The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  “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?”

  72

  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 clean 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 still. 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.”

  “Fuck, four days,” I whisper. “Where’s Gavin? He must be going out of his mind!”

  Sasha’s kind face crumples and she looks away.

  “Sasha,” I growl. “Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry, Mitch. He went home.”

  “What the hell do you mean, home? He wouldn’t do that. He has to be here.” Agitated, I try to get up out of bed, setting off a half-dozen machines and nearly throwing up from the pain.

  “Stop it, Mitch. I’ll explain if you stop!” Sasha sounds panicked and fuck, it hurts so much. I let her push me back down on the bed.

  “Fine. Tell me,” I growl.

  “He didn’t know what had happened, that you had been shot,” she begins. “I couldn’t call him because no one had his number. I only found out you were at the hospital because I called your phone and your mom answered. When Gavin called after that, he came straight here.”

  “If he came to the hospital, why isn’t he still here? I don’t understand. The tour should be over. He’d want to be here.” None of this makes sense. I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff. On one side is the pain threatening to bring me to my knees. On the other is my heart, hovering over a canyon to be smashed on the sharp rocks below.

  Sasha pulls out her phone, typing something on the screen. Before she shows it to me, she explains. “Now Mitch, you have to know that Gavin was here and he was destroyed at the sight of you.” I wince at the thought of him sitting vigil for me. “He did this for you, thinking it was safer. That it was for the best.”

  “Did he tell you that or are you profiling him again,” I snap. “Give me the damn phone, Sasha.” I hold out my hand, indignant. I hope that Sasha thinks my hand is shaking from my condition, not from the sense of dread coursing through my veins.

  “Just know he cares very much, Mitch.” She drops the device in my palm and stands up. “I’ll be back in a little while.” Sasha exits the room, closing the door behind her.

  The popular celebrity magazine’s website has a huge color photo of Gavin and me across the top, a computer generated tear down between us, ripping the picture in two. On top of that in large bold red letters the word FAKE is emblazoned.

  My heart clenches and my breath staggers, which brings a fresh round of excruciating pain to my wounded chest. I skim the article, trying to convince myself this is all a lie, that Gavin would never do this without speaking to me first. But there it is, displayed for the entire world to see.

  When I realize that it’s an actual interview with Gavin and not just some tabloid hack’s speculation, the phone nearly slips from my trembling fingers.

  Reporter- “So what you’re saying is that your boyfriend, Mitch Hale, was actually a security expert planted to draw out a stalker?”

  Gavin Walker- “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  Reporter- “How long had you been receiving threats?”

  GW- “For a long time, apparently. I wasn’t told about them until I discovered a note for myself a little over a year ago.”

  Reporter- “Why bring in an expert? You said that Mr. Hale used to track criminals for the FBI.”

  GW- “He did. The notes began escalating and were accompanied by offensive items. That’s when we decided to hire someone to investigate.”

  Reporter- “So you and Mr. Hale weren’t ever an item?”

  GW- “No. He was always just an employee.”

  Reporter- “But you are in fact gay. Is that correct?”

  GW- “I am.”

&n
bsp; Reporter- “So where is Mr. Hale today? Have you caught the criminal that’s been harassing you?”

  GW- “We haven’t, but something came up that Mr. Hale needed to take care of. We’ll be handing over the investigation to the authorities from this point on. I do wish him well on his future endeavors.”

  I let the phone slide onto the rumpled sheets. My chest hurts more now than it did earlier, and not because of the bullet wound.

  Gavin broke up with me in an interview. And left me a way to stay in the closet if I decided I was too much of a coward to face reality. Sasha says he cares. Fuck him, if he cared, he’d be here holding my hand, making the pain in my chest recede instead of letting go of my heart and letting it splatter all over the floor.

  I push the button for the nurse, desperate for a hit of painkillers, hoping that enough of them will make everything better. As I slide off into oblivion I realize too late that no, nothing will ever be better again.

  73

  Gavin

  My house feels cold, stark after being gone for over eight weeks.

  Admit it, it’s dumping Mitch that’s leaving you shivering, not the house.

  I drop my bag on the floor and trudge into the kitchen. As bright and sunny as it is today, it may as well be dark and raining with the heavy cloud that’s hanging over my head. I know I did the right thing, getting the stalker’s focus off of Mitch by publically letting everyone think that our relationship was bullshit, but it feels crappy to deny the reality of what we had together.

  Even my surfboards don’t bring the same sense of longing. Used to be I could just look at them and feel peaceful and content. Not anymore. Now I feel completely adrift. Set out to sea without an anchor to keep me stable.

  Fuck me. Johnny Utah was my anchor.

  Despite the early hour, I grab a six-pack out of the fridge, jam a hat on my head and open the back door.

  “Mr. Walker.”