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My head hurts. All of this celebrity bullshit has my neck in knots. I roll my head a few times, trying to work out the kinks. No such luck. My eye spasms, making me even more tense.
Ross said something about paparazzi. I pull up a search engine and for the second time in less than a week, type in Gavin Walker.
My mouth drops open at the results. Photos of Gavin at the beach getting very friendly with a small, dark haired man occupy most of the top articles.
Son of a—
My home was turned inside out in order for Gavin to come out of the closet, and for what? While I’ve been working twelve-hour days interviewing and profiling and tracking down a stalker, Gavin’s been off picking up guys?
I don’t realize my hands are balled up into fists until my knuckles begin to ache. Before I can stop myself, I shoot to my feet, shoving the chair back so hard it crashes against the wall.
It only takes a few minutes to shower and throw my meager possessions into my duffel bag. I had a mattress delivered so I’d have something to sleep on. Other than that, a few end tables as well as a rocking chair that were left untouched comprise the sum total of furniture in my house. Everything else was hauled away by a garbage service.
An inappropriate laugh escapes my throat as I lock up the townhouse. What’s the point? There’s nothing to steal that isn’t behind the sealed door and reinforced steel walls of the office. I start my car and roughly shift it into reverse.
I’m seething as I maneuver the car to the northbound ramp of the 101 towards the Hollywood Hills. If Gavin fucked up my case because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, he’ll wish he’d never met me—that’s the reason I tell myself is the cause of my overwhelming anger.
I’m not jealous. Nope. Definitely not.
* * *
“Holy—”
I drive down the street that the rental house resides on and find myself in the middle of a nightmare of epic proportions. White vans topped by enormous satellite dishes line both sides of the winding road. As I carefully make my way through the narrow opening and pull up to the house, I am stunned to find a large crowd milling outside the gate.
No one is supposed to know about this house.
A third of the mob looks to be either a journalist or a camera jockey of some sort. Another third wields rainbow painted signs emblazoned with pro-LGBT slogans. The rest of the crowd either belongs to no particular group or makes up the anti-gay minority, holding up their own banners of hatred.
I phone Marcus and tell him to hustle over to the front gate to keep out our visitors.
It takes ten full minutes of me laying on the horn to make my way to the front gate. I roll down the window to enter the code, ignoring the shouts and cameras shoved in my face when the vultures recognize me as the guy who accompanied Gavin to the party last weekend.
Was that only four days ago? It seems like a lifetime.
My hands are literally shaking by the time I park the car in front of the house. Whether it’s from anger, adrenaline, or annoyance at the rude questions lobbed at me by the paparazzi, I can’t say. Any way you look at it, I’m not exactly calm as I storm through the door and into the kitchen where I find Gavin sitting by himself thumbing through a magazine while he eats his lunch.
Chest heaving, hands fisted, I stop in the doorway. Gavin lifts his head and those perfect, full lips part in surprise. His bright blue eyes widen and lock onto mine.
The sight of him has my shaky façade crumbling to pieces in front of me. I can feel the fabricated reality I’ve tried so hard to maintain slip out of my grasp like wisps of smoke.
I am so screwed.
Gavin
I’m not mad at that chicken-shit, Mitch Hale. Nope. Not at all.
That’s what I tell myself as I stomp around the kitchen of the rental house, mumbling obscenities as I look for food. I woke up to a rabid Ross Evans calling to yell at me for fifteen solid minutes. Something about photos of me and the twink at the beach yesterday.
Then I got another long-winded, manic message from my father. Apparently I’m not just a fag, now I’m a whore as well.
I pulled out my laptop after ending the call and found the article Ross was ranting about. Jesus. The damn media. They make it look like Sean and I were getting dirty right there on a public beach. Even the title, Walker Walks Out on Hunky Honey, chaps my ass.
For fuck’s sake, I’m out for four days and suddenly I’m the gay Casanova, breaking my ‘boyfriend’s’ heart by hooking up with another man behind his back. My fake boyfriend. The one who kissed me in a way I’ve never been kissed before. The one who the mere sight of him has me springing wood hard enough to pound nails.
Fucking Johnny Utah.
I find a container of chicken salad and spoon it onto a bed of mixed greens. Needing something to occupy my mind and pull me back from the ledge I’m standing on, I grab the latest copy of Variety and read it while eating at the kitchen table. Marcus made himself scarce somewhere outside after I lost it and yelled at him.
