Resist: Gavin Page 3

  I hear her huff and feel Hailey’s weight shift as she gets out of the bed.

  “I’m going, Mitch.” The sound of clothes rustling fills the room. “You’ve never been really into this, have you?” She pauses, waiting for a response that isn’t coming. “Mitch! Can you at least look at me?”

  Sighing, I flip onto my back and tuck my arms behind my head. At least the sheet is covering what tiny scrap of dignity I have left.

  Hailey, now dressed, has her hands on her hips and is staring at me. She has her long, blonde hair piled up on her head and her mouth pulled into a pouty frown. She’s gorgeous, yet when I look at her I feel nothing.

  “Jesus, Mitch. Forget it. I’m not wasting my breath.”

  I move to get up but she throws up a hand.

  “I’ll see myself out. Don’t bother.”

  Yeah, not being able to get it up for her, again, wasn’t mortifying enough. She dumped me while I was still in bed, naked. Not that I care. Hell, I know I was just a piece of ass for her. She practically licked her lips whenever I took my pants off. As little as I cared about Hailey that episode was still humiliating. Now that damn twitch in my eye is back, reminding me how screwed up I am.

  The home screen pops up on my computer. I log in and sift through a dozen emails, responding to the urgent ones. Then I pull out the file given to me by Ross Evans before the meeting went to hell. I can do basic research—cross check with different agencies to see if the few letters they kept have any matches to other similar crimes. But until I can interview Gavin Walker, most of what I’ll need to do will be more hands on investigating.

  The image of my hands literally investigating Gavin Walker flashes through my brain. Blood rushes south, startling my sleeping cock. I remember the light scent of coconut I detected when shaking Gavin’s hand and my dick gets even harder. Gritting my teeth in anger at the unwelcome thoughts, I resist giving in, clenching my fists and willing the images away.

  It takes a good ten minutes of picturing some of the worst crime scene photos I can recall to get myself under control. Why would I think about Gavin that way?

  I can’t even go there right now. Not a chance.

  After staring at the closed file for another fifteen frustrating, cock-swelling minutes, I decide to give up and go for a run.

  Denial complete.

  Chapter 2

  Mitch

  “Tell me again why you agreed to do this? You sound as if you’d rather be getting your nuts cut off than working on this case.”

  I laugh at my friend and former co-worker, Sasha Knight. “I wouldn’t say that, but I’m certainly realizing that this was a bad idea.”

  Her loud, no-nonsense voice surrounds me in my car thanks to my hands-free device. “Hale, I know you better than you know yourself. If you were smart, you’d turn that car around and go right on home. You’re already frustrated and you haven’t even started your investigation.”

  Sasha and I were on the same task force at the bureau. She’s a brilliant profiler and a full-time badass. The fact that she could read me like an open book was always uncomfortable, but tolerable since she kept most of her thoughts to herself. She’s not as edited now that I don’t work with her every day.

  “I’m fine, Sasha,” I counter, lying through my teeth. “I just don’t like Hollywood types, that’s all.”

  “Oh really? How many Hollywood types do you know?”

  She got me there.

  “None, until now.” She always did make me feel like a junior profiler.

  “And you spent a total of ten minutes with the man.” I knew I shouldn’t have told her about that disaster of a meeting. “Give the guy a break. He’s traumatized.”

  “Stop trying to profile him, Sasha. Even I didn’t spend enough time with the guy to make an attempt.” I turn onto the 110 and immediately hit bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  “I’m not,” she responds innocently.

  “Then stop trying to profile me.” Traffic crawls along at a snail’s pace. I reach over and crank up the a/c. The car suddenly feels stiflingly hot. Or it could be the suit I’m wearing. I tug at the collar, trying without success to loosen the tie. I despise these things.

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing that, Hale. But if you want some insight—”

  “I’ll ask for it. Listen, Sasha, I gotta go. I’m almost there.”

  I turn off the exit for the beach and make my way through the slightly less packed, but still infuriatingly slow traffic that leads to Huntington Beach.

  “Fine. I’m here if you ever want to dig deep into that brain of yours, Hale.” Sasha laughs, but I know she’s serious. Her sharp eyes and ears miss nothing. Like she said, she probably knows things about me that I don’t even know.

  “Right, Sasha. Bye.”

  I parallel park in the miniscule driveway of an enormous white concrete and glass modern home.

  “Bye!”

  I disconnect the call and sit in the idling car for a few minutes, attempting to dry the layer of sweat that formed during the stressful drive. I nearly convince myself it was the traffic and not Gavin Walker that has me as tense as a prisoner on his way to the electric chair. After reading the file and the threats, Ross confirmed that Gavin is in fact gay, which isn’t known publically. Somehow, that knowledge makes my errant thoughts even more uncomfortable.

  Screw it. I turn the car off and hop out, faking the attitude I need to get through this. I’ve come face to face with some of the sickest, most twisted serial killers known to man. I can manage to work with one slightly off-kilter, stunningly gorgeous, gay guitarist.

  I step onto a tiny front walk, which is only steps from the street where cars pass and people walk by. Score one point in the column of ‘things that will make it more difficult to keep my client safe’.

  Glancing around, I see that the homes are a stone’s throw from each other, with windows looking straight into the neighbor’s house. Another point deducted.

  There are tiny alleyways between each building, including one on either side of Gavin’s. Someone could potentially jump the pathetically short fence and hide. I sigh and rub the back of my sweaty neck. Yet another point deducted.

  Standing in front of the door, which is thick, solid looking, and has no window—score a point in my favor—I blow out a long breath. A quick run of my hands through my hair and a check that my suit isn’t a wrinkled mess and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I reach out and knock.

  A loud clatter from somewhere inside has me instinctively reaching for the Glock I carry in a holster on the waistband of my pants. Thankfully, I don’t pull my weapon because the door opens to reveal an angry, barefoot Gavin Walker.

  He checks behind me, sticking his head out to look both ways before pulling it back inside. He hasn’t said a single word. He hasn’t invited me in either.

  Great. Is he one of those eccentric Hollywood weirdoes?

  “Um, hello?” I say, clearing my throat.

  Gavin blinks a few times then his skin flushes crimson. He shoves a hand in his pocket. “Sorry. Come in.”

  Gavin steps aside, letting me into what I can see is a very spacious modern home. Nearly the entire place is made of glass. Another point gone.

  My academy training kicks in and I scan the entire room, first cataloguing every exit. The first floor is mostly one giant space, so there aren’t many hiding places. There are two doors leading to other rooms or closets, and a flight of stairs leading up. The room has a comfortable seating area on the end closest to the front door, a gleaming stainless steel and white kitchen at the end in the back of the house.

  Three surfboards lean against a wall near the kitchen. It’s completely open concept, so I can see the entire length of the house to the beach that lies beyond. It’s beautiful, but it’s the paved path filled with people walking and jogging, and the beachful of sunbathers that has my full attention.

  This house is the least secure place I’ve ever been. I haven’t even seen any security monitoring the
grounds. The house says a lot about the man who owns it. He wants to be exposed. Likely is tired of hiding who he is. Interesting.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  I nod. “Not a problem. I do have quite a few questions for you.” I hold up the file from the other day and waggle it. I’ll address my security concerns later.

  “Yeah.” Gavin studies the ground. “Sorry about the other day. I’m not usually so…I mean, I didn’t plan on running out of the meeting.” His eyes find mine, clear and blue and intelligent. Those sculpted cheekbones turn pink again. “What I’m saying is I’m not a complete flake. I’m just…freaked out by this.”

  “Not a problem,” I maintain. I avert my gaze and clear my throat again. “Maybe we could sit?” Using the folder, I point towards the kitchen table.

  “Sure. Are you thirsty?” Gavin glides into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator, holding it out.

  “I’m good for now.” Fascinated, I watch as he scurries around the kitchen, opening the water, taking a sip, screwing the cap back on, then fiddling with it between his long, slender fingers.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  I laugh to put him at ease even though I’m anything but. “No, honestly I’m fine. Do you want to sit?” I move towards the table.

  Whispering so low I have trouble hearing him, Gavin admits, “I got another one today.”

  “What?” Spinning around, I face him.

  “Another letter. Over there.” Gavin uses his chin to point towards the large granite topped island. “I didn’t open it.” I notice him thrust his hand back into his pocket.

  I slip back into my role as Agent Hale, any remaining hesitation I have about the case disappears in an instant. Gavin looks petrified. It upsets me to think that he’s been so terrorized he doesn’t feel safe in his own home.

  “Good, good. You shouldn’t touch it.” I cross over to where the letter sits—white and stark against the black stone countertop.

  “I didn’t. I mean…I did touch it initially. I took it from my assistant before I knew what it was. She touched it too.”

  I whirl back around to look at him again. “Wait a minute. Did it come to you here?”

  Gavin’s hands twist and untwist the cap to his water. “No. To my P.O. Box.”

  “Okay, good. So he most likely doesn’t know your home address.”

  Whoever is doing this is good. Too good. According to the file, the police didn’t find a single fingerprint on the letter from the hotel, the gifts, or other recent items. The postal code on the letters is always different, which means they know not to use the same post office every time. The letters are typed, not handwritten, using a generic font and a generic brand of paper.

  “Is your P.O. Box listed?” I ask, leaning on the countertop opposite Gavin.

  He thunks the bottle down next to him. Some of the water splashes out in a fountain, splattering onto the counter and the front of his shirt.

  “It’s the one my fan mail goes to!” he yells, shocking me with his outburst. “This is fucking out of control! I want this sick piece of shit stopped! I can’t live like this!”

  Gavin’s fists clench and his body twitches with both fear and anger.

  His rant continues and I’m sure my eyes get wider. “I’m not a goddamn pussy who hides away! This is just…” his hands go to his hair, tugging on it in frustration. “I can’t go anywhere, do anything, I feel like someone is watching me all the time…it’s fucking killing me waiting for something to happen!”

  I watch silently, not wanting to say the wrong thing. And honestly, what is there to say? He’s right. His entire life has become entirely focused on avoiding a psychotic stalker who is most likely very dangerous.

  “Jesus. You must think I’m crazy.” Gavin turns around, bracing his hands on the countertop, his back to me.

  “Hey. I don’t think you’re crazy. I’ve seen crazy and it’s not you.” I want to reach out and grip his shoulder, offer comfort, but I get the feeling my touch would be unwelcome. The man is strung so tight he’s about to explode.

  With his back still facing me, Gavin questions, “How have you seen crazy? With the FBI?”

  I smile even though he can’t see it. “Yeah, with the FBI.”

  Finally, he turns around. “Why did you leave?”

  Heat floods my neck and face at the unexpected inquiry. Ross clearly has informed Gavin of my previous job with the government. “I…” I haven’t told anyone the truth about why I left the bureau and I’m not about to start now. “Personal reasons.” I tug at my collar, too tight and sweltering hot again.

  Gavin’s eyes bulge. Probably from the way I’m clenching my jaw and how rigid my posture feels. “Okay, Johnny Utah,” he murmurs.

  “What? Utah?” What the hell is he talking about? Maybe Gavin is crazy.

  Gavin grins and my heart stutters at the sight. “Johnny Utah.” He stares at me. “Point Break? The movie? Ex-FBI agent? Surfer?” Gavin’s eyebrows get higher and higher on his forehead as I stare at him stupidly. “Forget it,” he mumbles.

  “Let’s get this interview started so I can figure out how to catch this guy.” Without waiting for an answer, I stomp over to the table and drop into a chair. I snatch the file where I left it, yanking it open.

  Gavin follows, taking the seat across from me. I flat out refuse to acknowledge how good he smells, an intoxicating coconut scent that hits me hard. The way my body reacts to Gavin’s presence has me defensive.

  “Now…” I command, “start at the beginning.”

  Gavin

  I slam the door shut behind the local detective and thump my forehead against the thick slab of wood. Two hours of going through every single nit-picky thing in that damn file of Mitch’s, plus discussing everything not in it had me sweating. Then we spent another hour discussing the newest letter with the LAPD detective sent over to collect it. Then there was yet another hour of Mitch and the detective swapping thoughts about the psycho writing them. And Mitch was an uptight ass the entire time.

  I am over it.

  Beyond over it. I need a fucking drink. And to get laid.

  I grab my wallet and shove it in my back pocket.

  “How much longer will you be here, Utah?” I bark at Mitch who is still sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over that damn file.

  Mitch raises his head, shimmering grey eyes locking onto mine. They widen just enough for me to know he’s surprised at my hostile tone before they narrow in annoyance.

  “I’ll go.” He snaps the file closed and shoves the kitchen chair back.

  “Thank god,” I whisper to myself from across the room, turning my back on the sexy FBI man.

  “You know—”

  “Christ!” I shout, whirling around with my hand clutching my chest. Mitch is somehow only a foot away. The man must move like a goddamn ninja. “You scared the shit out of me. Jesus.”

  He waits for me to recover, looking put out, and damn if that doesn’t both piss me off and turn my crank at the same time.

  Mitch leans forward. “Don’t leave the house without your bodyguard,” he insists, his dark brows pulling down over those damn grey eyes.

  “I’ve already called them and they’re sending someone. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  Mitch straightens up to his full height. He’s as tall as me, which makes him just over six feet. “I never said you were stupid, Gavin. Security should be here all the time. Don’t underestimate this guy. It will take me a few days to put together a full profile and a starting point to find him. Do your best to lay low until then. Okay?”

  “Fine,” I answer through clenched teeth.

  Having Mitch Hale less than a foot away, looking sexy as all hell while scolding me is too much to take. He pushes every single one of my buttons. My cock swells to half-mast.

  “You really shouldn’t go out until I finish the profile and can go with you,” Mitch announces. “Even then, I’m not a proper bodyguard.”

  Aaa
and the bubble of sexual tension bursts.

  I resent him telling me what to do. Especially when he’s gotten me all worked up sexually only to tell me I can’t go out and find someone to help me burn off my frustration.

  “Are you serious right now?”

  Mitch’s eyebrows nearly disappear under that thick head of black hair. “Of course I’m serious. Honestly? Your house is a security nightmare. I’ll be coming up with a plan to fix that as well.”

  “Fuck.” I drag my hands down my face and drop onto one of my sleek leather couches and stare out at the ocean. “This is unreal. I never thought it would come to this.”

  Mitch takes a few steps towards the sitting area and stops. His large hand reaches up to his neck to tug at his collar. I watch, entranced by the way the muscles in his shoulder flex under his fitted shirt. He took off his suit jacket hours ago. My eyes find the large black handgun sitting on his hip and my cock jerks in my pants.

  Fucking-A if everything about him doesn’t just do it for me.

  “Most people don’t have to think about situations like this.”

  “I guess. Lucky me.”

  Mitch sighs, a resigned look on his handsome face. “What were you going to do tonight?”

  My skin burns from my neck all the way to the tips of my ears. No way am I telling super-sexy, straight FBI man that I planned to go to a very discreet gay bar near my house to pick up a nameless dark-haired guy that I can pretend is him while he’s on his knees blowing me.

  “I was going to get a drink. I don’t know. Burn off some steam.”

  Mitch smiles, and I have to hold in a gasp. God, he’s even more gorgeous than I thought. Two dimples appear on his cheeks, making him seem younger than…however old he is. Thirty? Thirty-one? His eyes crinkle in the corners, giving him an adorable, mischievous look. That full, red mouth curves into a lopsided grin, and just like that, I’m hooked.

  “Well I can help you out with that.”

  I freeze. What? Blinking, I try not to let my thoughts show on my face. Thoughts of Mitch Hale helping me burn off steam in many creative ways pummel my brain. Does he know I’m gay? Has he heard the rumors or did Ross tell him?