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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 u
p, 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.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I close the browser and take a few deep, calming breaths. My dick is still rock solid, but I can ignore that if I focus on something else. This is exactly why I needed to get away from that house. Get some space to concentrate without the damn scent of coconuts or a view of Gavin’s tight round ass. Or his nearly hairless torso. Or that mouth. Hell, that sinful mouth.
I groan again.
Not helping.
Turning to a different, more specialized computer, I enter Gavin’s personal information to begin my investigation. The results spit out a few minutes later and I flush, feeling guilty for what I find.
Fucking hell.
67
Gavin
“Can I just say this is a terrible idea?”
I glance over at Marcus as I pull my shirt over my head and toss it on the sand.
“I heard you the first hundred and fifty times, Marcus,” I reply. “I need this.” Mitch left two days ago and I haven’t heard from him since. Yeah, I could text or call him, but why should I? He’s the one who ran. I’m not going to chase him even if he is the most talented kisser on the face of the earth.
Marcus scowls, squinting in the bright sun.
I glance over at him before looking at the water. “There aren’t that many people here. Unless the guy has scuba gear and attacks me from underwater, I’m confident you’ll see him coming before he can get me.”
Without waiting to hear his reply, I grab my board and jog toward the ocean. Not hesitating, I plunge right in, letting the frigid water of the Pacific envelope my skin and get my heart pumping. As I paddle out, my mind wanders to the conversation I had with my mom this morning. After my discussion with Ellie yesterday, I decided to give my mom a call.
Why, I have no idea. I’m more confused now than I was before I spoke to my mom.
“You sound sad, love. What’s wrong?” My mom’s soothing voice reminds me of when I was a kid and she’d run her fingers through my hair whenever I had trouble falling asleep at night.
“Mom. I’m not sad, just tired.”
“Sweetheart, I know you. It’s more than that. Does it have anything to do with this bloke you’re seeing? And shame on you, by the way. Letting your own mother find out you have a boyfriend by seeing it on the telly,” she chastises.
I smile. “Mom, he’s not my boyfriend.”
