“Maybe. But that’s where the inconsistency comes in. The anti-gay threats are one part. The other stuff is more…I guess I’d say more typical of a true psychopath.”
“What do you mean?”
“Psychopaths don’t have empathy. They simply do whatever they want to do to get their desired result. We’re all lesser beings to them and in their minds we’re most definitely not as smart. They’re the cats and we’re just the mice to play around with until the day they get tired of the game and finish us off.”
“That’s horrible.” I shudder at the thought of people acting like animals.
“It’s what I did for years,” Mitch reveals.
“How did you end up doing that? Serial killers, I mean. You have to admit it’s kind of gruesome.”
Mitch leans back in his chair until the front legs leave the ground. He scratches his fingers through his thick morning stubble. “I received a dual degree in behavioral science and forensic science thinking I’d be a police detective. There were FBI recruiters on campus one day…” He looks at me. “I lived and went to school in D.C. Anyway, they described their career track and it sounded interesting. I joined the bureau right after graduation.”
“Why law enforcement, then? It seems you were always drawn to it.” I don’t know why I keep asking questions. But as long as Mitch is willing to answer them, I’m not stopping. He’s fascinating. And it gives me a legitimate reason to stare at his perfect face.
“I’m not sure, exactly. My dad worked security at the embassy in London. I learned a lot about crime from him. I was originally going to study psychology. When I got to college the psychology of criminals interested me, so I pursued it.” Something tells me this isn’t the reason for his chosen profession, but I let it go to ask something more interesting.
“You lived in London?”
“My mom is British. I was born in London, lived there for eight years, and had dual citizenship until I joined the bureau. They made me surrender my U.K. passport.”
“That explains a few things.”
“Like what?” Mitch is looking at me expectantly.
I smirk. “Sometimes you have a slight accent. I couldn’t place it. It makes sense now, Utah.”
“Hmph,” he grunts. “Most people don’t notice.”
“My mom is from London, so I grew up with it. I also spent a year there after getting out of the inst—I mean after getting out of high school. That’s where I met Adam and Dax.”
“Interesting.” Mitch slugs back the rest of his coffee, gets up, and rinses the mug in the sink. He winces as he shuffles across the kitchen. “We should get going.”
“Going where?”
“I told you, we can’t stay here. It’s too open, too accessible, and this guy knows where you are.”
At least Mitch isn’t talking to me like I’m a kindergartner this time. I wash my bowl and put it on the counter to dry. “I guess I should pack.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“Where are we going? I have to be close enough to work. A new album is about to launch so there are tons of parties and interviews scheduled.”
Mitch sighs. “I still have to work that part out, but you’ll be able to work.”
Great. I guess I should just trust Mitch. After last night, I have no intention of making that mistake again.
Mitch
This is dumb. Right up there with the dumbest ideas I’ve ever had. If I made a list, it would be at the top. But until a better option comes up, it’s the best I can do.
“So, uh, this is it,” I mumble as Gavin looks around my tiny kitchen.
“It’s nice,” he observes.
“I’ll talk to Ross later about renting a house.” I stare at the worn tile floor. Why the fuck did I bring him here?
A warm hand wraps around my wrist. Until now, I never knew my wrist had a line directly to my dick, but apparently it does. My eyes dart up to find Gavin giving me a small smile. “It’s fine. I can prove to you that I’m not the spoiled brat you think I am.” His eyes sparkle with mischief.