Illegal Contact (The Barons 1)

Luckily, Joe wasn’t like that. He didn’t get it, but at least he pretended to.

“Fine. Subject change. If you won’t hire some help, your living situation is going to be worse.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“This place is a mess.” Joe trailed after me as I strode to the kitchen. “How will you do your shopping?”

“Delivery works.”

“Not for everything. You’re not in Manhattan where things can be delivered in a couple of hours, Gavin. There’s barely anything out here but you, the Atlantic Ocean, empty summer houses, and serial killers. You’re going to have to stay on top of everything yourself. I won’t be available every minute of the day.” Joe paused by the counter and watched as I yanked a beer from the fridge. A state-of-the-art kitchen, and all it was used for was to store premade meals and booze. “Unless you’re planning to get back together with Celeste Wakefield . . .”

“I’d rather spend six months in jail.”

“What about the one girl you were screwing for a couple of months?”

“She made tracks when she got tired of my lack of conversation skills. Besides, she wasn’t in it to be my girlfriend. It was fun.” I used the edge of the counter to pop the top off the beer. It went flying across the kitchen and landed somewhere on the floor. “I’m not gonna get with a girl just to ask her to run my errands. I’m not the douchebag TMZ would have you think I am, Joe.”

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. If you can’t think of anything, I’ll continue with the hiring process for the PA. The guy I interviewed has worked for several celebrities.”

Everything after “the guy I interviewed” blanked out. My fingers tightened around the bottle. “Say what?”

“I hired a personal assistant. Someone to—”

“No.”

“—keep your affairs in order. All of the scheduling you’re going to need—”

“I said no!” My voice tore out of me and echoed off the vaulted ceilings and walls of glass. I tried to take another breath, but the vise closing in on me made it impossible to find a calm center. Those tricks didn’t work when someone was making decisions about my life without consulting me. I’d gone through that as a kid. Going pro should have given me complete control, but instead I was constantly being steered in one direction or another. Being told what was right or wrong, what I should or shouldn’t say, how to conduct myself or react when someone was trying their best to corner me. “You don’t make decisions like that for me. Not now. Not ever.”

“Don’t be irrational.”

“You haven’t seen me be irrational yet, but I can show that side of myself real fast if you don’t undo whatever you did.”

“Absolutely not.”

I slowly exhaled through my nose and tried to find logical words floating in the red haze descending from the peak of my temper. “Joe. This shit started because of me confronting the dude who threatened to out Simeon. You think I’m stupid enough to trust someone in my house? If you think my image is shitty now, just wait until a housekeeper or a PA finds out I like fucking guys. Gavin Brawley, the Barons’ alpha asshole, being bisexual will be a lot more sensational than golden boy Simeon experimenting at the club while wasted.”

Joe cringed. He went through life pretending I only chased female tail when off the field. It was less stressful when it came to sorting out the potential homophobic backlash if word got out that I was bi. I tried to choose my male hookups carefully, and never a random stranger. Even on the days when I craved a man’s hard body and low, deep voice more than anything else, I sometimes told myself it was more trouble than it was worth. And Simeon’s latest disaster only cemented that thought in my mind, so having a stranger in my house . . .

“The man I hired has worked for movie stars, Gavin. He understands discretion.”

“I don’t give a shit if he understands quantum physics. He’s more likely to land on the moon than set foot in this ridiculous mansion.”

Joe sighed like he was dealing with an unruly child. I slammed the bottle against the counter so hard that it splintered in my hand.

“Damn it, Gavin!” Joe grabbed a towel from the counter and threw it at me. “Now you’re bleeding.”

I barely noticed the pain. It was always like that when adrenaline soared through me like a shot of liquid fire. In those moments, I felt either anger or a drive to go. Go faster and evade whoever was coming for me, or hit harder if there was no escape.

It was okay on the field, but there was no more field. No turf. No comforting weight of pads against my body. No huddle of men who trusted me to catch the ball and barrel through anyone stupid enough to get between me and the end zone. Nothing but an enormous mansion I didn’t take care of.