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“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Sash. Not today.” I sent her an email detailing everything that went down last night, from the plot to lure out the stalker to the destruction of my townhouse.
“Jeez, Mitch. Being gay sure has made you catty.” After last night’s ‘coming out’ at the album launch, Sasha now knows the identity of my client. There’s no use denying it.
“Fucking hell, Sasha. Let it go, okay? Did you look over the stuff I sent?” I ignore the gay comment knowing she’s trying to get a rise out of me.
“I did.”
I wait a beat, and get frustrated when she doesn’t answer. This cat and mouse thing is her favorite game. She does it to draw out little bits of information she can use to profile you. Sasha’s been working on me for years.
“And…?”
“And, I agree with you, Mitch. There’s more than one perpetrator. Or, more specifically, more than one person writing the notes.”
Leaning back in my chair until I’m balanced on the back two legs, I run a hand down my face. “I see.”
“But one of them stopped a while back,” she continues.
“What do you mean?”
“The notes, the most recent ones all come from the same person. Whoever the partner was, for lack of a better word, is no longer involved.”
I jerk upright, causing the chair to slam back down onto all four legs. “You’re sure?”
“Am I ever wrong?” she purrs.
No, she isn’t.
“Thanks. I have to go.”
“This is all very interesting, Mitch. I’d love to hear more. Call me if you need any more help. Especially with that gorgeous Gavin Walker.”
At the mention of his name a rush of heat floods my skin, scorching hot as it travels down the length of my body.
“For god’s sake, Sasha,” I stutter, trying to get my thoughts under control. “Bye.”
“Bye, love!”
After calling both my insurance and a company that will bring a dumpster and clear out the house, I begin my research.
I always use the victim as a starting point and branch out from there. It feels wrong to poke around in Gavin’s past, but if I want to catch this guy, I have no choice.
When I enter Gavin’s name into an everyday search engine, millions of results pop up. This isn’t the first time I’ve looked him up, but it is the first time since knowing the man personally.
“Jesus.” I scratch at the itchy stubble on my neck as I gawk. There was no time to shave this morning. I had to get out of that house. I could see it in Gavin’s eyes. He wanted to discuss what happened in the men’s room last night.
Fuck. Just the thought of it has my cock twitching. I want to think of something else, distract my errant dick, but on the screen in front of me are dozens of photos of Gavin Walker. Photos of that perfect, angular face, made softer by a set of full, pink lips and thick, dark eyelashes that any woman would kill for.
I click on Images and am treated to an assorted array of tiny pictures of Gavin. One in particular has me literally about to come in my pants.
“Holy shit.” My hand shoots to my groin, squeezing hard to stop the imminent orgasm.
Don’t do it, Hale. This isn’t you. The thing with Grant wasn’t real and this isn’t real.
My body is telling my brain otherwise. As if possessed by an unseen force, my hand moves the cursor to click on the thumbnail.
It’s a spread in Men’s Health featuring Gavin, his surfboard, and not much else. The shot I’m drawn to is a side view of Gavin, completely naked, pressing his front against a tall blue board I recognize from his house. The long, tan, length of his body is exposed. With his arm closest to the camera bent and his hand gripping the edge of the board, the focus of the picture is the uninterrupted swath of skin from his ribcage, down his narrow waist, along the curve of his ass, to a gorgeous, muscled leg. Gavin’s model-perfect face is staring at the camera, his cheek resting on the board, his full lips slightly parted.
I swallow, the lust built up in my throat making it difficult. My cock is now bulging painfully against the tight denim of my jeans. I press down on it with the heel of my hand and groan.
