The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  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 scowl.

  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.”

  “That’s supposed to impress me?” he shouts. Gavin shakes his head, his crossed arms dropping to his sides. One hand goes into his pocket.

  “I didn’t say it made sense to normal-functioning people. But to someone like him it makes perfect sense. He resents you for living the life you live. He’s the victim in his mind, of you rejecting his love and affection even though he’ll never admit that’s what he wants.”

  “You just said he’s in the closet, Mitch. Hell, I’m…I was in the closet until tonight!”

  “That’s the source of his sudden anger towards me.” I shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable having a conversation with Gavin about a man refusing to acknowledge his sexuality. Irony. It kills me.

  I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “He’s angry at himself for having sexual or romantic feelings for a man, which is why the letters are increasingly twisted. The love and hate are tied together.”

  Gavin’s mouth twists until it looks like he bit a lemon. “Hmph. Seems to be a lot of that going around,” he murmurs as he turns his back to me.

  Being the chicken-shit that I am, I ignore his comment. I can’t have that discussion now. Too much is going on that I need to take care of.

  “I’m going to call the police. Are you up for answering their questions?” I palm my phone, waiting for an answer.

  Gavin is quiet for so long, I begin to think he’s not going to respond.

  “I don’t see that I have a choice,” he whispers. “I’ll be down when they get here.” He heads for the stairs and disappears.

  Exhausted, I slump into a kitchen chair, leaning over the table with my head in my hands.

  Way to go, Mitch. You really know how to fuck things up.

  * * *

  “Mitch?”

  A gentle touch on my shoulder wakes me up. I turn over to see Gavin, wearing only a bright red pair of boxer briefs standing next to the bed.

  “Gavin? Is something wrong?” I sit up, about to throw the covers off when I realize I’d be exposing significant morning wood. Morning wood that is slowly turning into a genuine hard-on thanks to the perfect, golden torso, complete with a faint blonde treasure trail and pierced nipples, right at my eye-level.

  “Someone’s at the door,” he whispers. “I didn’t know if I should answer it.”

  I glance up at his face. Gavin is frightened. Truly frightened. I suppose I would be too if I had a stalker leaving dead animals in my bed.

  What am I talking about? I have a stalker! One that destroyed my home. But I’m the one who fixes things. I’m supposed to keep Gavin safe.

  My hard-on vanishes when I see Gavin’s fear. Hell, I can practically taste it. It’s radiating off of him in waves.

  I jump out of bed and pull on a loose pair of sweats. Inside, my heart skips a beat when I notice Gavin sneak a peek at my crotch as I get dressed. I throw on a shirt and thrust a pair of shorts and a shirt at Gavin.

  “Put these on. Hurry,” I urge.

  For once, he does as I ask without a barrage of questions or complaints. While he dresses, I grab my Glock off the nightstand and double-check the clip. The sight of him wearing my clothes shouldn’t turn me on, but dammit, it does.

  “Come with me,” I whisper. Loud pounding comes from the front door, accompanied by the chimes of the fancy doorbell.

  Gavin jumps and grabs at the hem of my shirt. Without thinking, I reach back for his hand, clasping it in mine like I did last night at my townhouse. We creep down the stairs to the door.

  Letting go of his hand, I hold a finger up to my mouth. Parting the curtain with the Glock so I can see the front step, I peek outside.

  “Son of a bitch.” I move to
unlock the door.

  “What are you doing?” Gavin asks, wide-eyed.

  “It’s just Marcus.” When his expression doesn’t change, I continue. “The bodyguard?”

  “Oh. I forgot.” Gavin’s posture goes from frightened to defensive in the blink of an eye. It’s as if I watched an invisible wall slam down between us.

  Confused, I turn back to the door and open it for our guest.

  “Hale,” a deep, rumbling voice chastises. “I thought I was going to grow old and die out here waiting for you.”

  “Marcus!” I grin, holding out a hand. After we shake, I step aside. “This is the client, Gavin Walker.”

  “Mr. Walker,” Marcus says, nodding at Gavin. “Marcus Jacoby, your fill-in protection.” They shake hands while I close the door.

  “Why don’t you two get acquainted while I clean up and get dressed?”

  Gavin stares at me, dozens of unanswered questions in those wounded blue eyes. “I’ll make coffee,” he offers.

  “Show me the way,” Marcus responds.

  I swear, as Gavin walks away, he looks… hurt.

  I’m going crazy. Kissing Gavin, thinking about him all the time… it’s causing me to slip up and make mistakes. That’s why I need a few days away—to refocus on the reason I’m here—catching a criminal, not to dip my dick in my employer’s inkwell.

  As I strip my clothes and hop in the shower, my dick disagrees, jutting out from my groin, tall and proud.

  Motherfucker!

  66

  Gavin

  That fucking coward!

  My grip on a mug of black coffee tightens when Mitch comes into the kitchen to announce that he’s leaving.

  “I’ll be in touch, Marcus.” Mitch shakes hands again with my new babysitter, slapping him on the back.

  I roll my eyes. Stupid het greetings. God forbid they hug. It might make them gay.

  “No worries, Hale. I got your boy covered.”

  My gaze flicks over to Mitch just in time to see his expression tighten and his skin to flush red when Marcus refers to me as ‘his boy’. Mitch gives him a weak smile. I notice he has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and frown. Obviously, he has no plans to talk to me alone before tucking tail and running.