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“Mr. Walker?” The bodyguard—Pete? Paul? Phil? I can’t remember—motions that he should enter first.
“Oh. Right.” I step back, letting the huge man pass.
Hawke and I follow him inside.
Mistake number one.
Pete or whoever he is holds up a hand from his spot next to the bed. “Stop!”
I keep moving forward, unable to control my own legs.
Mistake number two.
He pulls out a phone. “Yeah, I need backup. NYPD and call Ross and Jeremy.”
The hairs on my arm stand straight up, sending chills down my spine. Pete/Paul hangs up and pulls latex gloves out of his pocket, snapping them on. He circles the bed, leaning over to look at something on the duvet. Trying not to touch, he prods it with a pen, unfolding what looks to be a piece of paper.
Drawn in, the horror pulling me like a magnet, I step into the room.
Mistake number three.
“Gavin, don’t.” Hawke grabs me, holding me back.
It’s too late. I already saw what was waiting for me in the middle of my bed.
There’s just enough time for me to scramble and kneel in front of the toilet before losing the contents of my stomach.
Mitch
The shrill ring of my cellphone interrupts my workout. I ignore it, continuing with my final six power thrust reps. The heavy barbell clangs loudly when I drop it on the mat.
I wipe off my face and jump on the treadmill and the damn thing rings again.
“Great.” Slamming the kill switch, I grab the phone out of my bag.
“What!” I bark without seeing who was calling.
“Is that any way to greet your cousin?” A lilting British accent floats through the receiver.
“Gemma? Sorry. I didn’t look—”
“No worries, love. Everything all right?” The concern in her voice makes me feel like a complete dick for yelling at her.
“I’m fine. I was in the middle of a workout.”
“Oh,” she retorts. “Testosterone flying and all that.”
I snort. “Yeah. Right. What can I do you for, Gemma? I have the feeling this isn’t a social call.” My British accent slides back into place the minute I speak to someone from home.
“You’re so bloody smart. That’s why I love you,” she snickers.
Knowing my workout is over, I grab my gear and water bottle and head upstairs. Having the space for a fully equipped gym was one thing I insisted on when looking for a place to live. The three-story townhouse I recently purchased in Huntington Park has a finished basement. Yeah, it’s not the safest area in L.A. but I can hold my own.
“So,” I ask, uncapping a bottled water and chugging half of it down. “Need another celebrity’s mobile number? Because you know I quit the bureau a week after I did that for you, right?”
She giggles, her light laughter making me smile. “That was brilliant though. Wasn’t it? You reunited high school sweethearts with that one little number. Made two people very happy.”
Gemma called me last year desperate to help her friend in the UK. Her estranged boyfriend is Adam Reynolds, superstar lead singer of the band Sphere of Irony. I may have broken the rules a little to get his mobile number for her.
