The Complete Rockstar Series

“Hawke, I told you to go out,” I reiterate for the hundredth time since we arrived at his sprawling vacation home in Boulder, Colorado.

He stops his freak-out long enough to glare at me from behind those black-framed glasses. “Hell no. Not with a stalker after you.”

I scoff. “He can’t possibly know where we are. No one would ever think to check here.”

Hawke fidgets some more, moving to look out the window at the huge mountains that lay in the distance. “It’s not a secret that I own a house here, Gav. It pops up in the news every now and then.”

He’s right. Whenever he gets papped doing something—usually unbelievably reckless—in this town, the media always reiterates how he bought a secluded estate in the mountains.

I shrug. “It’s fine. Please, Hawke, I’m begging you to go. Take your bike or go rock climbing or whatever it is you do. I promise to lock the doors and stay at the house.”

Hawke flicks his gaze over to me. “You promise?”

“Yes.”

Anything to calm him down before we’re both climbing the walls. I’ve known him a long time and there’s one thing about Hawke that’s never changed… his unquenchable need for thrills. That’s why he bought a house in Boulder. It?

??s packed with adrenaline-filled activities—rock climbing, mountain biking, base-jumping, skydiving, you name it, Hawke’s done it.

“Alright, I’ll go. Just biking over at the trail.”

The trail is most likely a steep, long, dangerous path down a mountainside. I’ve learned to pick my battles with my best friend. He’s not going to stop living on the edge, so I don’t bother objecting anymore.

“Sure. Just take your phone in case you need to call for help or anything,” I smirk.

“Fuck off. I’ll take my phone in case you need to call me,” he retorts with a smile. “And eat something,” he calls out over his shoulder. “You look like shit.”

I grin even though he can’t see me.

Less than ten minutes later and Hawke is pulling out of the driveway in his black Jeep Rubicon, mountain bike perched on the back.

I thought getting rid of the nervous, twitchy, restless Hawke would allow me to relax. How wrong I was. The silence that permeates the large house combined with the tranquility of the view outside—all it does is give me plenty of opportunity to think. And thinking is the last thing I want to do.

My mind drifts back to that amazing experience I shared with Mitch and the overwhelming number of questions it inspired. Is he gay? Has he ever been with a man before? Does he want to do it again?

Irritated at myself for pushing Mitch away and then taking the coward’s way out by running, I wonder if I should call him. Seven days. It’s been seven days and he hasn’t contacted me once. Well, he did initially, but when he realized I was with Hawke and safely tucked away, the calls and texts stopped.

I close the game app on my phone and pull up Mitch’s number. At least twice a day, usually more, I stare at it with my finger hovering over the screen to make the call. Closing my eyes, I remember the way his rough hands felt on mine, holding me down on the bed. I can almost feel his mouth sliding across my skin, the scrape of his stubble leaving a fiery trail behind.

My hand goes to the juncture of my shoulder and my neck, rubbing over the spot that Mitch marked. The bruise is gone, but just the thought of it has my dick hardening.

Shit.

Unnerved and desperate for something to distract me, I wander into the bright kitchen and make a cup of coffee. I should eat. Food has been difficult to get down, nothing sounds appetizing. I look out the large kitchen window. It’s a beautiful day out, sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and no humidity. It makes me miss the beach. If I could surf, I could forget for a while—lose myself in the waves.

Of course Hawke wouldn’t buy a house on Hawaii where I could surf all day. He might love being outdoors, but the beach is definitely not his thing. If I’m lucky, he’ll come with me every once in a while and watch me ride the waves. No, Hawke’s prefers wide-open spaces to get his thrills.

I take my coffee and add a generous amount of sugar before taking it to the back deck. For a moment, I hesitate at the door, wondering if I should be leaving the safety of the house. Then I chuckle to myself. We are in the middle of nowhere, and no one knows where we are.

Aggravated with myself for thinking the worst, I lie back on one of the cushioned lounge chairs and sip my coffee, letting the sun heat my skin. I focus on the symphony of nature—the birds, the insects, the rustling of the trees—and I can almost convince myself that I’m not thinking about a pair of strong arms and gunmetal grey eyes.

* * *

“Gavin! Gav!”

The faint sound of my best friend’s voice rouses me from a deep, dreamless sleep.

“Gavin…! Fuck! He’s not here! I told him not to leave!”