The Complete Rockstar Series (69 page)

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.”

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.

M
y 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.”

“Fuck!” I clutch at my chest, nearly dropping the beer. “Christ, give a man a head’s up.” I scowl way up at who must be one of my new babysitters. Jesus, the man has got to be almost seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. He’s fucking enormous. “Is your job to hide out here all the time?”

“One of us will monitor the back and front of the house at all times, yes,” he replies with about as much personality as a rock.

“Of course,” I mutter.

After the severed human finger was found backstage, the label upped my security detail and decided to let me stay at my own house. Funny how none of the extra security kept Mitch from being attacked. If I had insisted on going with him to his parents house, the bodyguards would have been with us and maybe he wouldn’t have been shot.

Sighing, I pull out a beer and uncap it, taking a long swallow. Playing Monday morning quarterback won’t change what happened, so I force myself to think of something else.

“Well, I’m going to sit on the beach and drink all of these beers,” I announce to Bigfoot as I unlock the back fence. “You coming with me?”

“I’ll be wherever you are, Mr. Walker.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

Lucky me to get stuck with enormous Agent Uptight. Thank god I’m going to be drunk very, very soon. God I’m itching for a fight. I glance back over at Bigfoot and decide it’s probably not a good idea.

Three beers in, with a gentle buzz beginning to wash over me, and my phone rings. As much as I want to ignore it so I can continue drinking, it could be news about Mitch. Sasha didn’t agree with me leaving the hospital how I did, but she did promise to keep me up to date on Mitch’s condition.

“Hello?”

“Gavin? Are you home?”

“Ross,” I huff. “I just fucking got back from the tour an hour and a half ago, same as you. Where else would I be?” I can fight with Ross.

“Well I’m standing on your front step with the investigators assigned to your case and you’re not answering the door,” he snaps, clearly just as tired and sick of this shit as I am. “Security says you’re here, so what the hell?”

“Fuck. I’m on the beach. Hold tight. Me and Sasquatch here will let you in.” I glance over at my tall companion. He does nothing to indicate my nickname bothers him.

“Gavin,” Ross says when I open the front door. “These are Agents Halifax and Van Zandt from the FBI.”

Ross enters the house with two men in serious suits. They definitely give off the Fed vibe with their holier than thou attitude. Too exhausted to be polite I simply grunt and flop down on the couch, not bothering to shake hands or offer them a drink.

“We’re here because—”

“I fucking know why you’re here,” I growl. “A sick fuck left a goddamn human finger in my dressing room! Then he tried to kill who he thought was my boyfriend because of some misplaced delusional jealousy!”

Neither agent reacts to my outburst. Son of a bitch! What’s it take to get someone to fight with me? I picked on my bodyguard and couldn’t get a response, now these stupid suits won’t rise to the bait either. I need to get it out—have a big old fistfight to unleash my frustration—and no one wants to be my opponent.

“That’s correct,” Agent Halifax replies. “But also because the finger matches a victim in one of our cases.”

I blanch. “What case?”

Agent Van Zandt takes a seat across from me, still looking every bit the uptight government suit. “We’ve been following a serial killer. There are victims spread out across the country, several in L.A. and a few in other states.”

“Your finger matches one of the killer’s victims,” Halifax confirms.

I blink stupidly. “This guy was just supposed to be an overzealous fan,” I whisper, holding my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“We’ll be working with your manager to review the evidence your previous investigator has compiled so far.” Halifax sits in a chair next to me, his green eyes studying my reaction.

Damn, he’s kind of hot, tall with sandy brown hair and an athletic build.

No.
I won’t get involved with another employee. I made that mistake once and all I got was a broken heart. Forcing myself to stand, I head for the stairs. Fuck this. They ruined my buzz and now I’m crashing.

“Sorry gentlemen, I’ve just gotten home after a very trying tour. I’m going to bed. Ross,” I look over at Hawke’s uncle. “I’m sure you can show the agents out? We can talk another time.”

Without waiting for a response, I climb the stairs, feeling the weight of the last few months in every single one of my joints. I strip naked and flop onto the bed, asleep before the front door closes.

“
M
om
, I’m fine. You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot,” I grumble as my mother fluffs my pillows and sets a glass of water next to the couch.

“Mitchell, stop it. I’m your mother. This is what mothers do. We take care of our children,” she tutts, continuing to adjust my blanket. “Would you like the telly on, love?”

“Mom. Stop. Can you sit? Can we just talk?”

It’s been two days since I was released from the hospital, a week and a half since the shooting. The doctors cleared me to leave, but only if I didn’t go home alone. Since I don’t know anyone in California—anyone who would want me there, I think bitterly—I ended up at my parents’ house.

“I was going to make you a bite to eat, Mitchell.”

“Mom!” She flinches at my raised voice, but bloody hell, she just won’t listen. “Please sit.”

Gingerly, my mother takes the wingback chair next to the couch. I’ve been spending my days in the family room and my nights in the bedroom that used to be mine.

“Thanks, mom.” I close my eyes. The painkillers they sent me home with make it difficult to stay awake. I tried stopping them and nearly cried the pain was so intense. Needless to say, I’ve been taking them as directed ever since that failed experiment.

“Mitchell,” she says without meeting my eyes.

“Mom…” I reach out and put my hand over hers. “Is it really so bad? For me to be,” I swallow, “to be gay?”

“Oh love, no. It’s just… I guess for me it’s a surprise. You never seemed…” she lets her words taper off.

“I dated girls, you mean?” She nods. “Yeah, I tried. I didn’t want to be gay. But this is who I am, mom. I’m sorry if it’s disappointing.”

My mom clasps my hand. “Listen to me, Mitchell. I am not disappointed. You’re a wonderful man and a good son.” Her voice cracks. “I met your young man at the hospital. He’s lovely, Mitchell.”

“Thanks, but we’re not together anymore. You know that,” I whisper, my eyes burning. “What about Dad?” I change the subject, not able to discuss Gavin yet.

My father has been scarce since I woke up in the hospital. Only stopping by for a few minutes each day. Even at home he manages to avoid me somehow.

“Your father loves you, Mitchell. He’s having a harder go at this, yes. But almost losing you…” she sniffs. “Just give him some time, love.”

“I can do that.” Hell, it’s better than the cold shoulder he gave me the night I came over to tell them. I guess me almost dying made him rethink cutting his only child out of his life.

My mom pats my hand and stands up. “I’ll go make a snack.” She pauses in the doorway. “Don’t give up on Gavin, son. He loves you, mark my words.” Then she’s gone.

I lean back into the soft pillows and stare at the ceiling, my mind spinning. Never in my life has there been someone like Gavin. I’ve never known the pain of heartbreak. Not even that asshole Grant made me feel so broken, so lost, so utterly fucking hopeless.

Is mom right? Does Gavin love me?

Shit, I don’t know. Maybe I had the right idea, not getting close to anyone, minding my own business. Work and more work, that was all I had for a long time. Yeah, it was lonely sometimes, but fuck if it didn’t feel better than this.

But hell, I wouldn’t give up my memories of Gavin for anything, not even to take away the pain. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of his tan skin under my hands, the scent that surrounded me when I buried my nose in the crook of his neck, the look in his eyes as he came deep inside me. Shivering, I let the memories overwhelm me, replaying every last minute in my head, savoring them like fine wine.

For a while it works and the pain stays away, allowing me a few minutes of happiness in my lifetime of self-imposed misery. Then reality bleeds back in and I’m right back where I started. Alone.

A
week later
, I step out of the cab in front of my townhouse in Huntington Park. It feels as if I haven’t been here in years, not three months. I wince as I slide the key into the front door, my chest still tender, especially now that I’m off the painkillers.

I shuffle down the hall, dropping my bag at the foot of the stairs. The air is muggy and stale from the house being sealed up for so long. When I step into the living room and glance around, I remember that I don’t have any furniture to speak of except a bed and a kitchen table.

Shit.

The last thing I feel like doing is shopping. I scan my fingerprint and enter my office. The temperature control system has recirculated the air in here so it’s much less hot and humid than the rest of the townhouse. I turn on the systems and wait for them to boot up.

I had let my phone die while I was in the hospital and never bothered to charge it back up. What’s the point? I have no one to call, no one I want to hear from, and after that damn article, I don’t want to field questions from reporters either.

That means I’ve been off the grid for two entire weeks, which is a lifetime in the age of technology. When I pull up my email, it’s overflowing with messages. Sadly, I realize that this is it.
This
is my life. Back to sitting in this room, working with clients on tracking down criminals who threaten corporate bigwigs, and working out in my basement.

Jesus. I don’t know what’s worse, that I feel so pathetic now that I’ve had a life or that I didn’t realize how pathetic I was before.

I plug in my phone and start answering emails. There are quite a few from Sasha, which I childishly delete without reading. I don’t need her butting in and reminding me that Gavin fell on his sword for me by giving that interview. Then he up and vanished while I was recovering from a gunshot wound! How she can defend that, I have no clue.

I sort the rest of the emails into current clients and future clients and delete all of the garbage ones. As I’m reading a message from the office of a high profile investment banker who has a potential disgruntled ex-employee threatening him, my phone chirps to life.

Dozens of text messages flood the screen, each one accompanied by an electronic beep. The voicemail icon pops up, letting me know I have fifteen unheard messages. Again, I delete everything from Sasha. I’ll deal with her later—maybe in a week or ten, when I’m not still pissed off at her for taking Gavin’s side.

The only thing that catches my eye is a voicemail from two weeks ago. It says it’s from Gavin.

My chest squeezes painfully and I suddenly feel nauseous. Despite knowing that listening will most likely drive the knife in deeper, I can’t resist.

M
itch
…

G
avin’s
seductive voice floats up from the speaker, but it’s not smooth and clear like it usually is. His voice cracks and wavers as he stumbles through the recording.

I
-I’m so
sorry for dragging you into my shit. And… for what happened. I’ll fix it, baby. I just… I’ll do my best to get this asshole off of you.

T
here’s a long pause
. The silence filled with Gavin’s staccato breaths.

D
on’t worry about me
. Just… get better, okay? I-I should go.

A
loud announcement
blares in the background.

T
hey’re calling my flight
. So… I guess this is it. I’ll miss you and thanks… shit.

T
he phone fumbles and disconnects
. I play it again, listening to the tortured sound of his words, the despair conveyed with every painful silence. Now I can see why Sasha defended him. He’s just as torn up about this as me, maybe more.

Then why did he leave?

The answer is so obvious, even an idiot like me can figure it out.

Gavin Walker cares. Maybe, he even loves me.

“
S
adie
! Don’t eat the sand, love!”

Ellie laughs at her husband, Adam, as he hustles over to their fifteen-month old daughter right as she shoves another handful of sand in her mouth.

I grin at her antics. “She’s walking,” I comment from my beach chair next to Ellie.

“She is. Started a month ago. It’s horrible,” Ellie giggles. “It’s exhausting keeping up with her.”

“Adam seems to do okay,” I point out.