The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  “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 thin
g 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, neither 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…

  At the bottom are two phone numbers, office and cell. I stare at the message. This Ross Evans guy knows enough not to put anything with regards to the stalker in an email. That tells me I’m not dealing with complete idiots, which is helpful. They’re desperate as well, having already contacted me. May as well get it over with. I pull up my calendar app and dial the number.

  “Evans.”

  “Mr. Evans. This is Mitch Hale.”

  “Mr. Hale. Thank you for your quick response.”

  “Not a problem. When did you want to meet?”

  The man on the other end of the phone sounds anxious. “Whenever you’re free. I’ll change any appointments I need to. This is a priority.”

  I have to admit, I’m intrigued. Big shot Hollywood types don’t rearrange anything for anyone. Ever. They remind me of the bureaucrats I left behind in D.C. No one is more important than them, and they make sure to remind you of it all the time.

  “I’m free tomorrow afternoon. Say, one o’clock?” I’ll have to move a follow up meeting with one of my other clients, but I find myself curious about this case and can’t resist squeezing it in.

  “I’ve got you down. Do you know where my office is?”

  “It’s on the email. I can find it.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  I hang up, swiveling my chair from side to side. Dead animals, stalkers, celebrities, powerful Hollywood agents who roll over at my say so? This job is becoming more and more intriguing.

  A quick Google search brings up the band’s homepage. I click the page for their individual biographies.

  Four members. All men. I know the victim isn’t Adam Reynolds, so I eliminate him straight away. That leaves Dax Davies, Gavin Walker, and Hawke Evans. Related to Ross Evans, maybe?

  I read each bio thoroughly. There’s not much there. Where they were born, what instrument they play, random stuff about likes and dislikes. One man is large and intimidating looking with short blonde hair. One man is smaller, dark-haired with tattoos on his neck and geek chic specs. The last man has tan skin and sun-kissed blonde hair just long enough in front to brush across his lashes. He’s so beautiful I can hardly believe he’s a rock star and not a movie star.

  I close the browser. There’s no point doing more research until I know which one is the victim. A text alert from my phone has me groaning. Hailey. I’m supposed to have dinner with her tonight. Groaning, I head toward the shower.

  I should be more excited to see her. Considering how many years I was with the FBI. The job didn’t really make it easy to have relationships of any kind. Random hook-ups here and there to let out frustration were it for me for a while, until they stopped all together. I try not to think about why I stopped pursuing dates and my heart clenches painfully.

  Getting regular sex after going so long without should be a good thing, yet gorgeous as she is, I could care less about seeing Hailey. My left eye begins to twitch, a sure sign that I’m stressed out and thinking too much, yet I continue down that road anyway.

  In the shower, I soap up, wondering for the millionth time why I can’t make it work with Hailey. In high school and college, my friends talked about sex and girls like they were the greatest things ever.

  Yeah, I hooked up with a few girls to prove something to myself and yeah, there was a certain amount of curiosity. I got off and everything. I didn’t see sex the way my friends described it. It was okay, felt good and all. It just never held my interest enough to bother pursuing anyone or keeping any of the girls around longer than a week or two.

  I shake my head, not wanting to go down that road again. About what did hold my interest. Instead, I think about the case, wondering which of the three men is the victim of a stalker.

  My mind keeps wandering back to one of the men in particular. Gavin, the gorgeous blonde man with the angular jaw, cheekbones so defined they would make an
y male model jealous, and full, pink lips. When my dick begins to take interest, I shut down my thoughts and turn off the water.

  Bloody hell.

  Annoyed, I dry off and get ready for my ‘date’ with Hailey. That’s enough to make my hard-on deflate completely. It doesn’t escape me that thinking about Hailey turns me off, while thinking about—I rake my hand through my wet hair. Nope, not even going to go there.

  There goes my damn eye again. Christ. I must be losing my mind.

  Gavin

  Strong arms wrap around my neck, sliding over my chest. My initial reaction is to tense in fear. This stalker has me so on edge, I flinch at anything and everything. When scratchy stubble brushes across my cheek, I realize it’s just last night’s hook up getting cozy.

  “Good morning.”

  “Almost afternoon,” I correct, wincing at my callousness. But honestly, what do you say to some guy you don’t know whose name you can’t remember but whose dick you had in your mouth a few hours ago? A guy you wanted to kick out several hours ago but wouldn’t take the not so subtle hints?

  “Hmmm,” he walks around the kitchen table, eyeing me the entire time.

  He is gorgeous, that I can’t deny. Tall, athletic, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. He’s exactly my type. Which is the point, I guess, seeing as I picked him up last night at a party and brought him back to my house to fuck into the early hours of this morning.

  “I guess I’ll be going, seeing as you’re about to stroke out from me being here,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes.

  “I have a meeting,” I blurt out. It’s the truth, but it still makes me feel like an asshole.

  “Uh huh. No worries, man. I had a great time.” He slides his feet into his shoes and finds his shirt on the couch, yanking it over his sculpted abs.

  Without another word, he opens the door and is gone. I jump out of my chair and turn the deadbolt behind him. Paranoia has taken hold of me lately, causing me to worry about every little thing. Exhausted from lack of sleep, I let my muscles relax, feeling the tension drain.

  I have got to get my shit together. Checking the clock, I realize I only have thirty minutes until I have to leave for the meeting at Ross’ office. A meeting about a stalker. My stalker. I drag a hand down my face and start getting ready.