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I let go of his arm and jump back.
“Oh my god. I’m sorry, Mitch,” I sputter. He staggers to his feet while I spin around to fill a dishtowel with ice. “You’ll need to put this on your arm.” I turn to face him and wince. “It’s going to hurt for a few days.”
“Holy—” Mitch rubs his forearm and snatches the icepack, scowling. “Where did you learn that?”
I feel my face and ears heat up. “I took martial arts when the band first got together. My teacher showed me how to use pressure points to prevent a fight or stop someone larger than you.”
Mitch balances the icepack on his arm and braces it on his chest so he can use his free hand to swig his beer. “Why?”
“Why?” I ask, scrunching up my face.
Despite the large amount of pain he’s sure to be feeling, along with the accompanying sharp buzz in the nerve I pinched, Mitch smiles.
“Yeah, why? Why did you take martial arts?”
“Oh.” I duck my head, embarrassed. “Can we sit?”
“Sure.” Mitch heads for the living room and collapses onto the large sectional sofa. Damn, busted knee and now a seriousl
y bruised nerve—being around me is not good for Mitch’s health.
“Where’s Vera, by the way?”
“Vera?” Mitch repeats.
“Yes. My assistant. Where is she?”
Now it’s Mitch’s turn to look sheepish. “I sent her away.”
“Well what the hell, Hale. She was already here. I do need to make a living, you know.”
What a high-handed asshole. And once again, I’m ashamed to admit that it totally turns my crank. The thought of Mitch all bossy and demanding as I get on my knees in front of him…shit.
“Sorry.” He sounds contrite and I did just injure him, so I let it go. “So,” he continues, “tell me about the pressure point trick. Why you learned it.”
I sigh. “My dad was—is a complete douchebag. He never felt that I was,” I make air quotes. “Manly enough.”
Mitch laughs and his gaze travels up and down my body, stroking me like a caress. “You look like a man to me.” Then he realizes how that might sound and his cheeks pink up. I notice that faint twitch in his eye.
Hmmmm, embarrassment equals twitching? Interesting. And fuck, he’s adorable in a big, powerful, non-swearing, uptight FBI kind of way.
“Yeah. Most people can’t tell I’m gay. I know that. I just wasn’t interested in the same things as my dad. He was career military—Air Force. While in the service he wrote a military thriller, sold millions of copies, a producer bought the rights to the franchise, we moved to L.A. and now he’s just another Hollywood asshole.”
I glance over and notice Mitch’s beer is gone. “Want another?” I ask, pointing at his bottle.
“Sure.” I take the empty and return with a new one for him and one for me.
“So your dad does what now?” Mitch asks, adjusting the melting icepack on his arm.
“Besides make my life miserable by reminding me what a failure I am? He’s a producer and a consultant on military films. You know, making sure everything is authentic. That was after his own movie franchise finished.”
“What franchise is that?” Mitch takes another long sip. I watch, entranced, as his full lips wrap around the neck of the glass bottle and his throat works to swallow the beer.
Christ, it’s hot in here.
“The Hero Series,” I murmur, waiting for the inevitable response.
“The ones with Reid Tannen? I love those movies! Man, Anti-Hero is one of my favorites.”
