Resist: Gavin

  Resist

  Sphere of Irony Book 3: Gavin

  By Heather C. Leigh

  Copyright © 2015 Shelbyville for Heather C. Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition, License Notes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  Prologue

  Gavin

  Today is the day I’m going to die. Just another random October day in Malibu, chilly at night, hot as hell during the day. Nothing special about it.

  I’m tired. So damn tired. And sad. The black hole I’ve been struggling against has sucked me in too far. As much as I’ll miss my mom, my friends, watching the sun set over the Pacific after a day of surfing, this is the only way to stop feeling useless. Feeling like a failure. Feeling like a screw-up. Feeling like a constant disappointment.

  To stop feeling anything.

  Trembling, I pour the contents of the little amber vial into my open palm. Amazing how such small objects have the power to do such enormous things. Irrevocable things.

  I curl my fingers around the pills, squeezing tight. My heart is racing in my chest. Hammering in a last ditch attempt to stop me from giving up. As if it knows I’m about to silence it forever and it’s crying out for mercy.

  I walk across the deserted stretch of sand, watching the waves break against the shore. It’s early. Too early for anyone to be walking the beach. The sun hasn’t yet risen above the horizon behind me, only a sliver of light giving the sky an orange glow. The cool sand squishes between my toes when I curl them.

  I’ve always loved the ocean. It’s peaceful on the outside, but as they’ve always said, looks can be deceiving. Under those blue-green waves lie torment and fury and the ability to cut a grown man down. Sort of like me, beautiful on the outside—or so people tell me—but inside, I’m a twisted wreck of anguish and self-hatred.

  Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to it.

  I settle down on the soft sand and close my eyes. A breeze ruffles my shirt. I loved it when the wind would blow through my shaggy blonde hair, drying it in the warm sun, the salt making it stiff. My hand rubs over the top of my buzz cut head and tears prick the back of my eyes.

  “You look like a goddamn girl with that hair, Gavin!”

  My dad’s words sting like a slap to the face.

  “I’ll turn you into a real man if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “A fucking fag! My son is not going to be a fucking cocksucking faggot.”

  I tried to resist the feelings inside, tried to deny that I was different, but I am who I am and my father hates me for it.

  I shake the pills in my hand, then tilt my head back and throw them in my mouth. Swallowing them dry, I lie back on the beach and close my eyes, a trickle of moisture running down my temples.

  Sorry dad. I guess you’ll never get the chance to turn me into a real man.

  Chapter 1

  Gavin

  “C’mon Gav. I’m bored. Let’s do something.”

  I see Hawke moving out of the corner of my eye, all fidgety and restless. Nothing new there.

  “Hawke, I’m not in the mood, all right?”

  He huffs and stomps over to where I’m lying on the couch in my hotel room, feet propped up on one arm. Hawke reaches out and smacks my leg.

  “Ow. What’s your problem?” I glare at my best friend.

  “Dude, you can’t hide in here all the time.”

  “The fuck I can’t.”

  “Jesus, Gav. We’ve been in New York for four months. Don’t you want to see some, I don’t know, art or some shit before we finish the album and go back to L.A.?”

  My eyebrows must hit my hairline. “Art or some shit?”

  Hawke smirks, his unusual eyes flashing behind those black-framed glasses he wears as a shield. “Yeah, some shit. I know you like that kind of stuff. We could go to the Museum of Modern Art or whatever it is people do in New York. Hell, even Ross went out. Don’t make me go alone, because you know I’ll do it.”

  The guilt card, of course. Hawke is the king of that move.

  “You suck, you know that?” I swing my feet to the floor, grumbling and groaning. “It’s not like we haven’t been to New York a dozen times before. And just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like art.”

  “Maybe, but the fact is you do like art, gay or not. How many times have you been to the Guggenheim? Huh?” Hawke grabs my wrists and hauls me to my feet.

  “Guggenheim? Are you feeling all right?” I glance over my shoulder to get a look at my best friend’s face as he shoves me towards the bedroom. “You sure you don’t want to go bungee jumping, or skydiving, or hell… I don’t know, swim in the East River or something equally dangerous?”

  Hawke barks out a laugh, giving me a final push into the bedroom. “Get dressed, asshole. We’re going to look at some high-class art. I’m going to enjoy it even if the pretentiousness smothers me to death.”

  I grab a clean shirt off of a hanger, sliding it on over my bare chest while shaking my head and smiling.

  “Brush your teeth too. I’m not going out in public with a complete slob. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Unable to hold it in, I laugh out loud, sputtering to catch my breath.

  “What?” Hawke asks innocently, blinking wide eyes and running a hand through his wild dark hair. His sleeve pushes back, exposing one of the colorful tattoos that spans from his wrist to his shoulder. “I do.”

  “Give me five minutes,” I respond, still smiling.

  “Five. Not a minute more, Walker.” Hawke spins around to leave the room.

  “Hey, Hawke,” I call out.

  He stops, turning his head just enough to show his profile. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks, man.”

  A slash of red colors his cheek, visible for only a brief second before he walks out. Hawke speaks with his back to me. “Anytime, man. You’d do it for me.”

  And I would. We get each other. More than anyone knows. The two of us were brought together by horrifying circumstances. Despite our troubles, we bonded right away and have been friends ever since. Almost eleven years.

  I shudder. I can’t believe it’s been nearly eleven years to the day since I sat on the beach and swallowed a handful of pills. If that lady and her dog hadn’t found me… I shake my head, pushing it out of my mind.

  I brush the fuzz off my teeth and splash water on my face. Bracing my hands on either side of the sink, I stare at the mirror, trying to remember a time that I didn’t hate the person on the other side.

  “Fuck.” I push off the counter in disgust.

  “Gavin, let’s go!”

  Smile, Walker. Hawke is doing this for himself as well as you.

  I fix my facial expression, grab my wallet, and head into the sitting room.

  “Ready?” Hawke turns off the screen and slips his phone in his pocket.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be to see some ‘art or some shit’.” I make air quotes, holding back a chuckle.

  “Fuck off, Gav.” Hawke flips me the bird.

  “Yeah, yeah. Come on.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. Hawke reaches out and pulls open the door to the suite. “After you, sir.”

  I flinch, glancing into the hall to make sure it’s empty before stepping out.

  “Hey,” Hawke grabs my arm. “You’re safe, okay?”

  I nod even though I don’t believe a word he says.

  “Right. I know.”

  We take the elevator down to the lobby of the gilded, upscale Peninsula Hotel. The entire ride, my mind mulls over all the ways
someone could walk up and hurt one of us. Hell, some psycho did it to Sydney Tannen a few years back. It could happen to me. I swallow around my thick tongue, my heart pounding against my ribcage.

  “M-maybe security should come upstairs next time,” I whisper, sweat collecting at the back of my neck.

  “If that’s what you want, Gav. Whatever it takes,” Hawke murmurs, his shoulder bumping mine to let me know he’s there.

  Outside, we climb into the waiting car and I’m able to relax. Not much, but a little.

  Halfway through the displays at the MOMA—I opted for the Warhol exhibit—I begin to enjoy myself. I’m no longer observing the other patrons. Checking each face to see who looks like a psychopath and who looks normal.

  The bodyguard hired by the label trails behind. He leaves enough space that I can forget he’s there, but stays close enough to keep me from feeling vulnerable. Regardless, he can’t stop fans from whispering when they recognize us, or from asking for autographs. Every time someone approaches, my throat closes up and my heart skips a beat. Despite it all, I manage to have a good time.

  Hours later, Hawke is cackling the entire way back to the hotel. “Fucking soup cans! Shit. I wish I thought of that. I’d be rich.”

  My expression must be a sight because Hawke’s eyes widen and he laughs harder. “You are rich,” I say drily.

  He snorts. “Yeah, I know. But soup cans!” Hawke has laughing fits all the way back up to my room. This time, at my request, the big bodyguard joins us.

  “Dude, you’re losing your mind.” I snicker, sliding my keycard into the slot. When the light turns green, I push it open.

  “Mr. Walker?” The bodyguard—Pete? Paul? Phil? I can’t remember—motions that he should enter first.

  “Oh. Right.” I step back, letting the huge man pass.

  Hawke and I follow him inside.

  Mistake number one.

  Pete or whoever he is holds up a hand from his spot next to the bed. “Stop!”

  I keep moving forward, unable to control my own legs.

  Mistake number two.

  He pulls out a phone. “Yeah, I need backup. NYPD and call Ross and Jeremy.”

  The hairs on my arm stand straight up, sending chills down my spine. Pete/Paul hangs up and pulls latex gloves out of his pocket, snapping them on. He circles the bed, leaning over to look at something on the duvet. Trying not to touch, he prods it with a pen, unfolding what looks to be a piece of paper.

  Drawn in, the horror pulling me like a magnet, I step into the room.

  Mistake number three.

  “Gavin, don’t.” Hawke grabs me, holding me back.

  It’s too late. I already saw what was waiting for me in the middle of my bed.

  There’s just enough time for me to scramble and kneel in front of the toilet before losing the contents of my stomach.

  Mitch

  The shrill ring of my cellphone interrupts my workout. I ignore it, continuing with my final six power thrust reps. The heavy barbell clangs loudly when I drop it on the mat.

  I wipe off my face and jump on the treadmill and the damn thing rings again.

  “Great.” Slamming the kill switch, I grab the phone out of my bag.

  “What!” I bark without seeing who was calling.

  “Is that any way to greet your cousin?” A lilting British accent floats through the receiver.

  “Gemma? Sorry. I didn’t look—”

  “No worries, love. Everything all right?” The concern in her voice makes me feel like a complete dick for yelling at her.

  “I’m fine. I was in the middle of a workout.”

  “Oh,” she retorts. “Testosterone flying and all that.”

  I snort. “Yeah. Right. What can I do you for, Gemma? I have the feeling this isn’t a social call.” My British accent slides back into place the minute I speak to someone from home.

  “You’re so bloody smart. That’s why I love you,” she snickers.

  Knowing my workout is over, I grab my gear and water bottle and head upstairs. Having the space for a fully equipped gym was one thing I insisted on when looking for a place to live. The three-story townhouse I recently purchased in Huntington Park has a finished basement. Yeah, it’s not the safest area in L.A. but I can hold my own.

  “So,” I ask, uncapping a bottled water and chugging half of it down. “Need another celebrity’s mobile number? Because you know I quit the bureau a week after I did that for you, right?”

  She giggles, her light laughter making me smile. “That was brilliant though. Wasn’t it? You reunited high school sweethearts with that one little number. Made two people very happy.”

  Gemma called me last year desperate to help her friend in the UK. Her estranged boyfriend is Adam Reynolds, superstar lead singer of the band Sphere of Irony. I may have broken the rules a little to get his mobile number for her.

  “I think I saw something about it on T.V. If you don’t need a phone number, what can I do?” I toss the empty bottle in the recycling bin and lean back on the countertop, crossing my feet at the ankles.

  “Well, I am ringing you about the same band, but it’s for a different reason. More in line with your current occupation.”

  “Security?” I ask, scratching at the day old scruff on my neck.

  “Yes. It seems one of the other members of the band is having issues with a…a stalker.” She whispers the last word as if saying it loud will cause him to set his sights on her.

  I chuckle. “A celebrity stalker? You know I do corporate computer security and freelance profiling, Gemma. I’m a psychologist, a geek, not a bodyguard for pampered superstars.”

  “You’re not a geek, Mitchell. But you can talk to him, right? So you don’t have the qualifications to be a bodyguard. You went through FBI training, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” I answer carefully.

  “Anyway, that’s not what he needs,” Gemma continues. “Ellie said he’s in a bad way, and his current security agency hasn’t done a thing to stop the threats. It seems that someone broke into his hotel room and left an intimidating letter and a…a dead animal on his bed.”

  My pulse kicks in from the recognizable thrill of hunting a criminal. “A dead animal? That’s not a good sign, Gemma.”

  “It’s not good. The poor bloke is petrified.”

  “Buggar, Gem. I’m not…I mean…”

  I struggle to think of an excuse to give my cousin. A reason I can’t work for her friend’s friend or whoever the hell this guy is. But it’s hard to resist when the familiar pull is there. The tugging in my gut that I get whenever a case would land on my desk. Tracking down serial killers with a special taskforce. That’s what I did for the bureau for six years.

  “Please, Mitchell? That’s the beauty of starting your own company, really. You can take whatever kind of clientele you want.”

  “You’re going to give me guilt.” I rub my forehead, knowing I’m going to regret this in some way or another. She’s right. I did start my own company, and I could definitely use some more clients. “Fine. Who do I have to ring?”

  “I love you! I’ll ring Ellie to have someone email the contact information you need straight away.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You owe me, cousin. Twice, now.”

  “Of course! Whatever you need, love. Let me ring Ellie and tell her the good news.”

  “Okay, Gemma.”

  “Thanks, Mitchell. Ta, love.”

  “Bye.”

  The line disconnects. I can’t help but smile. Gemma always knew how to get her way. She’s a master manipulator. Our mothers are sisters. My dad was working for the U.S. Embassy in London when he married my mom. We lived there until I was eight, hence the diluted and inconsistent accent. Dad took a job at the State Department in D.C. and I lived there myself until I quit the bureau.

  I’m an American citizen because of my dad so working for the FBI was never a problem. We may not have lived on the same continent in twenty years, but Gemma and I stayed close, ne
ither of us having siblings.

  I close my eyes and curse. “Hailey,” I murmur as I drum my fingers nervously on the desktop.

  Hailey is the girl I’ve been seeing the last month or so and the only one I’ve dated since moving here last year. She already gives me grief about how much I work. Now I’ll have to tell her I’m taking on another client—one I’ll have to spend a lot more time with in person.

  This won’t be like my other jobs where I set up security for a company and it ends there. This will involve investigative work—spending time with the client, looking out for strange behavior. Tracking a psychopath.

  My skin buzzes with excitement. Maybe I miss the bureau more than I realize. Then I remember what happened when I left and cringe at the familiar pain in my chest.

  Great.

  Sighing, I snag an apple out of a bowl on the tiny kitchen table and munch on it as I head for my office. I press my thumb to the panel, allowing it to read my fingerprint to open the secure door. The contractor thought I was crazy when I asked him to install a fire proof, temperature controlled, windowless, panic room type space with state of the art surge protectors and anti-static flooring, but he did as I asked.

  The low hum of computers fills the small room. Because of the nature of my work—the things I’ve seen hackers do during my time with the feds—I have incredibly sophisticated computers. An entire roomful.

  I log into the main system and pull up my encrypted email program to get some work done. I clear out a few random messages, returning important ones and erasing others. While typing up a response to one of my engineers, an email appears in the inbox.

  Ross Evans, Licensed Talent Agent, Brickworks Talent Agency

  That was fast. I open it and start reading.

  Mr. Hale,

  Thank you for your willingness to help with an ongoing issue involving one of the members of Sphere of Irony. If you can let me know your availability, we can arrange a meeting to discuss specifics.

  Please call me on my personal cell phone at…