“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.