The Complete Rockstar Series (63 page)

“Jeez, Mitch. Being gay sure has made you catty.” After last night’s ‘coming out’ at the album launch, Sasha now knows the identity of my client. There’s no use denying it.

“Fucking hell, Sasha. Let it go, okay? Did you look over the stuff I sent?” I ignore the gay comment knowing she’s trying to get a rise out of me.

“I did.”

I wait a beat, and get frustrated when she doesn’t answer. This cat and mouse thing is her favorite game. She does it to draw out little bits of information she can use to profile you. Sasha’s been working on me for years.

“And…?”

“And, I agree with you, Mitch. There’s more than one perpetrator. Or, more specifically, more than one person writing the notes.”

Leaning back in my chair until I’m balanced on the back two legs, I run a hand down my face. “I see.”

“But one of them stopped a while back,” she continues.

“What do you mean?”

“The notes, the most recent ones all come from the same person. Whoever the partner was, for lack of a better word, is no longer involved.”

I jerk upright, causing the chair to slam back down onto all four legs. “You’re sure?”

“Am I ever wrong?” she purrs.

No, she isn’t.

“Thanks. I have to go.”

“This is all very interesting, Mitch. I’d love to hear more. Call me if you need any more help. Especially with that gorgeous Gavin Walker.”

At the mention of his name a rush of heat floods my skin, scorching hot as it travels down the length of my body.

“For god’s sake, Sasha,” I stutter, trying to get my thoughts under control. “Bye.”

“Bye, love!”

After calling both my insurance and a company that will bring a dumpster and clear out the house, I begin my research.

I always use the victim as a starting point and branch out from there. It feels wrong to poke around in Gavin’s past, but if I want to catch this guy, I have no choice.

When I enter Gavin’s name into an everyday search engine, millions of results pop up. This isn’t the first time I’ve looked him up, but it is the first time since knowing the man personally.

“Jesus.” I scratch at the itchy stubble on my neck as I gawk. There was no time to shave this morning. I
had
to get out of that house. I could see it in Gavin’s eyes. He wanted to discuss what happened in the men’s room last night.

Fuck. Just the thought of it has my cock twitching. I
want
to think of something else, distract my errant dick, but on the screen in front of me are dozens of photos of Gavin Walker. Photos of that perfect, angular face, made softer by a set of full, pink lips and thick, dark eyelashes that any woman would kill for.

I click on
Images
and am treated to an assorted array of tiny pictures of Gavin. One in particular has me literally about to come in my pants.

“Holy shit.” My hand shoots to my groin, squeezing hard to stop the imminent orgasm.

Don’t do it, Hale. This isn’t you. The thing with Grant wasn’t real and this isn’t real.

My body is telling my brain otherwise. As if possessed by an unseen force, my hand moves the cursor to click on the thumbnail.

It’s a spread in
Men’s Health
featuring Gavin, his surfboard, and not much else. The shot I’m drawn to is a side view of Gavin, completely naked, pressing his front against a tall blue board I recognize from his house. The long, tan, length of his body is exposed. With his arm closest to the camera bent and his hand gripping the edge of the board, the focus of the picture is the uninterrupted swath of skin from his ribcage, down his narrow waist, along the curve of his ass, to a gorgeous, muscled leg. Gavin’s model-perfect face is staring at the camera, his cheek resting on the board, his full lips slightly parted.

I swallow, the lust built up in my throat making it difficult. My cock is now bulging painfully against the tight denim of my jeans. I press down on it with the heel of my hand and groan.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I close the browser and take a few deep, calming breaths. My dick is still rock solid, but I can ignore that if I focus on something else. This is exactly why I needed to get away from that house. Get some space to concentrate without the damn scent of coconuts or a view of Gavin’s tight round ass. Or his nearly hairless torso. Or that mouth. Hell, that sinful mouth.

I groan again.

Not helping.

Turning to a different, more specialized computer, I enter Gavin’s personal information to begin my investigation. The results spit out a few minutes later and I flush, feeling guilty for what I find.

Fucking hell.

“
C
an
I just say this is a terrible idea?”

I glance over at Marcus as I pull my shirt over my head and toss it on the sand.

“I heard you the first hundred and fifty times, Marcus,” I reply. “I need this.” Mitch left two days ago and I haven’t heard from him since. Yeah, I could text or call him, but why should I? He’s the one who ran. I’m not going to chase him even if he is the most talented kisser on the face of the earth.

Marcus scowls, squinting in the bright sun.

I glance over at him before looking at the water. “There aren’t that many people here. Unless the guy has scuba gear and attacks me from underwater, I’m confident you’ll see him coming before he can get me.”

Without waiting to hear his reply, I grab my board and jog toward the ocean. Not hesitating, I plunge right in, letting the frigid water of the Pacific envelope my skin and get my heart pumping. As I paddle out, my mind wanders to the conversation I had with my mom this morning. After my discussion with Ellie yesterday, I decided to give my mom a call.

Why, I have no idea. I’m more confused now than I was before I spoke to my mom.

“
Y
ou sound sad
, love. What’s wrong?” My mom’s soothing voice reminds me of when I was a kid and she’d run her fingers through my hair whenever I had trouble falling asleep at night.

“Mom. I’m not sad, just tired.”

“Sweetheart, I know you. It’s more than that. Does it have anything to do with this bloke you’re seeing? And shame on you, by the way. Letting your own mother find out you have a boyfriend by seeing it on the telly,” she chastises.

I smile. “Mom, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh tosh, Gavin. I want to meet him. Any man that’s important enough for you to finally be yourself,” I hear my mom sniff over the phone. “Well, I’d like to meet him and say thank you, that’s all.”

Now I’m dumfounded. “You want…” I choke on the words. “You want to come here?”

“Of course, love. Now, I know you’ve never invited me before. I figured it was because you’re such a jet setter, with your band and all that. A young thing like you doesn’t need an old lady hanging around. But if you’re settling down, I’d love to come out for a visit if you’d not mind putting up with me,” she chuckles.

“You…you didn’t think you were invited?”

“Oh Gavin, I know how young people are, all independent and what not. Now you’re almost thirty years old and well, it’s time to find a nice bloke and make a home. I can’t wait to see you, dear.”

“Mom,” I hesitate.

I can’t tell her the truth about Mitch and me. It would break her heart. Plus, just the idea of me having a boyfriend has her ready to pack a bag and fly ten thousand miles to meet him. But, even if I don’t have a boyfriend, I do have a stalker. I refuse to have my mother anywhere near him.

“Mom, I’m still having trouble with the notes. I’ve got a professional looking into them. Why don’t we talk after it’s taken care of and arrange for you to fly out then?”

“Oh love, that would be brilliant.”

R
ight after that call
, my dad left a furious, ranting message about flaunting my ‘faggot ass’ in front of the whole world. How he even knows my phone number is beyond me. I haven’t spoken to the man in years.

A good set of waves rolls in. I paddle with the tide, getting enough speed to catch one of the larger ones. Bracing my hands under my chest, I pull my legs into a crouch and stand. As the wave grows larger, I’m able to expertly twist the board with my feet, skimming along the surface of the water as it curls behind me.

After an hour or so, I’m chilled and exhausted, but my mood is improved. Surfing always manages to help me cleanse my mind. I haul my board up the beach and drop onto the warm sand.

A shadow falls over my eyes. When I look up, I see a cute brunet in a pair of way too bright, floral-print, board shorts.

“Hi.” He smiles down at me. “You’re Gavin Walker.”

I grin back, running a hand through my stiff, salty hair. “Yes. Who are you?”

Before the guy can answer, Marcus plants himself next to me, crossing his arms and glaring at my admirer.

“Ummmm, I uh…” The guy stammers, tripping over his words. I don’t blame him. Marcus can make some pretty scary expressions.

“Ignore Marcus.”

He flicks his eyes to Marcus then back over to me. “Uh, I’m Sean. Sean O’Conner.”

“Irish, huh?” My gaze travels over his lightly freckled cheeks and bright hazel eyes. Then down his thin but very toned body. “Want to sit?”

Sean’s eyes widen in surprise. “Are you serious?”

He’s cute. Too young, maybe twenty-three, but cute. “Sure,” I shrug. “Why not?”

Sean grins and drops to the sand next to me. Marcus is unamused. The large man grunts, but says nothing. I shoot him an annoyed look to which he doesn’t respond. No privacy. He’s not going to leave me alone to have a conversation.

“So, uh, where’s your boyfriend?” Sean glances around as if Mitch is ready to spring out and punch him for talking to me.

Oh how I wish.

I laugh and Sean’s cheeks turn red.

He smiles. “Sorry, can’t blame a guy for trying.”

I lean in close so Marcus can’t hear me. “If I didn’t have company,” my eyes flick over to my grumpy bodyguard, “I’d take you home in a heartbeat.”

Sean’s smile grows larger. “Seriously? What about the boyfriend?”

“Meh, he wanted space.” It’s the truth, sort of.

Sean looks shocked. “He’s an idiot.”

I pat his leg, noting the hard muscles beneath my hand. “You’re sweet.”

Marcus clears his throat. I roll my eyes. “Fine. I have to go before Marcus here has a coronary. It was nice talking to you, Sean.”

I get up and hold out a hand. Sean grasps it firmly, allowing me to pull him to his feet. Our chests bump briefly as he stumbles in the sand. Once we’re upright, I note that Sean is shorter than me. Several inches in fact. I usually like my men large, muscular, and intimidating, but I wouldn’t kick Sean out of bed.

He looks up at me with his big, hazel eyes and I nearly break down and invite him to my place. Then Marcus flexes or grunts or does something equally annoying, spurring me back to the present and sending Sean skittering back.

“So, it was nice meeting you, Sean.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice husky. “You too.”

Bitter at my situation, the high from surfing melts away leaving me raw and angry. I’m gay, I’m out, and I still can’t pick up a guy at the beach.

Fucking Mitch. Cockblocking me and he’s not even here.

M
y feet pound
out a steady rhythm on the treadmill while the Mark Ronson-Bruno Mars version of Uptown Funk blasts in my ears. The louder and more forceful the music, the less I’ll be able to think. Think about Gavin. About Grant. About what I’ve been denying about myself since I was sixteen.

After completing a grueling, fast-paced five miles, I move to the free-weight bench I have set up on the other side of the room. Half of my basement consists of the garage. The rest is a small but functional gym, with cardio, weights, punching bags, and other equipment. It’s my reprieve, where I go to think or in this case,
not
think. And, it’s the only room that wasn’t trashed by Gavin’s stalker.

Straddling the bench, I grip the barbell stacked with plates and lift. Mid-way through my last set of reps, my phone rings. By the time I power through my last press, it stops.

“Damn.”

Then it rings again.

Christ
.

I snatch it off a nearby shelf and stare at the display.

Ross Evans

“Ross.”

“Jesus, Mitch! What the fuck is going on?”

“Whoa, wait.” I wipe off the sweat that’s pouring off my body and head up the stairs on shaky legs, my knee still stiff from the fall last week. “What are you talking about?”

“Seriously?” Ross snaps. “Have you seen today’s press?”

“Huh? No. I woke up and worked out. That’s it. I haven’t seen anything.”

What the hell has Ross in such a snit?

“You know, maybe you two should have discussed your exclusivity before dragging your relationship out in front of the cameras! Now I have Talbot Putnam up my ass for that little stunt you two pulled the other night!”

“Ross, calm down.” I unlock my office and drop into the chair.

“Fuck you, Hale. Just do the job you’ve been hired to do, okay? Fuck Gavin on your free time and for fuck’s sake keep yours and Gavin’s personal shit out of sight of the paparazzi!”

The line goes dead.

Great. I didn’t even get a chance to correct Ross on his assumption that Gavin and I are an item. And why wouldn’t he think it? That was my intention after all.

My head hurts. All of this celebrity bullshit has my neck in knots. I roll my head a few times, trying to work out the kinks. No such luck. My eye spasms, making me even more tense.

Ross said something about paparazzi. I pull up a search engine and for the second time in less than a week, type in Gavin Walker.

My mouth drops open at the results. Photos of Gavin at the beach getting very friendly with a small, dark haired man occupy most of the top articles.

Son of a—

My home was turned inside out in order for Gavin to come out of the closet, and for what? While I’ve been working twelve-hour days interviewing and profiling and tracking down a stalker, Gavin’s been off picking up guys?

I don’t realize my hands are balled up into fists until my knuckles begin to ache. Before I can stop myself, I shoot to my feet, shoving the chair back so hard it crashes against the wall.

It only takes a few minutes to shower and throw my meager possessions into my duffel bag. I had a mattress delivered so I’d have something to sleep on. Other than that, a few end tables as well as a rocking chair that were left untouched comprise the sum total of furniture in my house. Everything else was hauled away by a garbage service.

An inappropriate laugh escapes my throat as I lock up the townhouse. What’s the point? There’s nothing to steal that isn’t behind the sealed door and reinforced steel walls of the office. I start my car and roughly shift it into reverse.

I’m seething as I maneuver the car to the northbound ramp of the 101 towards the Hollywood Hills. If Gavin fucked up my case because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, he’ll wish he’d never met me—that’s the reason I tell myself is the cause of my overwhelming anger.

I’m not jealous. Nope. Definitely not.

“
H
oly
—”

I drive down the street that the rental house resides on and find myself in the middle of a nightmare of epic proportions. White vans topped by enormous satellite dishes line both sides of the winding road. As I carefully make my way through the narrow opening and pull up to the house, I am stunned to find a large crowd milling outside the gate.

No one is supposed to know about this house.

A third of the mob looks to be either a journalist or a camera jockey of some sort. Another third wields rainbow painted signs emblazoned with pro-LGBT slogans. The rest of the crowd either belongs to no particular group or makes up the anti-gay minority, holding up their own banners of hatred.

I phone Marcus and tell him to hustle over to the front gate to keep out our visitors.

It takes ten full minutes of me laying on the horn to make my way to the front gate. I roll down the window to enter the code, ignoring the shouts and cameras shoved in my face when the vultures recognize me as the guy who accompanied Gavin to the party last weekend.

Was that only four days ago? It seems like a lifetime.

My hands are literally shaking by the time I park the car in front of the house. Whether it’s from anger, adrenaline, or annoyance at the rude questions lobbed at me by the paparazzi, I can’t say. Any way you look at it, I’m not exactly calm as I storm through the door and into the kitchen where I find Gavin sitting by himself thumbing through a magazine while he eats his lunch.

Chest heaving, hands fisted, I stop in the doorway. Gavin lifts his head and those perfect, full lips part in surprise. His bright blue eyes widen and lock onto mine.

The sight of him has my shaky façade crumbling to pieces in front of me. I can feel the fabricated reality I’ve tried so hard to maintain slip out of my grasp like wisps of smoke.

I am so screwed.

I
’m not
mad at that chicken-shit, Mitch Hale. Nope. Not at all.

That’s what I tell myself as I stomp around the kitchen of the rental house, mumbling obscenities as I look for food. I woke up to a rabid Ross Evans calling to yell at me for fifteen solid minutes. Something about photos of me and the twink at the beach yesterday.

Then I got another long-winded, manic message from my father. Apparently I’m not just a fag, now I’m a whore as well.

I pulled out my laptop after ending the call and found the article Ross was ranting about. Jesus. The damn media. They make it look like Sean and I were getting dirty right there on a public beach. Even the title,
Walker Walks Out on Hunky Honey
, chaps my ass.

For fuck’s sake, I’m out for four days and suddenly I’m the gay Casanova, breaking my ‘boyfriend’s’ heart by hooking up with another man behind his back. My
fake
boyfriend. The one who kissed me in a way I’ve never been kissed before. The one who the mere sight of him has me springing wood hard enough to pound nails.

Fucking Johnny Utah.

I find a container of chicken salad and spoon it onto a bed of mixed greens. Needing something to occupy my mind and pull me back from the ledge I’m standing on, I grab the latest copy of
Variety
and read it while eating at the kitchen table. Marcus made himself scarce somewhere outside after I lost it and yelled at him.