My feet pound out a steady rhythm on the treadmill while the Mark Ronson-Bruno Mars version of Uptown Funk blasts in my ears. The louder and more forceful the music, the less I’ll be able to think. Think about Gavin. About Grant. About what I’ve been denying about myself since I was sixteen.
After completing a grueling, fast-paced five miles, I move to the free-weight bench I have set up on the other side of the room. Half of my basement consists of the garage. The rest is a small but functional gym, with cardio, weights, punching bags, and other equipment. It’s my reprieve, where I go to think or in this case, not think. And, it’s the only room that wasn’t trashed by Gavin’s stalker.
Straddling the bench, I grip the barbell stacked with plates and lift. Mid-way through my last set of reps, my phone rings. By the time I power through my last press, it stops.
“Damn.”
Then it rings again.
Christ.
I snatch it off a nearby shelf and stare at the display.
Ross Evans
“Ross.”
“Jesus, Mitch! What the fuck is going on?”
“Whoa, wait.” I wipe off the sweat that’s pouring off my body and head up the stairs on shaky legs, my knee still stiff from the fall last week. “What are you talking about?”
“Seriously?” Ross snaps. “Have you seen today’s press?”
“Huh? No. I woke up and worked out. That’s it. I haven’t seen anything.”
What the hell has Ross in such a snit?
“You know, maybe you two should have discussed your exclusivity before dragging your relationship out in front of the cameras! Now I have Talbot Putnam up my ass for that little stunt you two pulled the other night!”
“Ross, calm down.” I unlock my office and drop into the chair.
“Fuck you, Hale. Just do the job you’ve been hired to do, okay? Fuck Gavin on your free time and for fuck’s sake keep yours and Gavin’s personal shit out of sight of the paparazzi!”
The line goes dead.
Great. I didn’t even get a chance to correct Ross on his assumption that Gavin and I are an item. And why wouldn’t he think it? That was my intention after all.
My head hurts. All of this celebrity bullshit has my neck in knots. I roll my head a few times, trying to work out the kinks. No such luck. My eye spasms, making me even more tense.
Ross said something about paparazzi. I pull up a search engine and for the second time in less than a week, type in Gavin Walker.
My mouth drops open at the results. Photos of Gavin at the beach getting very friendly with a small, dark haired man occupy most of the top articles.
Son of a—
My home was turned inside out in order for Gavin to come out of the closet, and for what? While I’ve been w
orking twelve-hour days interviewing and profiling and tracking down a stalker, Gavin’s been off picking up guys?
I don’t realize my hands are balled up into fists until my knuckles begin to ache. Before I can stop myself, I shoot to my feet, shoving the chair back so hard it crashes against the wall.
It only takes a few minutes to shower and throw my meager possessions into my duffel bag. I had a mattress delivered so I’d have something to sleep on. Other than that, a few end tables as well as a rocking chair that were left untouched comprise the sum total of furniture in my house. Everything else was hauled away by a garbage service.
An inappropriate laugh escapes my throat as I lock up the townhouse. What’s the point? There’s nothing to steal that isn’t behind the sealed door and reinforced steel walls of the office. I start my car and roughly shift it into reverse.
I’m seething as I maneuver the car to the northbound ramp of the 101 towards the Hollywood Hills. If Gavin fucked up my case because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, he’ll wish he’d never met me—that’s the reason I tell myself is the cause of my overwhelming anger.
I’m not jealous. Nope. Definitely not.