The Complete Rockstar Series

Mitch

“Mom, I’m fine. You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot,” I grumble as my mother fluffs my pillows and sets a glass of water next to the couch.

“Mitchell, stop it. I’m your mother. This is what mothers do. We take care of our children,” she tutts, continuing to adjust my blanket. “Would you like the telly on, love?”

“Mom. Stop. Can you sit? Can we just talk?”

It’s been two days since I was released from the hospital, a week and a half since the shooting. The doctors cleared me to leave, but only if I didn’t go home alone. Since I don’t know anyone in California—anyone who would want me there, I think bitterly—I ended up at my parents’ house.

“I was going to make you a bite to eat, Mitchell.”

“Mom!” She flinches at my raised voice, but bloody hell, she just won’t listen. “Please sit.”

Gingerly, my mother takes the wingback chair next to the couch. I’ve been spending my days in the family room and my nights in the bedroom that used to be mine.

“Thanks, mom.” I close my eyes. The painkillers they sent me home with make it difficult to stay awake. I tried stopping them and nearly cried the pain was so intense. Needless to say, I’ve been taking them as directed ever since that failed experiment.

“Mitchell,” she says without meeting my eyes.

“Mom…” I reach out and put my hand over hers. “Is it really so bad? For me to be,” I swallow, “to be gay?”

“Oh love, no. It’s just… I guess for me it’s a surprise. You never seemed…” she lets her words taper off.

“I dated girls, you mean?” She nods. “Yeah, I tried. I didn’t want to be gay. But this is who I am, mom. I’m sorry if it’s disappointing.”

My mom clasps my hand. “Listen to me, Mitchell. I am not disappointed. You’re a wonderful man and a good son.” Her voice cracks. “I met your young man at the hospital. He’s lovely, Mitchell.”

“Thanks, but we’re not together anymore. You know that,” I whisper, my eyes burning. “What about Dad?” I change the subject, not able to discuss Gavin yet.

My father has been scarce since I woke up in the hospital. Only stopping by for a few minutes each day. Even at home he manages to avoid me somehow.

“Your father loves you, Mitchell. He’s having a harder go at this, yes. But almost losing you…” she sniffs. “Just give him some time, love.”

“I can do that.” Hell, it’s better than the cold shoulder he gave me the night I came over to tell them. I guess me almost dying made him rethink cutting his only child out of his life.

My mom pats my hand and stands up. “I’ll go make a snack.” She pauses in the doorway. “Don’t give up on Gavin, son. He loves you, mark my words.” Then she’s gone.

I lean back into the soft pillows and stare at the ceiling, my mind spinning. Never in my life has there been someone like Gavin. I’ve never known the pain of heartbreak. Not even that asshole Grant made me feel so broken, so lost, so utterly fucking hopeless.

Is mom right? Does Gavin love me?

Shit, I don’t know. Maybe I had the right idea, not getting close to anyone, minding my own business. Work and more work, that was all I had for a long time. Yeah, it was lonely sometimes, but fuck if it didn’t feel better t

han this.

But hell, I wouldn’t give up my memories of Gavin for anything, not even to take away the pain. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of his tan skin under my hands, the scent that surrounded me when I buried my nose in the crook of his neck, the look in his eyes as he came deep inside me. Shivering, I let the memories overwhelm me, replaying every last minute in my head, savoring them like fine wine.

For a while it works and the pain stays away, allowing me a few minutes of happiness in my lifetime of self-imposed misery. Then reality bleeds back in and I’m right back where I started. Alone.

* * *

A week later, I step out of the cab in front of my townhouse in Huntington Park. It feels as if I haven’t been here in years, not three months. I wince as I slide the key into the front door, my chest still tender, especially now that I’m off the painkillers.

I shuffle down the hall, dropping my bag at the foot of the stairs. The air is muggy and stale from the house being sealed up for so long. When I step into the living room and glance around, I remember that I don’t have any furniture to speak of except a bed and a kitchen table.

Shit.

The last thing I feel like doing is shopping. I scan my fingerprint and enter my office. The temperature control system has recirculated the air in here so it’s much less hot and humid than the rest of the townhouse. I turn on the systems and wait for them to boot up.