The Complete Rockstar Series

I scowl. “Aren’t you going to wait here?”

“I’ll wait next to the vehicle, sir. It’s too easy for someone to sneak up on you if you’re inside a car. Plus,” he jams a thumb at my Range Rover. “Those expensive ones are soundproof and I want to hear and see everything around me.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”

The big man leans against the Rover, his eyes alert and constantly scanning his surroundings. Satisfied he won’t follow me, I head up the long walkway to the front door. The sound of those damn pretentious chimes float through the thick panel of wood.

I don’t know that I actually expected my father to be home, let alone answer the door himself. So when the oversized, decorative door swings open, I’m shocked.

Apparently, so is my dad.

“Gavin?” His blue eyes bulge and his ruddy face blanches. “W-what are you doing here?” He closes the door until I can only see a small sliver of his body.

The anger I’ve kept inside for ten years grows, tearing and clawing to be let out. My hand darts out, shoving the door back and sending my father stumbling inside.

“Dad,” I sneer. “I’m here to have some good old father-son bonding.”

My father leaps forward, attempting to herd me back outside. “No. It isn’t a good time for me. You’ll have to come back later.”

“Fuck you!” I jam a finger into his chest. “I want some answers and I’m not leaving until I get them.”

A soft click from somewhere over my left shoulder tears my attention from the weak old man in front of me.

“Shut the door, Denny. I think it’s high time the boy gets some answers.” I have no idea

what the man looks like who’s speaking, because all I see is the barrel of his massive gun, pointed directly between my eyes.

My dad must comply because the door closes with a fateful thump.

“Troy, don’t,” my dad pleads with the gunman, holding his hands up. “Leave him out of this.”

Troy. My heart spasms. Troy Wolski.

The man growls, a truly frightening sound, never dropping the gun or wavering a single inch. “You brought him into this Denny, not me! You’re the one who wanted him scared so far back in the closet that he’d never see the light of day!”

Denny?

“So you did start this,” I accuse, glancing at my dad out of the corner of my eye.

The man laughs. “Of course he did! Get over here,” he points the gun at the couch. “Sit down, both of you.”

Slowly, we both move towards the long sectional. I sit carefully, my eyes glued to the black handgun. After we’re both seated, the man tucks the gun in his waistband.

He’s disarming himself? I’m getting the fuck out of here. My mind goes over all of the different ways to attack this psycho and put him on his knees.

“Don’t.” My dad’s hand lands on my arm at the same time he speaks. “He doesn’t need a weapon to kill you.”

I must look confused, because the man chuckles, a deep, ominous sound that reverberates from his chest.

“He’s right. Former Special Ops. Marine Corps Amphibious Recon to be exact.”

I stare at the man called Troy. What I couldn’t see with a gun in my face, I can see now. The man isn’t very tall, maybe a few inches under six feet, but he’s bulky. All muscle and power, thickened across the shoulders and neck. His thighs are huge under his black cargo pants and his biceps bulge at the hem of his short-sleeved T-shirt.

The salt and pepper, short high and tight military haircut would be a dead giveaway of the man’s background. It’s exactly how my dad’s used to be until he grew it out for a more Hollywood friendly, less intimidating style. Troy is powerful and well trained, for sure, but it’s the man’s eyes that send chills down my spine.

Dark and shallow, I see nothing but death in his gaze. It’s the gaze of a killer, a serial killer. One who thinks nothing of slicing off someone’s finger to leave as a gift.

“Dad? How do you know this,” I swallow loudly. “This person.”