Resist: Gavin

by Heather C. Leigh

  “I’m in town,” I explain, throwing back half the drink.

  “D.C.?”

  “Where else?” I laugh.

  “I don’t know. When am I going to meet this man of yours?”

  “Sasha, are you going to let it go?” I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand.

  “Of course not, Mitch.”

  “I told you it’s for work. The relationship is all a show.” It sounds false even to my own ears. How am I going to tell my parents the truth about Gavin if I can’t tell one of my oldest friends?

  “So you said,” she quips.

  I drain the glass and put it down on the table before heading out front to hail a cab. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Not for a minute,” Sasha confirms.

  My gut is churning from a combination of nerves and alcohol and a heaping amount of self-loathing at my cowardice. The hotel porter opens the door to a cab and I climb in. “Forest Hills North,” I instruct the driver, giving him my parents’ address.

  Returning my focus to Sasha, I somehow manage to force out the words. “Fine. You’re right. We are involved.”

  Sasha giggles. “Was that so difficult?”

  “Hell, Sasha. Bloody yes it was, alright?” I run a shaky hand through my hair and bring it to my collar to ease the tight pinch around my neck. When I realize I’m wearing a loose-fitting Henley, my hand drops to my side.

  “Ooooh, your British is coming out, Mitch. What’s eating you?”

  How does she always know?

  I explain what happened with Gavin in the suite and she laughs. Loudly. “Men are so stupid, especially two men together. You can’t stop being idiots long enough to get with the program.”

  “That’s not helpful, Sasha. Care to impart your wisdom?” I roll my eyes at my friend even though she can’t see it.

  “He wanted you to invite him to your parents’ house, dumbass.”

  “What? No, that’s not it.” Is it?

  Sasha sighs heavily, the burden of dealing with a clueless member of the male gender just too much to bear. “Yes, it is. Trust me. He wanted to be there for you. When you get back you have some groveling to do.”

  “Oh. Shit,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, shit. Good luck with your parents. Let’s get together while you’re in town. Lunch tomorrow?” she asks. “Bring that hot man of yours.”

  I chuckle. “If he’s speaking to me, I’ll bring him, Sasha.”

  “Bye!”

  I stare out the window for the rest of the ride, watching the familiar sights go by as the cab makes it’s way up Connecticut Avenue, still undecided as to how to handle my parents. It would be so easy to lie and tell them it’s a job. That the boyfriend image is a role I’m playing. They’d never know, what with me living all the way across the country. But the thought of pretending Gavin is just a client leaves me feeling sick.

  The Slavic cabbie hands me a card with his number on it when it stops in front of the large Tudor-style home. “You call ven done, da?”

  “Sure.” I pay the cabbie, taking the card. My stomach clenches as I climb out of the car. I have absolutely no idea what my parents think of the situation with Gavin and the media’s spin on our relationship. Not a single clue. I’ve never asked them their opinions on homosexuality, always too afraid to hear something I wouldn’t like.

  My mother yanks open the door mere seconds after I ring the bell. “Mitchell? Why are you ringing? Come in, son.” She pulls me inside, giving me a long, comforting hug. I allow myself to sag into the embrace for a moment before pulling back.

  “Sorry, mom. I don’t know why I rang the bell. Been away too long, I guess.”

  “You have,” she scolds. “Come, we’re just about ready to eat.”

  “Where’s dad?” I toe off my shoes and leave them by the front door.

  “In the dining room already,” she answers. I follow her down the hall, my stomach knotting up tighter and tighter the closer I get to my father. When I enter the room I can tell just by the look on my dad’s face how this conversation is going to go.

  “Mitch,” he grumbles, his tone already conveying disapproval.

  “Should I bother staying?” I ask, resting a hand on the back of a chair.

  My dad stares me down, his eyes narrowed. I flick my gaze to my mom who is studiously avoiding eye contact, choosing instead to dish out the meal, fluttering around the table uselessly.

  “I guess I’ll go,” I announce, turning to leave.

  “Wait.”

  My back tenses at the sound of my father’s voice. I don’t turn to face him.

  “Why? Are you going to let me explain?” I ask, fisting my hands at my sides.

  “Are you really with this… person?” he spits.

  The unease I had been feeling quickly morphs into red-tinged anger. Some of it is directed at myself because, up until now, I hadn’t been sure if I would deny my relationship or not. My dad just made that decision very easy.

  “Don’t you dare speak badly about Gavin,” I hiss, spinning around to meet my father’s shocked expression. I’ve never talked back to Robert Hale in my life. I’d be willing to bet that not many people have. “You don’t know anything about him. If you won’t let me explain then you don’t get to judge.”

  “We’re not judging, love. We just don’t understand,” my mom says, her hands shaking. I get the impression my mom does understand. Those are my dad’s words coming out of her mouth.

  “Phillipa, be quiet!”

  “Don’t yell at mom,” I snap.

  “Son, you will not raise your voice to me in my own home!” My dad pushes his chair back and stands to his full height, matching every single inch of my six feet.

  “Robert!” my mom admonishes, her mouth open in disbelief.

  “I’m going,” I snarl. “Mom, I’ll call you later.” Without waiting for a reply, I stalk to the foyer, shove my feet into my boots and walk out without even tying the laces.

  I slam the door shut behind me reveling in the loud bang that rattles the frame. Childish? Yes. But I could give a shit right now. Pulling out my phone, I call the number on the card given to me by the cabbie. My dad didn’t even let me speak. I just can’t believe that he wouldn’t at least listen.

  The cabbie answers as I fume by the curb, pacing back and forth. The sun is low enough in the sky to cast long shadows across the grass and asphalt. One of the shadows catches my eye a second too late.

  I reach for my Glock and spin.

  “Hallo?” The cabbie repeats in his clipped, Eastern European accent.

  A popping sound echoes down the street, cutting off my response. I have no idea where my phone is, but I can hear the faint noise of the cabbie speaking through the tiny speaker as the world goes dark.

  “Hallo? Eez anyvone dere...? Hallo?”

  Chapter 12

  Gavin

  “That fucking prick!” I shout a little too loud, drawing stares from people around us in the packed club.

  “Shhhhh,” Hawke chastises, laughing as we do another shot. “We really shouldn’t be drinking at an appearance,” he snickers.

  “Probably not,” I agree, pushing the empty glass away with the tips of my fingers. Then I shrug and order another. “Who gives a fuck?”

  “Not me,” Hawke slurs.

  No, Hawke certainly doesn’t care. Never has. It must be so freeing not to give a shit what anyone thinks. I chuckle to myself. Now I’m envious of Hawke? He’s not exactly a role model and probably the only person I know who’s more fucked up than me.

  “What in bloody hell are you two nitwits doing?”

  I whirl around to find my band mate Dax’s scowling face just inches from mine.

  Hawke gives him a shit-eating grin. “Ummmm, duh, Dax. We’re getting shitfaced.” I sputter into my drink when Hawke flippantly replies to the big man’s question.

  “The fuck you are,” he growls. “I’ve already had to deal with one drunken tosser in this band. We finally got him all cl
ean so I’m sure as hell not dealing with you two now as well. Go get pissed in the hotel, if you must. Not here.”

  “Whatever, Dax,” I jeer, sliding off my stool. The floor feels a little wobbly under my feet. Are the walls moving? “I’m going to dance.” Hawke nods and waves over the bartender. I don’t stay to listen to him argue with Dax, who looks ready to rip someone’s head off.

  Instead, I step out of the VIP area and weave through the crowd to the dance floor, ignoring the wandering hands of guests that brush against my arm, my hand, my ass. I’m used to it by now. People think you’re free game if you’re famous. That your body isn’t your own.

  When I get to the dance floor, I realize that I’ve made a big mistake. My judgment is impaired by alcohol and hurt feelings. Despite the bodyguards flanking the space, despite the drinks that have made me lightheaded, despite my urge to piss Mitch off by doing something reckless, I feel vulnerable and anxious.

  Partygoers sidle up to me, rocking their bodies against mine in time with the heavy rhythm of the club music. Every hand that touches me makes me flinch, wondering if that’s the hand that belongs to my stalker. Without Mitch next to me, keeping me safe, I’m a complete wreck.

  Panic begins to overwhelm me, like a hot, heavy blanket thrown over my head in the dead of summer. Disoriented, I try to get my bearings and make eye contact with one of the men hired for protection. I look in every direction but am unable to find a single one of them. More people touch and grope me and my panic goes up another notch. My body starts to vibrate, lights flicking on and off behind my eyes.

  “Oh god.” I feel my legs buckling but am unable to stop from going down.

  Large arms shove beneath my armpits and I’m hauled against a massive chest. “I’ve got you, mate.” Dax lugs me off the dance floor and straight out the front door of the club to a waiting car.

  “W-where’s security?” I stammer, quivering from head to toe. My mind is swirling with alcohol and adrenaline, not a combination I recommend to anyone. I feel floaty, but not in a good way. It’s more of an “I’m about to have a nervous breakdown” kind of way.

  Before Dax can answer, one of the security detail hops into the passenger seat and slams the door shut. The car pulls away from the curb.

  “Let’s keep the drinking to a minimum from now on, yeah?” Dax says with a smirk. “At least until this arsehole threatening you is locked up.”

  “He… he left a f-finger in my dressing room, Dax. A h-human fucking finger,” I whisper, my entire body convulsing with fear. “They have to bring in the authorities now. No way we can keep it out of the news this time.”

  “I know,” he responds, pulling me in tighter. “I’m so sorry, Gav.”

  In the dark backseat of the record label’s car, huddled next to a man I’ve known for over a decade, I allow myself to do something I haven’t done since all this shit began. I let all of the tension, worry, stress, and flat-out fucked up feelings release, confessing everything from the comfort of Dax’s strong arms while wishing they belonged to Mitch.

  ***

  When I wake up the next morning, my head feels as if it were used as the stage for a Riverdance competition. I groan, rolling over to curl into Mitch for comfort. All I find are cold, empty sheets.

  “Mitch?” Wincing, I sit up, glancing painfully around the room. There’s no sign of him. No shoes on the floor, no wallet on the nightstand, no crumpled clothes tossed into his suitcase.

  What the fuck?

  “Utah?” Standing up takes serious effort, but somehow I manage. A quick inspection of the suite turns up nothing. Panicked, I snatch my phone off the nearby dresser. Surely he left a message or sent a text if he was spending the night at his parents?

  Anger rips through me when I look at my phone. What a fucking bastard! No calls, no texts, no fucking courtesy?

  Fuming, I take a quick shower and order coffee from room service, becoming more agitated with each passing minute. An hour and two cups of coffee later, I’m feeling much more human, but just as pissed off. Unfortunately, my fury has begun to turn into fright. It just isn’t like Mitch to drop off the face of the earth with no explanation. Even when he left me with Marcus in L.A., Mitch told me why he was going and that he would be back in a few days.

  This just feels wrong.

  I breakdown and pull my phone out of my pocket, dialing Mitch. It rings several times before going to voicemail. Fuck! Frustrated, I hang up and call Hawke, hoping my best friend can shed some light on the situation.

  “What?” Hawke croaks out, obviously having had a much later night than me.

  “Can you come to my room?” I pray I don’t sound desperate, but honestly, I am fucking desperate at this point.

  “Fuck, Gav. I feel like shit,” he groans.

  “I have coffee.” I hold my breath and wait to see if he accepts the carrot I’m dangling.

  A long-suffering sigh comes through the phone. “Shit. Fine. See you in five minutes.” It only takes him four. I know because I checked the clock about a hundred times since hanging up.

  “So Mitch didn’t come back and didn’t call and now you’re freaking out?” Hawke summarizes, sipping from his mug while I nod up and down like one of those ridiculous bobble head dolls.

  “Right.”

  “Hell, Gav. He’s a grown ass man. And didn’t you say he went to tell his parents he’s gay?”

  More nodding. “Yep.” I rub my thumb over my stone, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Maybe they had a lot to talk about,” Hawke muses. “Maybe it required a few drinks so he crashed at their place.”

  “Maybe,” I reply, my fingers moving over the stone in circles.

  “Can you fucking relax?” Hawke snaps, scowling at my fidgeting.

  “Sorry. I’m just… you know. With the stalker, and… and the finger…” I begin squirming again, jiggling my leg to keep from screaming.

  “Hey,” Hawke prods gently, why don’t you try his phone again?”

  “Good idea.” I hit redial, fully expecting the voicemail to kick in again. Instead, someone actually answers. A female someone.

  “Hello? Hello? It says this is Gavin. Is this Gavin?”

  My mouth gapes open and closed a few times before I find my balls and speak. “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Thank god you called,” the woman gushes in relief. “This is Mitch’s friend, Sasha. I couldn’t figure out how to unlock his phone to call you. I was just about to get one of the hackers at the bureau to do it for me.”

  My blood runs cold at the flustered sound of her voice. “What’s going on?”

  “I think you better come here. I’m at George Washington University Hospital. Mitch has been shot.”

  The phone slips out of my hand, clattering to the coffee table. I vaguely register Hawke picking it up and speaking to Sasha, then nudging me out the door and down the elevator. Somehow, I find myself in yet another car, on my way to see Mitch, completely numb from head to toe.

  Mitch—my boyfriend, both fake and real—has been shot. When I realize I didn’t ask Sasha what condition he’s in, whether or not he’s going to die, I begin to honest-to-god lose my shit. My breathing becomes rapid and clipped, air struggling to get to my lungs as the reality of the situation hits me.

  I’m in love with Mitch Hale and he might not ever get to hear me say it.

  Mitch

  “Hey, he’s awake! Phillipa! Robert!”

  My eyes blink open to dim fluorescent lighting. It takes me a few minutes to focus.

  “Sasha?” My voice cracks, my throat raw and painful, as if a cat tried to claw it’s way out, leaving dozens of gashes behind.

  “Mitch, sweetie. Don’t move.” She puts a warm hand on my shoulder, looking down at me with a concerned expression.

  “What’s—? Why are you here?” I move to sit up and gasp, the air sucked right out of my body. Fire rips through my chest, literally so painful I fear that I might tear in half.

  “Shhhhh, stay s
till. Oh fuck,” I hear her say. My eyes squeeze shut as I struggle to hold back a scream. A loud beep is followed by Sasha shouting. “Hello? Can someone get the hell in here?”

  “Jesus, Sasha, it fucking hurts…” I groan, panting. Sweat trickles down the side of my face to the pillow beneath my head. “What the fuck…? Mom? Dad?” I’m struck dumb by the sight of my parents hovering over me. “But you—? Fuck!” Agony crashes through my body, nearly causing me to black out from the intensity. This time, I can’t hold back the scream.

  Underneath the searing pain, something ice cold enters a vein in my arm. Then… bliss.

  ***

  “I don’t care, Robert. The truth doesn’t matter. Either way he’s our son.”

  “So you’re okay with it, Phillipa?”

  “I don’t have to be okay with it, Robert. It’s not my decision to make.”

  “Mom? Dad? Can you fight somewhere else?” I attempt to joke even though my body is aching and weary and I would give an arm right now for a sip of water.

  “Mitch!” My mom hurries over to the side of my bed, gently pushing my hair off my forehead. “How do you feel, love?”

  “Like shit. What happened?” I cough and wince, the fire in my chest returning, but not nearly as bad as before.

  “Oh love,” my mom’s eyes begin to fill with tears.

  “Phillipa, let me talk to him,” a gentle voice says from behind my mom.

  “We’ll go get coffee,” my dad respond, his tone abrupt.

  “Sasha?” My former coworker takes a seat in the worn blue chair next to my bed. She looks beautiful, even surrounded by the hideous hospital lighting.

  “Hey, Mitch.” She puts her hand over mine, squeezing gently. “You were shot in the chest.” Sasha’s eyes begin to glisten. She works hard to blink them into submission, probably not wanting to damage her reputation as a hard-ass.

  “Shot?” I gasp. “By who? When?”

  She shrugs. “Most likely by Gavin’s stalker. They didn’t catch him, Mitch. You’re lucky to be alive. The bullet glanced off a rib. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now. You had surgery four days ago and this is the first time you’ve been awake for any length of time.”