Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

“I’m not out,” I remind him. “The studio will shit a brick.”

“Exactly.”

Oh. Okay. As if that explains anything.

“What I’m saying is I can’t come out, Mitch.”

“Does your contract specifically state that you can’t?”

“Well, no. But—”

“Gavin, do you want to be out?” Mitch asks sincerely, his voice quiet but supportive.

I clench my fists. What would this guy know about coming out or staying in the closet?

“It’s not as easy as that,” I growl.

Mitch glances at me. “It’s exactly as easy as that. If you want to be out, you can be out. Today.”

Do I?

“How? Or I guess the question is, why?”

“I’ve thought about it a lot. About this stalker, whoever he is. I can’t build a solid profile. He doesn’t make sense, isn’t consistent. That’s not how these guys operate. The only common thread in everything is that the threats are anti-gay. If you come out, he’ll either get so angry that he’ll stumble. Make a mistake. And we can catch him. Or it will take the wind right out of his sails and he won’t have any reason to contact you anymore.”

“You still think it’s the record label,” I mutter.

Mitch shrugs. “Honestly, Gavin? The evidence leads me to believe it’s more than one person or entity. That’s why I can’t come up with a solid profile.”

He glances over again. “I do believe that you have a very dangerous, mentally unstable stalker. But is it possible that the executives at the label capitalized on that fact by throwing their own threats into the mix to keep you in the closet? Yes. That’s why the letters are inconsistent. Half are from an actual psychopath, half are not.”

I mull that over for a few minutes, the car silent while I process everything.

“Fine.”

“Fine? Fine what?” Mitch asks.

“Let’s do it. Fuck them. I’ve played their game for a long time. First one record label, then another. I want to be myself. It was never my decision to hide, Utah.”

Mitch laughs and throws me a wink. “Does that mean we’re going steady?”

I look him up and down, taking in the sight that is Mitch Hale. He’s wearing sinfully tight jeans with black boots, and a grey T-shirt a full size too small that says “I Might Be Wrong But I Doubt It” in white lettering. The shirt clings to every muscle on the man’s body, the sleeves hugging around his biceps and begging for mercy. He even styled his hair. Whisking it up to the center in a short, teased semi-Mohawk. Keanu Reeves has nothing on this guy.

My mouth goes dry at Mitch’s joke and I can only nod.

He grimaces as if the thought of going steady with me disgusts him and anger floods my body. Mitch has me running so hot and cold, I’m going to have a coronary by the time tonight is over. Especially if we’re supposed to pretend to be a couple.

Fuck me. I need a drink.

Mitch

“I need a drink,” I mutter to no one in particular.

Adam Reynolds must hear me complaining because he places what I assume is a Jack and Coke in my empty hand.

“Here you go, mate.” He grins and I can’t help but smile back. The man’s enthusiasm is infectious.

Gavin, the sourpuss, is currently glaring at me from across the room. So much for us being an item. In the car, Gavin’s excitement and the accompanying smile he gave me had me sprouting questionable wood for most of the drive. Now he’s reverted right back to being a little shit. Hot and cold.