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My cheeks heat up with shame. Then I get angry. Who cares? It’s only a fantasy, right? It’s not like I actually want the guy.
Not entirely sure if I convinced myself, I pull my clothes on so I can get started on solving this damn case.
64
Gavin
A doorbell followed by the loud noise of feet pounding unevenly down a flight of stairs lures me out of my room. After the horrifyingly uncomfortable moment I shared with Mitch this morning in his kitchen, I locked myself into the only spare room with a bed and haven’t been out since.
I can’t even look at the guy without sprouting wood. Especially not after passing the master bedroom earlier and hearing him moan in the shower. I stood there like a creeper, listening and briefly entertaining the idea that Mitch might be jerking off to images of me. Afterwards, I realized how stupid I was being.
The man is straight. Quite obviously so. He probably went to his room to look at het porn in order to bleach his brain of any trace of my gayness.
But the sounds he made in the shower, the grunts, the groans, that shocked gasp at the end? I want to see what Mitch looks like when he makes those noises. I want to be the one to cause Mitch to make those noises.
And don’t those thoughts just make me hate the man even more.
“Gavin!” Mitch’s deep, decidedly angry voice booms from downstairs. I put down my guitar and descend to the main floor, where I find Mitch fuming in the kitchen.
“Yes?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare, letting him know I don’t care for his tone of voice.
“Did you tell your assistant to come here?” he snarls.
Fuck him. He is one snotty comment away from getting a fist to his perfectly rugged, uptight face.
“I did. I need to work, Mitch. She brings me my important documents, we go over my schedule, and do other things relevant to my livelihood.”
That dark head of hair drops and I watch Mitch’s broad shoulders move up and down as he huffs, trying to rein in his anger.
“Is that a problem, Utah?” I challenge.
“Is it a problem?” Mitch barks out a very unamused laugh. “Yeah, it’s a problem.” He lifts his head to stare at me, stormy grey eyes meeting mine. “The stalker could follow her right to you. To my front door! You said you would do what I tell you to!” Mitch shouts.
I flush with embarrassment at my now obvious mistake, but my spine still prickles with fury. “You never said my assistant couldn’t come over! How the hell was I supposed to know?”
The way Mitch is acting reminds me of how I felt when my dad would show his disappointment for being saddled with such a pussy for a son. How he would belittle me every chance he got.
“Stop spending so much time diddling your guitar, Gavin!”
“Real men join the armed forces, son! You’re such a disappointment. Surfing and music aren’t going to pay the bills.”
“Drop and give me twenty! Now! If you weren’t such a fag, I wouldn’t have to do this to turn you into a man!”
“Do I need to get you a girl, Gavin? You can’t get laid on your own?”
“Christ,” Mitch grumbles. “Use your head, Gavin! That’s all I’m asking!”
Mitch’s hand darts towards me in a way that reminds me of my dad reaching out to backhand me across the face. My fight or flight instincts kick in and, unfortunately for Mitch, fight wins.
Lightning fast, I grab his arm, digging my fingers into the hollow space between the tendons just below his elbow and squeeze. Mitch yelps in pain and goes down to his knees immediately. I lower myself with him, not wanting to let go and give him a chance to fight back. The man can fight, of that I have no doubt.
“What. The. Hell.” He gasps between heavy, strained breaths.
“Don’t ever try to hit me,” I growl, squeezing harder.
“Jesus, Gavin. I was—” he groans in pain, “reaching for my drink.”
“What?” I twist my neck up. Sure enough, on the shelf next to where I was standing is an open bottle of beer.
