“Fuck!” I clutch at my chest, nearly dropping the beer. “Christ, give a man a head’s up.” I scowl way up at who must be one of my new babysitters. Jesus, the man has got to be almost seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. He’s fucking enormous. “Is your job to hide out here all the time?”
“One of us will monitor the back and front of the house at all times, yes,” he replies with about as much personality as a rock.
“Of course,” I mutter.
After the severed human finger was found backstage, the label upped my security detail and decided to let me stay at my own house. Funny how none of the extra security kept Mitch from being attacked. If I had insisted on going with him to his parents house, the bodyguards would have been with us and maybe he wouldn’t have been shot.
Sighing, I pull out a beer and uncap it, taking a long swallow. Playing Monday morning quarterback won’t change what happened, so I force myself to think of something else.
“Well, I’m going to sit on the beach and drink all of these beers,” I announce to Bigfoot as I unlock the back fence. “You coming with me?”
“I’ll be wherever you are, Mr. Walker.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
Lucky me to get stuck with enormous Agent Uptight. Thank god I’m going to be drunk very, very soon. God I’m itching for a fight. I glance back over at Bigfoot and decide it’s probably not a good idea.
Three beers in, with a gentle buzz beginning to wash over me, and my phone rings. As much as I want to ignore it so I can continue drinking, it could be news about Mitch. Sasha didn’t agree with me leaving the hospital how I did, but she did promise to keep me up to date on Mitch’s condition.
“Hello?”
“Gavin? Are you home?”
“Ross,” I huff. “I just fucking got back from the tour an hour and a half ago, same as you. Where else would I be?” I can fight with Ross.
“Well I’m standing on your front step with the investigators assigned to your case and you’re not answering the door,” he snaps, clearly just as tired and sick of this shit as I am. “Security says you’re here, so what the hell?”
“Fuck. I’m on the beach. Hold tight. Me and Sasquatch here will let you in.” I glance over at my tall companion. He does nothing to indicate my nickname bothers him.
“Gavin,” Ross says when I open the front door. “These are Agents Halifax and Van Zandt from the FBI.”
Ross enters the house with two men in serious suits. They definitely give off the Fed vibe with their holier than thou attitude. Too exhausted to be polite I simply grunt and flop down on the couch, not bothering to shake hands or offer them a drink.
“We’re here because—”
“I fucking know why you’re here,” I growl. “A sick fuck left a goddamn human finger in my dressing room! Then he tried to kill who he thought was my boyfriend because of some misplaced delusional jealousy!”
Neither agent reacts to my outburst. Son of a bitch! What’s it take to get someone to fight with me? I picked on my bodyguard and couldn’t get a response, now these stupid suits won’t rise to the bait either. I need to get it out—have a big old fistfight to unleash my frustration—and no one wants to be my opponent.
“That’s correct,” Agent Halifax replies. “But also because the finger matches a victim in one of our cases.”
I blanch. “What case?”
Agent Van Zandt takes a seat across from me, still looking every bit the uptight government suit. “We’ve been following a serial killer. There are victims spread out across the country, several in L.A. and a few in other states.”
“Your finger matches one of the killer’s victims,” Halifax confirms.
I blink stupidly. “This guy was just supposed to be an overzealous fan,” I whisper, holding my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“We’ll be working with your manager to review the evidence your previous investigator has compiled so far.” Halifax sits in a chair next to me, his green eyes studying my reaction.
Damn, he’s kind of hot, tall with sandy brown hair and an athletic build.
No. I won’t get involved with another employee. I made that mistake once and all I got was a broken heart. Forcing myself to stand, I head for the stairs. Fuck this. They ruined my buzz and now I’m crashing.
“Sorry gentlemen, I’ve just gotten home after a very trying tour. I’m going to bed. Ross,” I look over at Hawke’s uncle. “I’m sure you can show the agents out? We can talk another time.”
Without waiting for a response, I climb the stairs, feeling the weight of the last few months in every single one of my joints. I strip naked and flop onto the bed, asleep before the front door closes.