Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

Gavin is quiet for so long, I begin to think he’s not going to respond.

“I don’t see that I have a choice,” he whispers. “I’ll be down when they get here.” He heads for the stairs and disappears.

Exhausted, I slump into a kitchen chair, leaning over the table with my head in my hands.

Way to go, Mitch. You really know how to fuck things up.

***

“Mitch?”

A gentle touch on my shoulder wakes me up. I turn over to see Gavin, wearing only a bright red pair of boxer briefs standing next to the bed.

“Gavin? Is something wrong?” I sit up, about to throw the covers off when I realize I’d be exposing significant morning wood. Morning wood that is slowly turning into a genuine hard-on thanks to the perfect, golden torso, complete with a faint blonde treasure trail and pierced nipples, right at my eye-level.

“Someone’s at the door,” he whispers. “I didn’t know if I should answer it.”

I glance up at his face. Gavin is frightened. Truly frightened. I suppose I would be too if I had a stalker leaving dead animals in my bed.

What am I talking about? I have a stalker! One that destroyed my home. But I’m the one who fixes things. I’m supposed to keep Gavin safe.

My hard-on vanishes when I see Gavin’s fear. Hell, I can practically taste it. It’s radiating off of him in waves.

I jump out of bed and pull on a loose pair of sweats. Inside, my heart skips a beat when I notice Gavin sneak a peek at my crotch as I get dressed. I throw on a shirt and thrust a pair of shorts and a shirt at Gavin.

“Put these on. Hurry,” I urge.

For once, he does as I ask without a barrage of questions or complaints. While he dresses, I grab my Glock off the nightstand and double-check the clip. The sight of him wearing my clothes shouldn’t turn me on, but dammit, it does.

“Come with me,” I whisper. Loud pounding comes from the front door, accompanied by the chimes of the fancy doorbell.

Gavin jumps and grabs at the hem of my shirt. Without thinking, I reach back for his hand, clasping it in mine like I did last night at my townhouse. We creep down the stairs to the door.

Letting go of his hand, I hold a finger up to my mouth. Parting the curtain with the Glock so I can see the front step, I peek outside.

“Son of a bitch.” I move to unlock the door.

“What are you doing?” Gavin asks, wide-eyed.

“It’s just Marcus.” When his expression doesn’t change, I continue. “The bodyguard?”

“Oh. I forgot.” Gavin’s posture goes from frightened to defensive in the blink of an eye. It’s as if I watched an invisible wall slam down between us.

Confused, I turn back to the door and open it for our guest.

“Hale,” a deep, rumbling voice chastises. “I thought I was going to grow old and die out here waiting for you.”

“Marcus!” I grin, holding out a hand. After we shake, I step aside. “This is the client, Gavin Walker.”

“Mr. Walker,” Marcus says, nodding at Gavin. “Marcus Jacoby, your fill-in protection.” They shake hands while I close the door.

“Why don’t you two get acquainted while I clean up and get dressed?”

Gavin stares at me, dozens of unanswered questions in those wounded blue eyes. “I’ll make coffee,” he offers.

“Show me the way,” Marcus responds.

I swear, as Gavin walks away, he looks… hurt.