“Was part of your job to kiss me in the bathroom?” He flinches but I continue. “And I didn’t pick up that guy at the beach. He came over to say hi and then I sent him on his way. Ask Marcus if you don’t believe me.” I look around, confused. “Where is Marcus?”
Mitch’s eyes are less hostile, but still cautious. “I sent him to monitor the front gate. It’s swarming with reporters. They know where we are.”
I glance down at my bare feet while picking at the label on the beer. “Yeah, Marcus said something about that.” Lifting my head, I meet Mitch’s eyes again. “It’s not going to get better for a while. The paparazzi, I mean. Me coming out,” I shrug. “They’re not going to let it go overnight.”
Suddenly tired, I finish my beer and grab another. When I hold one out to Mitch he shakes his head. I take a seat at the table and open the new bottle.
Mitch sighs. “I know. I’ve gotten a bunch of calls from friends and family wanting to know what’s going on. I guess I didn’t think about the repercussions in my own life.”
Mitch seems to be torn—having to decide between joining me and having a civilized conversation or storming out of here again and pretending nothing happened between us.
“You had to know your family was going to want to know why you’re suddenly out in public with a man. One who appears in the tabloids.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think it through. I’ll call them later.”
He takes the seat across from me, but his body language is guarded. Large, sinewy forearms cross his broad chest. Mitch leans way back in his chair. Probably to get as far away from me as possible. His jaw is rigid, the muscles pulsing beneath his skin. My eyes drop to the smooth line of his throat and my hand unconsciously rubs the spot on my own neck where Mitch left his mark.
Those intelligent eyes zero in on my fingers. His pupils enlarge and I watch, transfixed, as the expression on his face turns from restrained to lust-filled.
I drop my hand so I can get some answers before he attacks me again. “What did you find?”
Mitch seems confused. “Huh?”
I can’t help but laugh. I know exactly what’s going through that filthy mind of his. He was imagining marking me again. “I asked what you found over the last few days. With the stalker?”
“Right.” His glazed eyes snap back into focus.
Hello gorgeous. Back with us from the land of lust?
“I went through all the notes, gifts, interviews—all of it—and sorted out what I believe to be from the actual stalker and what I think is from the second, less threatening person.”
“You were able to tell the difference?”
Mitch’s face lights up, obviously excited to talk about his work. “Yeah, it’s pretty easy if you know what to look for. What took me so long was the sheer amount of notes, plus the fact that most of them were thrown out. That meant I had to comb through all the interviews to find witness descriptions. Mostly from Ross.”
“Okay, so are we looking for two stalkers then?”
“No. One of them isn’t dangerous. At least, for now,” he clarifies. “Sometimes these guys can escalate their threats and we’d have to take him more seriously. But so far, in my opinion, the second person is all talk.”
“What did you find on the real stalker? He’s the one who left the dead animal in New York, right?” I swallow, nauseous from the memory.
“Yes. That one.” Mitch blushes deep red, fidgeting in his chair.
“What? What did you find?” Why is he suddenly embarrassed?
“Ummmm, after reviewing the content, the patterns, the way the notes and items became more explicit and angry…” Mitch hesitates, glancing up at me before dropping his gaze back to the table where he becomes fascinated with a small scratch on the surface.
“Just say it, Hale,” I snap, impatient and now a little worried about what he found.
“Many of the things I found lead me to believe that you may have crossed paths with this man before or have some kind of a tie to him.”
My heart skips a beat.
“What?” I whisper.
Mitch still doesn’t look at me. “I had to go back to when the notes first began and start my search there. Which includes any employees, friends, um…” he blushes an even deeper shade of red. “Doctors or patients you may have been in contact with.”
My stomach does a painful flip as my lungs punch out a heavy breath. I reach for my pocket, cursing when I realize I’m wearing sweatpants without pockets and left my stone upstairs.
He knows.
“I’m sorry, Gavin.” Mitch does in fact look sorry for intruding on my past, but that doesn’t help relieve the shame.
No one knows. Not Ross, not Adam, not Dax… only my mother, Ellie, and Hawke. And now Mitch. Mitch Hale knows that I tried to kill myself when I was seventeen and spent three months in a children’s psychiatric ward, released only because I turned eighteen and they couldn’t keep me against my will any longer.
I shoot to my feet, humiliation washing over me. Nausea and shame churn in my stomach, making me light headed.
“Gavin, it’s okay—”
I start backing away from the table. “I-I need…uh, I have to…”
Fuck it. Without explanation I turn on my heel and flee for my room, locking the door behind me. I rummage through my nightstand and pull out the smooth, cold rock, rolling it around in my fingers.
My eyes zero in on the bed, disheveled and covered in Mitch’s scent. I can’t stay here. It feels as if the walls are closing in on me, making it difficult to breathe.
Mitch knows that I’m a coward. That I’m weak and gave up. That I allowed my father to bully me into suicide because I couldn’t or wouldn’t stand up to him.
Big, strong, fearless Mitch Hale won’t ever look at me the same again. A wave of panic crashes over me, threatening to drag me under. My knees buckle and I have to grab the edge of the bed to keep from hitting the floor.
Scrabbling, I locate my phone and fumble until I find the correct entry. It only rings once before it’s answered.
“Hey. I need to get out of here or I am going to lose it,” I confess to the person on the other end.
“I’ll be right there.”
I end the call and sink to the carpet cursing myself for thinking I could ever leave my past behind. I hadn’t realized how important it was to have Mitch’s respect until it was gone.
Mitch
How did everything get so screwed up so fast?
One minute Gavin and I were tangled together, sweaty and writhing, the next, he’s shut me out and locked himself in his room.
I pace the back patio, staring out at the view of the city. It’s hot and hazy today, the smog dense around the tall buildings. The back of my shirt becomes sticky within minutes.
Wow, it’s really hot out.
The pool glistens in the sun, inviting and cool. I’m already barefoot, so I roll up the bottom of my jeans and sit on the edge, sticking my feet in the cold water.
I freeze at the sound of a car pulling up the drive. The front door slams and the car engine revs. I’m on my feet and running through the house when I hear the tires squeal on the asphalt. By the time I get to the front step, it’s long gone.
Shit!
My hand goes to my pocket to call Marcus at the front gate and tell him not to let the car leave, only to find it empty.
No! No, no, no, no!
I scramble back into the house and dash up the stairs, gracelessly stumbling into Gavin’s room. The bed is still unmade, the scent of sex heavy in the air. I check the bathroom, the guest rooms, and the entire house before I accept that Gavin is gone.
“Son of a bitch!” I shout. To who? I have no idea. No one is listening.
Furious, I snatch my phone from the duffel bag I dumped on the kitchen floor and dial Gavin. Straight to voicemail. Of course. It takes me three tries to stop shaking in anger long enough to pound out a text.
Don’t do this. It’s not safe. Call me.
When I don’t get a response, I call Marcus and tell him to come back to the house then throw the phone onto the nearby couch and sink down onto it.
Could I have possibly blown this job in a more spectacular manner? Shame quickly overtakes my anger. It’s not Gavin’s fault everything went to shit. It’s mine. I can’t be mad at him. I’m the one who is here to do a job, not screw my client. I’m the one who crossed the line by kissing him the other night. I’m the one who took off for a few days because I couldn’t face the truth about myself.
Jesus, I’m a walking cliché. Not just the part about hooking up with a client, but being so far in the closet I didn’t even realize there was one.
My phone rings from under the couch cushion and I bolt upright to find it. Please let it be Gavin. It takes a few seconds of looking, but I finally get it in my hand and glance at the display.
Ross Evans.
Shit. Time to face the music.
I answer in my normal clipped tone. “Hale.”
“What in the holy fuck is going on?” I inhale to respond, but he continues his rant. “Hawke just called to tell me that he’s with Gavin and they’re taking off for a few days and not to try and find them. Was this your idea?”
“No. Gavin left without telling me.”
Cringing, I wait for the verbal lashing I’m due to receive for losing track of my client. Instead, I get a much more rational Ross Evans than I expected.
“Well, it’s probably good that he’s lying low.”
“What?” I nearly shout.
“After that stunt you two pulled at the release party, then Gavin’s little foray on the beach.” He pauses and a flood of jealousy has me seeing read at the thought of Gavin with that cute twink. “Hawke promised to have them both back in time to start the tour, so it’ll give the media time to cool off.”
“The boyfriend thing was all for show, Ross.” I figure I may as well straighten things out with Ross. There’s no sense telling him about the hook up this morning since I can’t let it happen again.
“Alright.”
I ignore Ross’ short response. “When does the tour start?” I ask, still seething, only not just from the twink. Now I’m furious that Gavin is somewhere without me, and I don’t know when I’ll see him next.
“Ten days,” Ross answers. “And you shouldn’t have posed as his boyfriend without clearing it with the label.” Thankfully, he says his piece and lets it drop, so I don’t bother arguing with him that it’s Gavin’s choice who he dates, not the label’s. “Ten days should give you time to take care of personal business and do some legwork before we go on the road. The record label deposited a check in your account to cover the damage to your townhouse.”
I ignore the part about the break-in, choosing to clarify the more important detail. “Wait…you want me to go on tour with you?”
He can’t mean that, can he?
Ross huffs out an impatient sound. “Mitch, ninety percent of the notes and gifts have happened on tour. Of course you have to come. It’s when this sicko usually makes contact.”
He’s right to be annoyed. I’m the expert. I should have come to the obvious conclusion. My head is all twisted around with this case—two stalkers, my house being destroyed, my involvement with Gavin. Maybe ten days reprieve will do me good, help me remember that I’m not here to get laid.
“Alright. I guess I’m going on tour.”
“I’ll have my secretary send you the details, hotel arrangements and all that,” Ross adds. “Call me if you find anything, otherwise I’ll see you on the fifteenth.”
The line goes dead.
* * *
Sweat pours off of me as I climb the basement stairs of my townhouse. Once in the kitchen, I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and make quick work of it. The brand new solid walnut table in the corner calls to me just like it has every day in the six days since Gavin disappeared.
After running my head under the cold tap and toweling off, I walk over to stand at the side of the table. I’ve turned it into a makeshift desk. Most of the surface is covered with documents. Now that I have upgraded doors and windows, plus a new security system, I’m almost okay with leaving the documents in the kitchen instead of locking them up in the office. The office is just too tiny to spread everything out. I’m a visual person. I need to see everything at once.
I glance over the papers, already having most of them memorized by now, searching for the connection that eludes me. Once again, I’m frustrated by the fact that I can’t find a single thing.
Stomping upstairs, my mind keeps going back to Gavin. To the way his body felt against mine, hard and hot and so unbelievably sexy. Now that I’ve had a taste of him, and of the real me, the thought of letting him go is near crippling. That’s if he even wanted me anywhere near him after he took of with Hawke last week. Plus, there’s the pesky fact that he’s a client that keeps getting in the way.
I take a quick shower and jerk off for the millionth time to images of Gavin as he comes, full lips parted, bright blue eyes glazed over, skin flushed.
Dressed and once again disgusted with myself for being unable to control my own body, I grab my keys and head down to the garage. There are a couple of people from Gavin’s past I want to speak to—a club owner where the band played when they first started out, and a neighbor from one of Gavin’s old apartments. Both of them have police records for stalking or aggravated harassment.
The garage door lifts and I back out of the drive, careful to watch out for the pack of kids that ride their bikes up and down the street at all hours. As I put the car in drive, my gaze drifts to my front step.
What the—?
I slam the car into park and leap out, not caring that I leave it running in the middle of the road in my not-so-safe neighborhood. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, trying to get a good look without touching anything. Slowly, I pull out my phone and call Detective Vallejo.
“Vallejo.” His deep voice is serious when he answers.
“Detective, it’s Mitch Hale. You’d better come to my house. I just received a present from our stalker.”
69
Gavin
“Jesus, you are boring as fuck, Walker.”
“Shut up,” I mutter to Hawke as he paces the room for the hundredth time. “Can you sit down? You’re making me a nervous wreck!” I drag a hand through my hair and continue to play a game on my phone in a useless bid to occupy my mind.
“I’m making you a wreck?” Hawke’s eyebrow piercing shoots up under his hair. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have to stay inside the whole time, Gavin! You know I can’t do this! I have to do something, anything!”
My best friend starts clawing at his shirt, his complexion pale.
“Hawke, I told you to go out,” I reiterate for the hundredth time since we arrived at his sprawling vacation home in Boulder, Colorado.
He stops his freak-out long enough to glare at me from behind those black-framed glasses. “Hell no. Not with a stalker after you.”
I scoff. “He can’t possibly know where we are. No one would ever think to check here.”
Hawke fidgets some more, moving to look out the window at the huge mountains that lay in the distance. “It’s not a secret that I own a house here, Gav. It pops up in the news every now and then.”
He’s right. Whenever he gets papped doing something—usually unbelievably reckless—in this town, the media always reiterates how he bought a secluded estate in the mountains.
I shrug. “It’s fine. Please, Hawke, I’m begging you to go. Take your bike or go rock climbing or whatever it is you do. I promise to lock the doors and stay at the house.”
Hawke flicks his gaze over to me. “You promise?”
“Yes.”
Anything to calm him down before we’re both climbing the walls. I’ve known him a long time and there’s one thing about Hawke that’s never changed… his unquenchable need for thrills. That’s why he bought a house in Boulder. It�
��s packed with adrenaline-filled activities—rock climbing, mountain biking, base-jumping, skydiving, you name it, Hawke’s done it.
“Alright, I’ll go. Just biking over at the trail.”
The trail is most likely a steep, long, dangerous path down a mountainside. I’ve learned to pick my battles with my best friend. He’s not going to stop living on the edge, so I don’t bother objecting anymore.
“Sure. Just take your phone in case you need to call for help or anything,” I smirk.
“Fuck off. I’ll take my phone in case you need to call me,” he retorts with a smile. “And eat something,” he calls out over his shoulder. “You look like shit.”
I grin even though he can’t see me.
Less than ten minutes later and Hawke is pulling out of the driveway in his black Jeep Rubicon, mountain bike perched on the back.
I thought getting rid of the nervous, twitchy, restless Hawke would allow me to relax. How wrong I was. The silence that permeates the large house combined with the tranquility of the view outside—all it does is give me plenty of opportunity to think. And thinking is the last thing I want to do.
My mind drifts back to that amazing experience I shared with Mitch and the overwhelming number of questions it inspired. Is he gay? Has he ever been with a man before? Does he want to do it again?
Irritated at myself for pushing Mitch away and then taking the coward’s way out by running, I wonder if I should call him. Seven days. It’s been seven days and he hasn’t contacted me once. Well, he did initially, but when he realized I was with Hawke and safely tucked away, the calls and texts stopped.
I close the game app on my phone and pull up Mitch’s number. At least twice a day, usually more, I stare at it with my finger hovering over the screen to make the call. Closing my eyes, I remember the way his rough hands felt on mine, holding me down on the bed. I can almost feel his mouth sliding across my skin, the scrape of his stubble leaving a fiery trail behind.