers, each one buzzing softly, creating a symphony of white noise. The room is cool, at least five degrees less than the rest of the house.
Mitch checks everything out, fiddling with different electronics. He decides his room hasn’t been compromised and leads me back down to the car after sealing the room up.
“Shouldn’t you call the police?” I ask.
Mitch starts the car, tearing backwards down the driveway. “Later. Once you’re safe.”
We begin the drive home surrounded by yet another awkward silence.
Mitch
What a total clusterfuck of a night. Ross should fire me. I deserve to be fired. Not only did the stalker find out where I live, but I threw myself at my client. My male client.
“Where are we going?”
Gavin’s low, melodic voice interrupts my self-flagellation. My brows pull down in confusion. “Back to the rental house. Where else would we go?”
“Oh. It’s just that this isn’t the way,” Gavin murmurs.
“I’m making sure we’re not being followed. We already led your number one fan to my townhouse. I don’t want to do it again.”
Gavin sits in the passenger seat, gazing out the window at the lights of the city. Out of the corner of my eye I see him tilt his head towards me, his mouth pulled up in a smirk.
“So, you’re ‘losing our tail’ by driving the long way, Utah? Like in the movies?” A soft snicker follows his remark.
“Yeah, smart-ass. We’re losing a tail.” Despite the stress of my fuckups, I laugh.
Gavin laughs with me and damn if that sound doesn’t do things to my body that I wish it didn’t. My mind begins to wander down a road I’ve been avoiding for most of the last decade. It remembers how the rigid planes of Gavin’s body felt against mine, how warm and soft his mouth was when I tasted it, how hard my cock became when he kissed me back.
Damn. I shift uncomfortably in the seat.
Certain no one is following us, I take a left at the next light and head up into the Hollywood Hills. The rest of the ride is silent, neither one of us wanting to break the fragile peace we’ve constructed, even if it is all a façade.
Once we’re in the house, I call a friend I’ve employed in the past. The phone rings several times before it picks up.
“This better be good, Mitch. It’s midnight,” growls the voice on the other end.
“Jack, always a pleasure,” I chuckle.
I hear him yawn and the shuffle of covers being moved around.
“Work?” he grumbles in his deep baritone.
“Yes. Can you spare a guy for a day or two? I have a client that needs protection but I have a few things I need to get done. I need someone with him at all times.”
“Starting when?” Jack inquires.
“As soon as possible. In the morning?” I wander into the kitchen and flip on the light.
“Sure. I have someone. You remember Marcus?” Another yawn.
I snort. “Who could forget Marcus?”
Marcus Jacoby is one of Jack’s best bodyguards. Big, intimidating, and one of the most vigilant men I’ve ever met. He’s perfect for the job.
“Not many people do,” Jack agrees.
“Can I email you the information?” I wander around the rest of the first floor, making sure all of the doors are locked.
“Sure. Can I go back to bed?”
One-track mind. “Yes, go back to bed. Thanks, Jack.”
A grunt is the only response I get before the line goes dead.
“Where are you going?”
“Jesus, Gavin!” I fumble the phone and nearly drop it. When I turn around, I expect Gavin to be gloating at how he was able to sneak up on me. Instead, I’m face to face with a scowl. A beautiful scowl, but still a sco
wl.
When I realize he’s seriously angry, I become irrationally defensive.
“I have shit to do, that’s all,” I grumble.
“Fuck you, Mitch,” he spits. “I deserve to know what the hell is going on! He’s after me!”
“No he isn’t!” I shout. “He’s after me!”
Gavin’s expression waffles between furious and confused.
“What are you talking about? He doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Think about it, Gavin. I just stepped out as your ‘boyfriend’.” I make sure to emphasize the word boyfriend. “This guy writes you letters. They start out sweet in the beginning. Then they get more and more hostile, the focus turning to your sexuality.”
“So?” Gavin crosses his arms across his broad chest. The muscles in his biceps bulge, not that I’m looking. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I’m totally looking.
I huff in exasperation. “So…he’s a self-loathing, in-denial, psychopathic, closeted gay man with a serious fixation on you. He thinks he’s in love with you, Gavin, but he hates you for it. Seeing you with me set him off in a bad way. Just as I suspected.”
“Is that your official profile of the guy?” he asks. Entranced, I watch the corded muscles in his forearm flex.
“Yes. It is. It fits nearly all of the evidence I have.” My eyes wander up Gavin’s smooth, tan throat until they lock on his mouth. That sweet, full mouth that frustrates the hell out of me whenever he opens it.
“Nearly? You’re not sure?” Gavin’s eyes narrow, becoming gleaming blue slits set into an angular face that should grace the covers of magazines around the world.
“I don’t think I like your tone of voice,” I challenge.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he replies. “Why doesn’t it fit?”
“Jesus, Gavin. Different reasons, but mostly because some of the letters just don’t make sense.” Stepping back, I shove my hands in my pockets to tamp down the need to touch that lean, nearly hairless skin. “They’re not the letters of a fixated lover, they’re simply anti-gay hatred. They’re meant to intimidate, not impress you. The actual stalker wants to impress you with his ability to get to you, to get through your security and leave gifts where you’ll find them.”
Resist: Gavin Page 8
