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.”
Aaaand 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?
“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 not even long enough to count as briefly… or dating. We lasted exactly one dinner 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.
The Complete Rockstar Series Page 57