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I grab a Red Bull out of the fridge and crack it open. Right now, I’m feeling a little petulant, so I don’t bother offering the agents anything to drink. They didn’t call ahead before barging in on my afternoon. That means courtesy on my part is optional.
I choose to opt out.
Especially when Agent Creepy is giving me the once over again. His eyes graze over me lasciviously, stopping at my piercings. I feel naked and embarrassed, which pisses me off.
I stomp over to the couch and grab my shirt, yanking it over my head.
“Can I help you?” I sneer, staring pointedly at Halifax as he smirks.
“We wanted to go over some things. We’re trying to overlay the timeline and locations of the victims’ deaths with your past travel schedules,” Van Zandt says. He opens a binder and searches, extracting a few sheets of paper.
Do they not have computers for this shit?
“Do you have my old travel schedules?” I query.
“No. We were hoping you had it so we could compare it to our killer,” Agent Halifax says, his eyes drifting from my chest to my mouth as I take a sip of my drink.
I’m seriously on the verge of punching this guy. Is that a federal crime? I notice a wedding ring on his left hand and nearly choke on Red Bull.
“I don’t have those things here,” I snap. “The tour company that hosted the tour, the record label, or hell even Ross would have those things. I’m just the talent. I show up, sing and dance, and go the fuck home. I don’t know shit about schedules.”
“Excuse me,” Van Zandt says, heading for my bathroom.
Fucking make yourself at home, asshole.
Shit. Now I’m alone with the closeted Agent Dickhead.
This is such crap. Why are they really here? I’m about to call Halifax out on his shit when he suddenly stands up.
“It’s really important that we figure out if any of the notes arrived in cities at the same time victims were killed,” he maintains, slowly walking over to where I’m standing.
My fingers tighten around my beer. “If it’s that important, you should have called. I could have told you I don’t have that kind of information here at the house,” I growl.
Halifax stands next to me, staring over my shoulder to look out the kitchen windows. I begin to move away. Uncomfortable is not even in the same universe as how I feel with this asshole so close to me. Before I can take a single step, his hand brushes against mine.
I scowl and he pretends to be shocked. “What the fuck are you playing at, Halifax?” Livid, I give him a dark look.
The fucker holds up his hands in mock defeat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
There’s that damn smirk again. I put down the drink, ready to punch this asshole into next week, when the front door opens and one of the bodyguards calls out. “Mr. Walker, you have visitors.”
Halifax jumps back, nearly falling on his ass in his haste to get away from me. Before I can blink, someone tears into the room and Halifax is being thrown against a row of floor to ceiling cabinets with an earsplitting crash.
My mouth falls open when I see who is holding Agent Asshole up by the lapels, growling in his face.
“Mitch?”
Mitch
The big man at the front door nods as I storm up the front walk of Gavin’s beach house. I recognize the man from on tour, thank god. Otherwise he might not let us into the house.
“Mr. Hale,” he nods.
“I need to talk to Gavin. I’m assuming he’s home since you’re here,” I say to the man.
“He is. The FBI arrived a little while ago. They’re inside with him now.”
My entire body coils up, tension vibrating through every nerve and muscle. I flinch when Sasha puts her hand on my back.
