The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  * * *

  “Amanda, you look lovely.” I smile at one of the junior agents at Ross’ firm.

  “Thanks Gavin. You’re not too bad yourself.” She winks as she passes by.

  Paul, the bodyguard who picked me up this morning—his name is definitely Paul—shadows me the entire way to Ross’ office. I knock and walk into the room without waiting for a reply.

  “Gavin!” Ross stands up, coming around his desk to give me a hug while slapping my back. He pulls back and I see the flicker of stress on his face before he pastes on a smile. I’ve known him too long not to notice. He looks like shit.

  “Hi, Ross.” A quick glance around the empty office lets me know I’ve arrived before the new security expert. “Where are we meeting?”

  “In here,” Ross says, directing me over to the conference table. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I’ll just have some water.” I sit and pull out my phone, more for something to keep my hands occupied than out of necessity. Guitarists tend to have restless fingers. Or maybe it’s just me, who knows?

  Ross pushes a button on his phone. “Donna, can we get water and some coffee please?”

  Less than five minutes later, Ross’ administrative assistant sweeps into the room and deposits a tray with a pitcher of ice water, a carafe of coffee, and all the accompanying items needed to dress it up.

  “This guy that’s coming in—”

  “Is going to take care of this, Gavin.” Ross takes the chair across from me. “He’s good. According to Ellie, he used to track serial killers for the FBI.”

  My mouth falls open. “Seriously? You think my problem is that bad?”

  “No. I think we should have the best, and this guy is the best. The personal references by Ellie and her friend back in the U.K. are just the icing on the cake.”

  Before I can ask any more questions, there’s a knock and the door opens a crack. “Mr. Evans, Mr. Hale is here.”

  “Send him in please, Donna.” Ross stands and adjusts his suit, straightening out the cuffs and fixing his expensive tie until it lays just so.

  I rake a hand over my hair, but it’s pointless. I’m lucky I bothered to shower this morning after my company left. I’m sure I look like shit—with the lack of sleep and the constant stress I’m surprised I don’t look worse.

  Good genes, I guess. I frown at the thought of my father.

  I can hear Donna outside. “Go right on in.”

  The door opens and a man enters. No, not just a man. A gorgeous man. Stunning, actually. For the second time in five minutes, my jaw hangs open.

  The man is a study in opposites. His hair, swept back from his face and so dark it’s nearly black, is paired with bright slate grey eyes, a color I’ve never seen before. He looks rugged and dangerous, as if he could kill a man with his bare hands. Yet he’s wearing a tailored and expensive charcoal grey suit that showcases his body to perfection. He’s rough and he’s polished.

  And I can’t stop staring.

  “Mr. Hale, thank you so much for coming on such short notice.”

  Ross has circled the table and is shaking the man’s hand.

  “Call me Mitch, please.”

  Jesus, even his voice is hot. Deep and silky, it’s as smooth as fine whiskey.

  “This is Gavin Walker,” Ross introduces me, stepping aside.

  It takes both of them staring at me and an uncomfortably long silence for me to realize I’m still gawking. Embarrassed, I snap my mouth shut.

  “Sorry.” Jumping up from my chair, I extend a hand. “Gavin Walker. Thanks for coming.”

  He clasps his hand around mine, large and hot and coarse, and pumps it firmly. “Mitch Hale, good to meet you. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

  He smiles and I have the sudden urge to rub myself all over his beautiful, hard body. Heat spreads up from our joined hands, sending a flush of pleasure over my skin.

  Mitch clears his throat and glances down where I’m still clutching his hand. Shit. I let go, flinching back in humiliation. I jam my hand into the pocket of my jeans, fingering the smooth, heart-shaped stone I keep there.

  “Let’s sit.” Ross directs Mitch to the conference table. “Drink?”

  Mitch holds up a hand. “I’m good.” I catch the slightest twitch in one of Mitch’s intriguing eyes.

  “Okay. Here is the file we have so far.” Ross pushes a folder across the table.

  Mitch opens it, scanning the contents. Waiting for him to read about the stalker that’s been harassing me is humiliating, yet it gives me a chance to study the man further. I should resist staring, but I can’t. He’s too gorgeous to ignore.

  I flick my gaze over to Ross, who is busy returning emails on his laptop. Good. I don’t want Ross to catch me ogling the new guy. When my eyes land back on Mitch, I have to hold in a groan.

  This guy is trying to kill me.

  As he flips through the pages in the file—photos, descriptions, police reports—the end of his very wet, very pink tongue pokes out between his lips. Every once in a while, it sneaks back in so he can pull that lush red bottom lip between his teeth, biting on it in concentration.

  Jesus. As subtly as I can, I shift on the chair to adjust the semi pressing against my pants.

  More contradictions. That tongue, the biting of the lip, both so playful and innocent against the serious image he projects with the suit and the perfectly styled hair and the—I inhale deeply—hint of designer aftershave.

  Suddenly, Mitch closes the folder and sits up, folding his hands on top of it. I jerk away, sitting back in my chair instead of leaning halfway over the table like a besotted teenage girl.

  “This man is not to be taken lightly,” he cautions, his intelligent gaze traveling back and forth between Ross’ and mine.

  Ross closes his laptop, giving Mitch his full attention. “We’re not taking it lightly. Gavin has security with him at all times since the…” Ross glances at me, “the incident in New York.”

  “And before that?” Mitch asks. I stare at the hard line of his jaw then drop my eyes down to the curve of his throat where it disappears into the top of his crisp dress shirt. I pray that he doesn’t see the way my hands shake or the heat prickling my face as lust washes over me.

  “Before that we weren’t documenting anything we received, just throwing them away. They were mostly letters, gifts…” Ross trails off.

  “But no involvement by law enforcement?”

  My eyes bounce back and forth between the two men.

  Ross sighs. “Not until the New York incident.” When Mitch scowls, a look that makes him look even more dangerous and a hell of a lot sexier, Ross elaborates. “Do you know how many crazy fans are out there? Hell, Adam gets over a hundred bizarre gifts and letters a week. That’s just the strange ones. Plus, keeping this out of the media is important to the record label.”

  Mitch nods. “I understand. I’m not judging. I’m just trying to get a feel for what I’ll be dealing with. That includes how long law enforcement has been checking into this guy.”

  “Not long,” I whisper, surprised to hear myself speak. I’m used to being discussed as if I’m not in the room. It comes with the job—decisions made for you without your input.

  Two sets of eyes focus on me and I feel my cheeks blaze hot. That intense grey stare has me squirming, and this time it’s not from embarrassment. Another rush of heat ripples down my spine. I run my hands through my hair to catch the beads of sweat that have popped up on my temples.

  Mitch opens his mouth to say something then snaps it shut. He blinks a few times before speaking. “Tell me how this began, Gavin. What you’ve noticed personally.”

  “Shit, how long do you have?” I scoff.

  The corner of Mitch’s mouth quirks up. “I have time.” He puts two fingers into the collar of his shirt and tugs gently.

  The subtle motion brings images of Mitch tearing off his clothes, sending another wave of sizzling need through me. Nodding, I take a sip
of water to cool down the desire inspired by Mitch’s proximity.

  Ross’ cell phone rings, startling me. I fumble with the glass, nearly spilling it.

  “Damn. Sorry.”

  This time, Mitch smiles. My eyes fixate on that mouth as his lips part to reveal two rows of perfect teeth.

  “I have to take this,” Ross confesses. He glances over. “You okay to do this without me?”

  No. I’m not okay. You’re going to leave me in a room with one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen while I’m a nervous, blundering wreck.

  That’s what I’m thinking. What I say isn’t even close.

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  Ross stares at Mitch. “I’ll be back to discuss the specifics of your contract.”

  “No problem,” Mitch agrees. Leaning back in his chair, he crosses one ankle over his knee.

  Holy—

  Now he’s given me a direct view of his crotch, hugged tight by those tailored grey slacks. There’s a lot to look at. Jesus. If what I’m seeing isn’t an illusion, he is hung. I don’t realize that I’m staring right at Mitch’s dick until his leg drops and he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

  “It’s okay to be nervous.”

  Blinking, I look up to see those deep gunmetal eyes waiting patiently for me to respond.

  “Ummmm, I’m not nervous.”

  I am, but not for the reasons you think.

  Mitch puts his large hands back up on the table, his eye twitching again. “Do you mind if I get a drink?” He gestures towards the tray Donna set out.

  “Not at all.”

  “So,” he continues as he removes his jacket, hangs it over his chair, and circles the table. “Tell me about the letters.”

  Mitch picks up a mug, turning his back to me to prepare his coffee. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his perfect, round ass showcased by the tight grey fabric that clings to every curve.

  “Gavin?”

  I can’t do this here with him. Alone. With that ass, those eyes, and the scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing. My brain won’t function properly while bombarded from all sides by filthy sexual fantasies starring Mitch.

  “I-I forgot. I have somewhere to be.”

  Jumping up, I catch a surprised expression on Mitch’s face right before I bolt out the door.

  Mitch

  The door slams shut and I stomp up the stairs from the garage to the first floor of my townhouse. I head straight for the kitchen, grab a beer, and down half of it in a few long gulps. Flipping the cap in my hand over and over, I contemplate Gavin’s odd behavior.

  The last twenty-four hours are among the strangest I’ve ever experienced. Seeing as I used to sit in the same room as some of the worst human beings on earth, I’d say that’s pretty remarkable.

  I finish off the beer and toss it into the bin where it rattles against the other recyclables.

  Last night with Hailey was a fucking fiasco. Then today’s meeting with Gavin Walker somehow turned disastrous, ending abruptly when the musician tore out of the place like his ass was on fire.

  The collar of my shirt feels choking and restrictive. I yank at it in vain and decide to change. Six years of wearing a suit every day as a Fed and it only took a week in regular clothes for it to feel stifling to put one back on.

  A week and one very disturbing incident that spurred me to quit the bureau.

  After pulling on sweats and my favorite T-shirt that says, “I’m Undercover” in bright yellow script, I boot up the computers to get some work done.

  While the systems kick on, I pick up a pen and chew on the end, my mind wandering to last night’s humiliating failure with Hailey.

  “What’s wrong, Mitch? You haven’t been, you know, functional lately.”

  I roll over and face the wall, tired of listening to her bitch at me.

  “Jesus, Hailey. I’m just exhausted, all right?”

  I hear her huff and feel Hailey’s weight shift as she gets out of the bed.

  “I’m going, Mitch.” The sound of clothes rustling fills the room. “You’ve never been really into this, have you?” She pauses, waiting for a response that isn’t coming. “Mitch! Can you at least look at me?”

  Sighing, I flip onto my back and tuck my arms behind my head. At least the sheet is covering what tiny scrap of dignity I have left.

  Hailey, now dressed, has her hands on her hips and is staring at me. She has her long, blonde hair piled up on her head and her mouth pulled into a pouty frown. She’s gorgeous, yet when I look at her I feel nothing.

  “Jesus, Mitch. Forget it. I’m not wasting my breath.”

  I move to get up but she throws up a hand.

  “I’ll see myself out. Don’t bother.”

  Yeah, not being able to get it up for her, again, wasn’t mortifying enough. She dumped me while I was still in bed, naked. Not that I care. Hell, I know I was just a piece of ass for her. She practically licked her lips whenever I took my pants off. As little as I cared about Hailey that episode was still humiliating. Now that damn twitch in my eye is back, reminding me how screwed up I am.

  The home screen pops up on my computer. I log in and sift through a dozen emails, responding to the urgent ones. Then I pull out the file given to me by Ross Evans before the meeting went to hell. I can do basic research—cross check with different agencies to see if the few letters they kept have any matches to other similar crimes. But until I can interview Gavin Walker, most of what I’ll need to do will be more hands on investigating.

  The image of my hands literally investigating Gavin Walker flashes through my brain. Blood rushes south, startling my sleeping cock. I remember the light scent of coconut I detected when shaking Gavin’s hand and my dick gets even harder. Gritting my teeth in anger at the unwelcome thoughts, I resist giving in, clenching my fists and willing the images away.

  It takes a good ten minutes of picturing some of the worst crime scene photos I can recall to get myself under control. Why would I think about Gavin that way?

  I can’t even go there right now. Not a chance.

  After staring at the closed file for another fifteen frustrating, cock-swelling minutes, I decide to give up and go for a run.

  Denial complete.

  62

  Mitch

  “Tell me again why you agreed to do this? You sound as if you’d rather be getting your nuts cut off than working on this case.”

  I laugh at my friend and former co-worker, Sasha Knight. “I wouldn’t say that, but I’m certainly realizing that this was a bad idea.”

  Her loud, no-nonsense voice surrounds me in my car thanks to my hands-free device. “Hale, I know you better than you know yourself. If you were smart, you’d turn that car around and go right on home. You’re already frustrated and you haven’t even started your investigation.”

  Sasha and I were on the same task force at the bureau. She’s a brilliant profiler and a full-time badass. The fact that she could read me like an open book was always uncomfortable, but tolerable since she kept most of her thoughts to herself. She’s not as edited now that I don’t work with her every day.

  “I’m fine, Sasha,” I counter, lying through my teeth. “I just don’t like Hollywood types, that’s all.”

  “Oh really? How many Hollywood types do you know?”

  She got me there.

  “None, until now.” She always did make me feel like a junior profiler.

  “And you spent a total of ten minutes with the man.” I knew I shouldn’t have told her about that disaster of a meeting. “Give the guy a break. He’s traumatized.”

  “Stop trying to profile him, Sasha. Even I didn’t spend enough time with the guy to make an attempt.” I turn onto the 110 and immediately hit bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  “I’m not,” she responds innocently.

  “Then stop trying to profile me.” Traffic crawls along at a snail’s pace. I reach over and crank up the a/c. The car suddenly feels stiflingly hot. Or it could be the suit I’m wearing
. I tug at the collar, trying without success to loosen the tie. I despise these things.

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing that, Hale. But if you want some insight—”

  “I’ll ask for it. Listen, Sasha, I gotta go. I’m almost there.”

  I turn off the exit for the beach and make my way through the slightly less packed, but still infuriatingly slow traffic that leads to Huntington Beach.

  “Fine. I’m here if you ever want to dig deep into that brain of yours, Hale.” Sasha laughs, but I know she’s serious. Her sharp eyes and ears miss nothing. Like she said, she probably knows things about me that I don’t even know.

  “Right, Sasha. Bye.”

  I parallel park in the miniscule driveway of an enormous white concrete and glass modern home.

  “Bye!”

  I disconnect the call and sit in the idling car for a few minutes, attempting to dry the layer of sweat that formed during the stressful drive. I nearly convince myself it was the traffic and not Gavin Walker that has me as tense as a prisoner on his way to the electric chair. After reading the file and the threats, Ross confirmed that Gavin is in fact gay, which isn’t known publically. Somehow, that knowledge makes my errant thoughts even more uncomfortable.

  Screw it. I turn the car off and hop out, faking the attitude I need to get through this. I’ve come face to face with some of the sickest, most twisted serial killers known to man. I can manage to work with one slightly off-kilter, stunningly gorgeous, gay guitarist.

  I step onto a tiny front walk, which is only steps from the street where cars pass and people walk by. Score one point in the column of ‘things that will make it more difficult to keep my client safe’.

  Glancing around, I see that the homes are a stone’s throw from each other, with windows looking straight into the neighbor’s house. Another point deducted.

  There are tiny alleyways between each building, including one on either side of Gavin’s. Someone could potentially jump the pathetically short fence and hide. I sigh and rub the back of my sweaty neck. Yet another point deducted.