The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  “So,” she teases, “why are you bribing me with dinner?”

  I put down my beer and chuckle. “Who says I’m bribing you? Can’t a guy take out a friend without there being a reason?”

  “Of course. But, I know you. So spill. What’s going on?”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans. “I don’t know. I’m just…restless, I guess. I start with a new client tomorrow—”

  “See. You’re so predictable. It is a case,” CeCe giggles.

  I shoot her a fake glare. “If you’d let me finish.”

  She waves a hand at me, urging me to go on.

  “Anyway, it’s not the type of client I usually accept.”

  The server brings our plates, asks us if we want anything else, and leaves when we tell him we’re all set.

  “What do you mean?” CeCe asks around a mouthful of food.

  “For one thing, it’s a celebrity.”

  Her eyes go round. “Celebrity? Okay. That’s not too odd. This is Los Angeles in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Ha-ha. I know that.” I shift in my seat. “I’ve been hired to investigate a stalker.”

  CeCe puts down her fork, wipes her mouth, and leans in. “Okay, now I’m interested.”

  “I can’t tell you who it is, Cee.” I shove a forkful of food in my mouth.

  “I know, Mitch, but it’s like you said…you’ve avoided famous clients so far. The question is, why now?”

  I sigh and take a huge swig of my beer. “Personal favor. My cousin is a good friend of a friend of the celebrity.” I wave my hand. “Something like that anyway. I do the criminal investigation and profiling part regularly, but I’ll have to basically be with this guy all the time until I catch the stalker.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Yeah, it’s that bad. The threats have escalated over time from letters to gifts to a dead animal in his hotel room.”

  “Holy shit.” CeCe’s mouth drops open.

  “I know.”

  I think about how Gavin lashed out at being trapped in his house, basically being babysat 24/7 and feel bad for the guy. Then I remember how tense it was watching the Dodgers game the other night and frown.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Huh? What’s what for?”

  “That irritated look on your face?”

  “Irritated?” I fumble my fork. “Oh. Yeah. The client is kind of a jerk. I mean… he was the other night. He was literally vibrating with tension. I could tell he was going to do something stupid, you know? Like go out somewhere without protection, stubborn bastard. So I sort of invited myself to stay at his house and watch the Nationals game.”

  “I can’t imagine why that would annoy him,” she says drily.

  I huff. “I couldn’t just tell the guy he couldn’t go out, Cee. I had to think of something to keep him home.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like baseball,” she offers.

  I glare across the table. “It doesn’t matter. He was a standoffish tosser. Barely said two words to me. It was the longest three hours of my life.”

  “Hey, at least the Nationals won. And your British is coming out.”

  “So not helping, CeCe.”

  She grins. “You’re brilliant, Mitch. You’ll catch whoever it is and make your client eternally grateful. He’s probably just being a jerk because he’s stressed out.”

  “Don’t defend him, Cee. You’re on my side. Remember? I came here to complain, not garner sympathy for the other guy.”

  “Meh,” she brushes me off. “It’ll all work out in the end. Just ignore him. Chalk it up to…I don’t know, Hollywood eccentricities.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “What?” she questions, smiling.

  “That’s exactly what I already told myself.”

  CeCe taps the side of her head with a manicured fingernail. “Great minds, Mitch. Great minds.”

  * * *

  “I don’t like this at all,” Gavin complains for the hundredth time. “It’s stupid.”

  I follow closely behind, paying more attention to our surroundings than his diva-like whining.

  Hawke, the dark-haired, tattooed band member who seems to be Gavin’s closest friend, speaks up. “Gavin, can’t you just accept it? Please? It will make everything much easier on everyone.”

  Gavin grumbles but I can’t make out what he says.

  We pile into a stretch limo with Ross Evans, two other employees, and the other two guys in the band, including Adam Reynolds, the one who is now married to Gemma’s friend, Ellie.

  I tune out their chatter as the limo makes it’s way through L.A. to our destination, a club called Cargo, which in my opinion is the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.

  It’s only been two days since I started spending most of my time in Gavin’s less than stellar company. The man pouts a lot. And when I say pout, I mean full-on, petulant, huffing, puckered-lip pouting. Being able to read people like I can, I know he’s holding back his anger. Gavin might look beautiful and calm on the outside, but I have no doubt he has the ability to strike out viciously when necessary.

  I pull at the collar of my dress shirt, irritated that I’m back in a suit and tie after ditching them for what I thought was the rest of my life. I’m playing the role of one of the public relations people for the band. This way, the stalker will think that Gavin is unprotected. If he sees FBI types or bodyguards crawling around, he’ll be more careful. The two security guys are acting as personal assistants. With no visible security, the stalker may make a mistake that I can spot.

  “All right,” Ross announces as the limo glides to a stop. “You guys know the drill. We’re performing three songs off the new album, then the signing and photograph session for fans, finally you’ll be up in the VIP section of the club for the rest of the night. Got it?”

  The men murmur their understanding.

  I glance over at Gavin. He’s chatting quietly with Hawke, his hand stuffed into his front pocket. Hawke is nodding along with whatever Gavin is saying.

  “Let’s go!” Ross exclaims. He opens the door and sits back, letting the band exit first.

  Adam no sooner has a foot on the sidewalk and the crowd goes mad. Flashbulbs pulse and girls scream—it’s unbelievable and a little scary. When it’s Gavin’s turn, I squeeze in behind him. Grabbing his arm, I pull him back into the limo.

  “What is it, Utah?” he snaps, his mouth pulled into a sneer. There’s that snarling alpha I knew was hidden beneath the model-perfect façade.

  My eye does a quick twitch. “All I was going to say is stay close to me. If you need to go somewhere, let me know.”

  The harsh look on his face fades. “Fine.”

  Okay, maybe it doesn’t completely fade. The man hates my guts. Good thing he doesn’t have to like me, he only has to tolerate me. The question is, can I tolerate him when every cell in my body is urging me to do things I thought were long buried?

  63

  Gavin

  “Hawke, can you come with me?” I motion for my best friend to slip out of the crowded room where fans are getting autographs signed and photos taken. The stench of the groupies’ perfume combined with the loud squealing is giving me a headache.

  He nods, following me to the edge of the room. When Adam cracks a joke and the entire place erupts in laughter, we slide out unnoticed.

  “Count on Reynolds to pull the perfect cover,” I reveal to Hawke.

  “You asked him to do that?” He looks at me with one pierced eyebrow lifted in amusement.

  “What do you think?” I shove Hawke into an empty dressing room, slamming the door behind us. “It was the only way to get out of there.”

  “Christ, Gav. What’s going on with you?” Hawke stares at me with a confused expression, his eyes narrowed behind the black-frame glasses he wears even though he has perfect eyesight.

  I give him an incredulous look.

  “Okay,” he concedes, holding his hands up. “What’
s going on besides the stalker thing? You’re acting extra weird tonight.”

  I jam my hand in my pocket and pull out the stone, gripping it so tight I’ll probably have a heart-shaped indentation in my palm.

  “It’s nothing specific,” I grumble. Sighing, I run my free hand through my hair. “The crowd, the tiny room, the shrieking women. Hell, I’m probably just frustrated by my new cock-blocking shadow.”

  Hawke barks out a laugh. “Who cares about him? He’s the help. You want to have someone over then have someone over. That’s his problem if he has to see or hear something he doesn’t like.”

  I want to laugh, but the fact that I’d rather have ‘the help’ in my bed isn’t something I want to share with Hawke. And we’ve shared a lot.

  He jerks his chin towards the hand with the stone. “You still carry that thing?”

  “Only when I’m freaking out,” I reply. “It…helps somehow. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid.” Hawke puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ve been there, Gav. Or have you forgotten?”

  I shake my head. Of course I haven’t forgotten. How could I? I think about it all the time. The day I got the heart-shaped talisman was one of the most important days of my life. It’s the day I met my best friend.

  I watch the new kid drum with his fingers on the tabletop. He has his eyes closed, thumping out a hypnotizing rhythm. He’s been here three days and I haven’t heard him say a single word. All he ever does is pound his heart out on any surface he can find.

  He’s interesting looking. Shorter than my six feet by several inches, he has wild, nearly black hair and the most unique eyes I’ve ever seen. His right eye is shockingly blue, like the color of the ocean, but his left eye is a bright golden-brown.

  Gathering up what little courage I have, I wander over and take the seat across from him. Harold, his name is Harold.

  “Hi. I’m Gavin.”

  Harold’s fingers freeze and his eyes pop open in surprise. It takes about a half a second for his expression to shutter up tight.

  “Sorry. I was enjoying your drumming.” I shrug. “I’m a musician too. Guitar. You’re lucky. These assholes won’t let me have my guitar in here. You can drum anywhere.”

  Harold’s mouth twitches in amusement so I continue.

  “I like to play my guitar on the beach. That’s my favorite place in the world. I surf a lot too. I can do tricks and everything. People always tell me I look like a surfer.”

  His eyes flick to my butch haircut and his mouth quirks up again.

  I laugh, rubbing the velvety fuzz on my head. “Yeah, I know. My dad shaved off all of my hair. I used to look like a real surfer. Blonde and tan and all that.”

  Harold’s eyebrows pull down over those unusual eyes. “Why did he do that?”

  Shocked to hear him speak, my own eyes probably bulge in their sockets. “Uhhh,” I fidget nervously. Do I tell him? I’m not ashamed of being gay, but unfortunately, I’ve found that not everyone is accepting.

  I decide I don’t care what this kid thinks. He’s in a mental hospital just like me. Who is he to judge?

  “My dad said I looked like a girl. I’ve never told him, but somehow he knows. I’m gay.”

  I stare at Harold’s face, waiting for the inevitable disgust that is sure to follow. Incredibly, he smiles.

  “Are you less gay now that your hair is short?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Guess your dad is stupid then.” He extends a hand across the table. “I’m Hawke.”

  I shake the offered hand. “Hawke?”

  He pulls his hand back and begins drumming again, a complex, hypnotizing rhythm. “I don’t go by Harold. That’s my…that was my dad’s name.”

  “Oh.” I fidget with my hands again, desperately needing something to keep them occupied. Normally, I would be strumming on my guitar. They don’t let kids in mental institutions have instruments with wire strings on them, for obvious reasons.

  Hawke shrugs. His eyes focus in on my fingers. Embarrassed, I press my palms down on the table.

  “You miss your guitar,” he guesses correctly.

  This guy is really observant. And smart. “Yeah.”

  “Here.” Hawke leans to one side and digs in his pocket. Pulling something out, he holds his closed fist over the table.

  I open my hand palm up. Hawke drops a small, grey, heart-shaped stone into it.

  “What’s this for?”

  “You’re a lot like me. I can tell. I always need to be doing something with my hands or I think too much. Like you said, I can drum anywhere. Now you have that.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, wondering why someone would be so nice.

  “Yeah. I don’t want it.”

  “Why did you bring it then? You know, if you don’t want it?”

  Hawke stops drumming. His entire body tenses but he doesn’t look up. “It was my sister’s.”

  The door bursts open, Mitch barreling through like a bull on steroids.

  “What the hell, man?” Hawke cries out when the edge of the door clips his shoulder.

  “Christ, Gavin. You’re supposed to tell me where you’re going,” Mitch barks, clearly irritated. He scowls at me, his grey eyes flashing with anger.

  And damn if that doesn’t make him even hotter. I imagine us wrestling for domination, kissing and grappling and slamming each other against the wall.

  Fuck.

  I turn my back to him. Gritting my teeth as I try to force down the wood that just sprung up in my pants.

  “You know,” Mitch hisses. “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you don’t even have to be nice to me. But I can’t keep you safe and catch this guy if you duck out and hide from me like a bratty little girl.”

  “Ummmm, I’m gonna go back to the other room,” Hawke says. He knows how pissed I get when someone calls me a girl among other things. Certainly, he doesn’t want to stick around for the fallout.

  I shove the stone back in my pocket and spin around, my erection gone from Mitch’s callous insult. Stepping into Mitch’s personal space, I get right up close so he can see exactly how furious I am.

  “Don’t fucking call me a girl, Utah,” I growl.

  Surprise registers on Mitch’s handsome face. Then he scowls right along with me. “Don’t act like one then!” he shoots back, stepping forward, trying to bully me back.

  Too bad he doesn’t know that thanks to my dad, I’m an expert at dealing with bullies.

  Fuming mad, I shove at his shoulders with my hands, sending him crashing into the wall behind him. “You work for me!”

  Oh god, my dark fantasy is coming true. What’s the chance he’ll throw me against the wall and kiss me right now?

  Mitch growls, a deep, masculine sound that comes rumbling from his wide chest. Christ, I can’t do this in here. It’s too hot, he’s too close, and now I’m fucking hard again from staring at those grey eyes and smelling his cologne mixed with the scent of him.

  Knowing I’ll do something I’ll regret if I don’t leave, I spin and fling open the door, stomping down the hall to rejoin the rest of the band. I don’t have to look to know that Mitch has fallen into step behind me.

  I’m being an asshole and I know it. Taking out my anger on Mitch isn’t fair. It’s not his fault I’m attracted to him. That all he has to do is exist and I’ll sprout a hard-on that can pound nails.

  But the fact that I can’t get laid is his fault to some extent. I plan to remedy that tonight. A cute brunet cruised me earlier during the meet and greet. Maybe he’ll be in the VIP section and I can convince him to come over later. If I can’t have Mitch, I’ll have the next best thing.

  Ross catches me in the hall. “Hey, we’re heading upstairs.”

  “Fine.”

  I follow Ross out into the main club and up to the corded off VIP area. Catching a glimpse of Mitch out of the corner of my eye as I take the seat next to Hawke, I note his chiseled jaw is rigid and his eyes are hard sl
its. Mitch scans the area, looking for threats, I’m sure. When those cold eyes land on mine, heat floods my body. Unable to pull my gaze from his, I watch as streaks of crimson flush his cheeks, a slight twitch pulling at one eye, before his gaze darts away.

  Shifting in my chair, I realize that I am completely fucked up. I might hate him, I might feel like punching him, but it’s undeniable that I want him.

  How the hell am I supposed to function like this?

  Mitch

  Unreal.

  Gavin Walker is one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever met. And the only one who refuses to listen to my advice. I’m fuming from the far end of the limo while Gavin drunkenly makes out with some guy he picked up at the club.

  Gavin has no idea who this guy is. For all we know, he could be the stalker! Now I’m in for a long night because I’m sure as hell not going to leave him alone in the house with a random person who may or may not want to chop him up into little pieces. The security set up outside wouldn’t get to him in time if something were to happen.

  I watch as the dark-haired guy climbs up on Gavin’s lap, straddling him. Long, thin fingers skate down the guy’s back, gripping his ass tight while they grind together.

  Jesus. They can’t wait until we get back to Gavin’s house? The neck of my dress shirt is choking me. I dig my fingers in and pull, loosening my tie. It’s not enough. It feels as if I’m slowly suffocating. I have to swallow down a gag and focus on breathing.

  I hadn’t planned on seeing a live sex show. And in a million years wouldn’t have guessed it would turn me on. The unexpectedness of that fact pisses me off, as does the hard cock in my pants.

  When we get to the house, I hop out first, checking to make sure there isn’t a crazy person waiting to ambush Gavin. Of course Gavin doesn’t wait for me to finish my sweep. Instead, he stumbles out of the limo with what’s-his-name in tow, both of them giggling like the drunken idiots they are.

  They shove past me to the front door and are inside before I can check for threats in the house.