Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

***

“Holy—”

I drive down the street that the rental house resides on and find myself in the middle of a nightmare of epic proportions. White vans topped by enormous satellite dishes line both sides of the winding road. As I carefully make my way through the narrow opening and pull up to the house, I am stunned to find a large crowd milling outside the gate.

No one is supposed to know about this house.

A third of the mob looks to be either a journalist or a camera jockey of some sort. Another third wields rainbow painted signs emblazoned with pro-LGBT slogans. The rest of the crowd either belongs to no particular group or makes up the anti-gay minority, holding up their own banners of hatred.

I phone Marcus and tell him to hustle over to the front gate to keep out our visitors.

It takes ten full minutes of me laying on the horn to make my way to the front gate. I roll down the window to enter the code, ignoring the shouts and cameras shoved in my face when the vultures recognize me as the guy who accompanied Gavin to the party last weekend.

Was that only four days ago? It seems like a lifetime.

My hands are literally shaking by the time I park the car in front of the house. Whether it’s from anger, adrenaline, or annoyance at the rude questions lobbed at me by the paparazzi, I can’t say. Any way you look at it, I’m not exactly calm as I storm through the door and into the kitchen where I find Gavin sitting by himself thumbing through a magazine while he eats his lunch.

Chest heaving, hands fisted, I stop in the doorway. Gavin lifts his head and those perfect, full lips part in surprise. His bright blue eyes widen and lock onto mine.

The sight of him has my shaky façade crumbling to pieces in front of me. I can feel the fabricated reality I’ve tried so hard to maintain slip out of my grasp like wisps of smoke.

I am so screwed.

Gavin

I’m not mad at that chicken-shit, Mitch Hale. Nope. Not at all.

That’s what I tell myself as I stomp around the kitchen of the rental house, mumbling obscenities as I look for food. I woke up to a rabid Ross Evans calling to yell at me for fifteen solid minutes. Something about photos of me and the twink at the beach yesterday.

Then I got another long-winded, manic message from my father. Apparently I’m not just a fag, now I’m a whore as well.

I pulled out my laptop after ending the call and found the article Ross was ranting about. Jesus. The damn media. They make it look like Sean and I were getting dirty right there on a public beach. Even the title, Walker Walks Out on Hunky Honey, chaps my ass.

For fuck’s sake, I’m out for four days and suddenly I’m the gay Casanova, breaking my ‘boyfriend’s’ heart by hooking up with another man behind his back. My fake boyfriend. The one who kissed me in a way I’ve never been kissed before. The one who the mere sight of him has me springing wood hard enough to pound nails.

Fucking Johnny Utah.

I find a container of chicken salad and spoon it onto a bed of mixed greens. Needing something to occupy my mind and pull me back from the ledge I’m standing on, I grab the latest copy of Variety and read it while eating at the kitchen table. Marcus made himself scarce somewhere outside after I lost it and yelled at him.

Was it fair to take my frustration out on him? No. But he was a damn convenient target.

I’m almost done with an article about the third and final installment of Ryker Bancroft’s Quantum Stranger trilogy, when the front door slams shut. I ignore it, assuming it’s one of the security staff. Heavy footsteps pound down the hall, stopping at the edge of the kitchen.

My fork is halfway to my mouth when I spot Mitch. Then, several things happen.

First, my cock instantly grows hard in my loose athletic pants.

Second, my eyes greedily devour every inch of his rugged, sexy body—from the top of his disheveled dark hair, to the ridiculous black T-shirt that says “Serial Killers Will Love You To Pieces” stretched sinfully tight over the broad muscles in his shoulders, down to the snug pair of dark-wash jeans that hug a mouthwatering bulge straining at his crotch.

Third, every bit of the anger and betrayal I’ve felt since Mitch turned tail and ran comes roaring back with a vengeance. My lip curls up and I drop the fork, ignoring the loud clatter it makes when it hits my plate. I shove back from the table and stalk over to stand inches away from a man I’d love to both hit and fuck, in no particular order.

Before can I give Mitch a piece of my mind, I glimpse the rage simmering behind those steely grey eyes. His jaw is clenched and his annoyingly mouthwatering body is strung as tight as a bow, rigid and unmovable.

We’ll see how unmovable he is.

Choking down the urge to punch Mitch in his smug face, I shoulder by, deliberately knocking him back a few steps. If I don’t get away from him, I’m going to explode with frustration, sexual or otherwise. I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear a low, rumbling growl behind me.

Fuck. He’s following. Is it sick that I both wanted him to follow and prayed that he wouldn’t?