Resist: Gavin Page 4

  “Help?” I choke out.

  “Yeah. You like baseball?”

  “Baseball?”

  He laughs and mimics a swing. “You know, the game played with a bat and a ball?”

  I give him a dry look. “I know what baseball is, Utah.”

  Mitch scowls at the nickname but maintains a professional demeanor. Unlike myself, who seems determined to be bitchy at every turn.

  “Okay. The Dodgers play the Nationals at seven. I’ll run out and get a six-pack and we can watch the game.”

  Mitch waits while I sit there, wondering what the hell is going on. I can’t watch baseball with him, can I? And drink alcohol? Hell, I’ll end up doing something stupid, like hitting on the straight guy or flat out offering to suck his dick.

  “Gavin?”

  I glance up at Mitch and see such an eager expression on his handsome face, I can’t bring myself to tell him no.

  “Ummmm, sure. Baseball.” I hate baseball.

  Mitch grins again, and my cock twitches in frustration.

  “Great. I’ll be right back with drinks and snacks.”

  The second the door closes I jump up and run for the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I reach over and turn on the shower.

  If I’m going to last all night drinking and staring at Mitch Hale, my own living, breathing Johnny Utah, I’m going to have to jerk off before he gets back.

  I end up jerking off twice.

  Mitch

  I shove back from my desk, growling in frustration. Nothing about this case makes sense. Whoever is stalking Gavin Walker is either a genius or a complete schizophrenic. He—and I’m simply running on the assumption that it’s a he—never uses the same postal code twice to send things, hasn’t left a single print or fiber behind, knows how to not only find the band’s hotel, but also Gavin’s specific room number and break in without being detected. Plus, items have mysteriously ended up in Gavin’s dressing room at different concert venues and at the recording studio.

  The person behind this is clever and resourceful. That makes the job much more difficult.

  Pulling a hand down my face, I sigh. Tomorrow, I start spending every minute of every day with Gavin, pretending to be part of his management team. That means a suit and tie. Every. Damn. Day. My eye twitches and I practically choke thinking about it.

  The best way to find this creep is to look for him in plain sight. This isn’t the kind of case I can solve by sitting in front of a computer. A psycho like this needs contact with his victim, no matter how indirect. Eventually, he’ll expose himself and I need to be there when he comes around in order to catch him. Any bodyguards will have to blend in as well, as part of the entourage.

  I have to spend all my time with Gavin, and after the other night, I found out that he is a complete and total asshole. He’s good-looking and intriguing and smells good, but an asshole nonetheless.

  I snatch up my phone and dial the only friend I have in California.

  “Mitch? Hey, sweetie.”

  “CeCe, you got a minute?”

  I can hear papers rustling on her end of the line.

  “I’m at work right now and I’ll probably be working through lunch. How about dinner?”

  A muffled male voice says something in the background.

  “Sure. The Pointe? My treat.” CeCe can never resist the incredible seafood at her favorite restaurant.

  “Hmmm, you must need a favor,” she laughs. “Seven o’clock okay?”

  “See you then.”

  “Bye, Mitch.”

  I check my phone and see it’s only ten-thirty. That gives me plenty of time for a long workout. Instead of going downstairs to my home gym, I head to a nearby tactical training center so I can brush up on my very rusty combat skills. For some reason, I have a feeling I’ll need them.

  ***

  “Mitch!”

  I stand up as a tall, beautiful blonde woman crosses the patio to my table.

  “CeCe, you look great.”

  She wraps me up in a big, fruit-scented hug.

  “You too, hot stuff,” she quips with a grin.

  I pull out her chair and help her get settled.

  “How’s work?” I ask.

  An exaggerated eye roll is the only response I get. The waiter takes her drink order and disappears.

  “Don’t want to talk about it, huh?” I chuckle. CeCe works for a hotshot local defense attorney. We met when I was brought in to consult on finding which ex-client turned crazy after her boss was threatened.

  We dated briefly—actually more than briefly. We lasted exactly one date and decided we were better off as friends.

  “No. Roger is in full asshole mode. He has a big client breathing down his neck and he always gets mean when the pressure cranks up. It’s lack of sleep or maybe lack of a soul, I don’t know.” She laughs, taking a sip of the bright pink cocktail she ordered. “Either way he’s a bastard right now.”

  I smile at her feisty words. “I take it you aren’t assigned to this case?”

  She sits back in her chair and gives me a smirk. “Nope. Thank god. I’m wrapping up a case for a different client. Paperwork takes forever to finish.”

  “Hey, do you know who Johnny Utah is?” I ask.

  CeCe wrinkles her nose as she thinks. “Wait. From a movie, right?” She takes out her phone and starts typing.

  “Something like that,” I reply.

  “Point Break.” She snaps her fingers. “That’s it. Keanu Reeves plays an FBI agent undercover with a group of surfers who rob banks.”

  “Huh.” If I’m the FBI agent then Gavin must be the surfer. I smile, knowing he nailed it.

  “Huh what? Why are you asking?”

  I shake my head, laughing to myself. “No reason.”

  The server saves me from embarrassment by coming over to take our orders.

  CeCe rakes her fingers through her hair, flipping the thick blonde strands over her shoulder. We order our meals and predictably, CeCe gets the grilled salmon on a bed of spinach. I get the Mahi-mahi.

  “So,” she teases, “why are you bribing me with dinner?”

  I put down my beer and chuckle. “Who says I’m bribing you? Can’t a guy take out a friend without there being a reason?”

  “Of course. But, I know you. So spill. What’s going on?”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans. “I don’t know. I’m just…restless, I guess. I start with a new client tomorrow—”

  “See. You’re so predictable. It is a case,” CeCe giggles.

  I shoot her a fake glare. “If you’d let me finish.”

  She waves a hand at me, urging me to go on.

  “Anyway, it’s not the type of client I usually accept.”

  The server brings our plates, asks us if we want anything else, and leaves when we tell him we’re all set.

  “What do you mean?” CeCe asks around a mouthful of food.

  “For one thing, it’s a celebrity.”

  Her eyes go round. “Celebrity? Okay. That’s not too odd. This is Los Angeles in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Ha-ha. I know that.” I shift in my seat. “I’ve been hired to investigate a stalker.”

  CeCe puts down her fork, wipes her mouth, and leans in. “Okay, now I’m interested.”

  “I can’t tell you who it is, Cee.” I shove a forkful of food in my mouth.

  “I know, Mitch, but it’s like you said…you’ve avoided famous clients so far. The question is, why now?”

  I sigh and take a huge swig of my beer. “Personal favor. My cousin is a good friend of a friend of the celebrity.” I wave my hand. “Something like that anyway. I do the criminal investigation and profiling part regularly, but I’ll have to basically be with this guy all the time until I catch the stalker.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Yeah, it’s that bad. The threats have escalated over time from letters to gifts to a dead animal in his hotel room.”

  “H
oly shit.” CeCe’s mouth drops open.

  “I know.”

  I think about how Gavin lashed out at being trapped in his house, basically being babysat 24/7 and feel bad for the guy. Then I remember how tense it was watching the Dodgers game the other night and frown.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Huh? What’s what for?”

  “That irritated look on your face?”

  “Irritated?” I fumble my fork. “Oh. Yeah. The client is kind of a jerk. I mean… he was the other night. He was literally vibrating with tension. I could tell he was going to do something stupid, you know? Like go out somewhere without protection, stubborn bastard. So I sort of invited myself to stay at his house and watch the Nationals game.”

  “I can’t imagine why that would annoy him,” she says drily.

  I huff. “I couldn’t just tell the guy he couldn’t go out, Cee. I had to think of something to keep him home.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like baseball,” she offers.

  I glare across the table. “It doesn’t matter. He was a standoffish tosser. Barely said two words to me. It was the longest three hours of my life.”

  “Hey, at least the Nationals won. And your British is coming out.”

  “So not helping, CeCe.”

  She grins. “You’re brilliant, Mitch. You’ll catch whoever it is and make your client eternally grateful. He’s probably just being a jerk because he’s stressed out.”

  “Don’t defend him, Cee. You’re on my side. Remember? I came here to complain, not garner sympathy for the other guy.”

  “Meh,” she brushes me off. “It’ll all work out in the end. Just ignore him. Chalk it up to…I don’t know, Hollywood eccentricities.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “What?” she questions, smiling.

  “That’s exactly what I already told myself.”

  CeCe taps the side of her head with a manicured fingernail. “Great minds, Mitch. Great minds.”

  ***

  “I don’t like this at all,” Gavin complains for the hundredth time. “It’s stupid.”

  I follow closely behind, paying more attention to our surroundings than his diva-like whining.

  Hawke, the dark-haired, tattooed band member who seems to be Gavin’s closest friend, speaks up. “Gavin, can’t you just accept it? Please? It will make everything much easier on everyone.”

  Gavin grumbles but I can’t make out what he says.

  We pile into a stretch limo with Ross Evans, two other employees, and the other two guys in the band, including Adam Reynolds, the one who is now married to Gemma’s friend, Ellie.

  I tune out their chatter as the limo makes it’s way through L.A. to our destination, a club called Cargo, which in my opinion is the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.

  It’s only been two days since I started spending most of my time in Gavin’s less than stellar company. The man pouts a lot. And when I say pout, I mean full-on, petulant, huffing, puckered-lip pouting. Being able to read people like I can, I know he’s holding back his anger. Gavin might look beautiful and calm on the outside, but I have no doubt he has the ability to strike out viciously when necessary.

  I pull at the collar of my dress shirt, irritated that I’m back in a suit and tie after ditching them for what I thought was the rest of my life. I’m playing the role of one of the public relations people for the band. This way, the stalker will think that Gavin is unprotected. If he sees FBI types or bodyguards crawling around, he’ll be more careful. The two security guys are acting as personal assistants. With no visible security, the stalker may make a mistake that I can spot.

  “All right,” Ross announces as the limo glides to a stop. “You guys know the drill. We’re performing three songs off the new album, then the signing and photograph session for fans, finally you’ll be up in the VIP section of the club for the rest of the night. Got it?”

  The men murmur their understanding.

  I glance over at Gavin. He’s chatting quietly with Hawke, his hand stuffed into his front pocket. Hawke is nodding along with whatever Gavin is saying.

  “Let’s go!” Ross exclaims. He opens the door and sits back, letting the band exit first.

  Adam no sooner has a foot on the sidewalk and the crowd goes mad. Flashbulbs pulse and girls scream—it’s unbelievable and a little scary. When it’s Gavin’s turn, I squeeze in behind him. Grabbing his arm, I pull him back into the limo.

  “What is it, Utah?” he snaps, his mouth pulled into a sneer. There’s that snarling alpha I knew was hidden beneath the model-perfect façade.

  My eye does a quick twitch. “All I was going to say is stay close to me. If you need to go somewhere, let me know.”

  The harsh look on his face fades. “Fine.”

  Okay, maybe it doesn’t completely fade. The man hates my guts. Good thing he doesn’t have to like me, he only has to tolerate me. The question is, can I tolerate him when every cell in my body is urging me to do things I thought were long buried?

  Chapter 3

  Gavin

  “Hawke, can you come with me?” I motion for my best friend to slip out of the crowded room where fans are getting autographs signed and photos taken. The stench of the groupies’ perfume combined with the loud squealing is giving me a headache.

  He nods, following me to the edge of the room. When Adam cracks a joke and the entire place erupts in laughter, we slide out unnoticed.

  “Count on Reynolds to pull the perfect cover,” I reveal to Hawke.

  “You asked him to do that?” He looks at me with one pierced eyebrow lifted in amusement.

  “What do you think?” I shove Hawke into an empty dressing room, slamming the door behind us. “It was the only way to get out of there.”

  “Christ, Gav. What’s going on with you?” Hawke stares at me with a confused expression, his eyes narrowed behind the black-frame glasses he wears even though he has perfect eyesight.

  I give him an incredulous look.

  “Okay,” he concedes, holding his hands up. “What’s going on besides the stalker thing? You’re acting extra weird tonight.”

  I jam my hand in my pocket and pull out the stone, gripping it so tight I’ll probably have a heart-shaped indentation in my palm.

  “It’s nothing specific,” I grumble. Sighing, I run my free hand through my hair. “The crowd, the tiny room, the shrieking women. Hell, I’m probably just frustrated by my new cock-blocking shadow.”

  Hawke barks out a laugh. “Who cares about him? He’s the help. You want to have someone over then have someone over. That’s his problem if he has to see or hear something he doesn’t like.”

  I want to laugh, but the fact that I’d rather have ‘the help’ in my bed isn’t something I want to share with Hawke. And we’ve shared a lot.

  He jerks his chin towards the hand with the stone. “You still carry that thing?”

  “Only when I’m freaking out,” I reply. “It…helps somehow. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid.” Hawke puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ve been there, Gav. Or have you forgotten?”

  I shake my head. Of course I haven’t forgotten. How could I? I think about it all the time. The day I got the heart-shaped talisman was one of the most important days of my life. It’s the day I met my best friend.

  I watch the new kid drum with his fingers on the tabletop. He has his eyes closed, thumping out a hypnotizing rhythm. He’s been here three days and I haven’t heard him say a single word. All he ever does is pound his heart out on any surface he can find.

  He’s interesting looking. Shorter than my six feet by several inches, he has wild, nearly black hair and the most unique eyes I’ve ever seen. His right eye is shockingly blue, like the color of the ocean, but his left eye is a bright golden-brown.

  Gathering up what little courage I have, I wander over and take the seat across from him. Harold, his name is Harold.

  “Hi. I’m Gavin.”

&
nbsp; Harold’s fingers freeze and his eyes pop open in surprise. It takes about a half a second for his expression to shutter up tight.

  “Sorry. I was enjoying your drumming.” I shrug. “I’m a musician too. Guitar. You’re lucky. These assholes won’t let me have my guitar in here. You can drum anywhere.”

  Harold’s mouth twitches in amusement so I continue.

  “I like to play my guitar on the beach. That’s my favorite place in the world. I surf a lot too. I can do tricks and everything. People always tell me I look like a surfer.”

  His eyes flick to my butch haircut and his mouth quirks up again.

  I laugh, rubbing the velvety fuzz on my head. “Yeah, I know. My dad shaved off all of my hair. I used to look like a real surfer. Blonde and tan and all that.”

  Harold’s eyebrows pull down over those unusual eyes. “Why did he do that?”

  Shocked to hear him speak, my own eyes probably bulge in their sockets. “Uhhh,” I fidget nervously. Do I tell him? I’m not ashamed of being gay, but unfortunately, I’ve found that not everyone is accepting.

  I decide I don’t care what this kid thinks. He’s in a mental hospital just like me. Who is he to judge?

  “My dad said I looked like a girl. I’ve never told him, but somehow he knows. I’m gay.”

  I stare at Harold’s face, waiting for the inevitable disgust that is sure to follow. Incredibly, he smiles.

  “Are you less gay now that your hair is short?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Guess your dad is stupid then.” He extends a hand across the table. “I’m Hawke.”

  I shake the offered hand. “Hawke?”

  He pulls his hand back and begins drumming again, a complex, hypnotizing rhythm. “I don’t go by Harold. That’s my…that was my dad’s name.”

  “Oh.” I fidget with my hands again, desperately needing something to keep them occupied. Normally, I would be strumming on my guitar. They don’t let kids in mental institutions have instruments with wire strings on them, for obvious reasons.