Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

“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.”