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Gavin
What used to be the worst part about this tour is now the best. When I hold Mitch’s hand at events, I’m no longer pretending. When I give him a kiss for the cameras, it’s real. When we go back to our suite at night, we tear each other’s clothes off and go at it like animals.
I glance offstage during a concert in Dallas, looking for Mitch in his usual spot. Unable to find him, I check the other side of the stage. He’s nowhere to be seen. Dax gives me an indecipherable look when I flub a few notes.
Shit.
As hard as it is to do, I can’t let myself worry about Mitch when I’m performing. He’s a grown man and can take care of himself.
Forcing the unsettled feeling out of my head, I focus on the music. The crowd is an undulating mass in the dark arena, difficult to see with the bright lights aimed at the stage nearly blinding me. The fans sing with us as Adam runs along the edge of the stage, working his magic on the masses. There’s not a feeling in the world that can compare to the rush of a live performance.
By the time we’re done, I’m sweaty and elated. Someone hands me a bottle of water. I scowl in irritation. Mitch is always waiting with water for me.
“Where’s Mitch?” I ask the girl.
She shrugs, unable to provide an answer. I drink until the bottle is empty and follow the rest of the band down the hall to the private rooms. Adam and Dax are pushing and shoving each other, laughing and acting like idiots as usual. I head for my own dressing room, eager to see if Mitch is there, but Ross stops me before I reach the door.
“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. Ross’ eyes are troubled, his posture tense. His normally perfect appearance is marred by sweat on his brow and a loosened tie at his neck. The man is as pale as a sheet.
My stomach clenches in fear. “What’s going on, Ross?” I lean to the side to glance around him and see a uniformed officer exit my dressing room. “Where’s Mitch?” My voice rises as my heartbeat accelerates.
Ross is so shook up he can barely speak. “H-he’s fine. He’s in the room. Y-you don’t need to go in there, Gavin. We can wait—”
“Fuck that.” I shove past a babbling Ross, intent on seeing Mitch with my own eyes.
A concert venue security guard blocks the door, probably waiting for the police to arrive. “Sorry. This is a crime scene. You can’t go in.”
“The hell I can’t! That’s my room. I’m the fucking victim!” My agitation level is through the roof. “You can’t keep me out!”
“Sir, I can and I will,” he growls, putting a hand on my shoulder.
Acting on instinct, my hand darts out and sinks into the soft tissue at the man’s wrist, pressing between muscles and bones and tendons to the delicate nerves beneath.
“Jesus Christ! Fuck!” The large man falls to his knees, trying to dislodge my ironclad grip with his free hand.
“Gavin!” Mitch comes to the doorway, eyes wide as he takes in the downed guard and my frantic state. He skirts around the howling man, putting his hands over mine. “Let go,” he murmurs.
“Holy fuck, Utah! You’re okay?” I manage to choke out.
“Yes. Now let the man go.”
I release the guard who cries with relief. Mitch hustles me away, into Hawke’s dressing room next to mine and shutting the door behind us.
“What’s going on?” Hawke emerges from the bathroom, already showered and changed to head out. He rubs a towel over his wet hair before tossing it back into the bathroom behind him.
Mitch glances over at Hawke, then back at me.
“Mitch?” I ask.
He sighs. “Another note.”
I shudder. “Just a note?”
Hawke comes closer, concern written on his face. His multi-colored eyes dart down to my hand, which I have shoved into my pocket, fingering the smooth stone nervously.
Mitch’s skin goes white. “No. There’s a… gift as well.”
“That’s good, right?” Hawke interjects. “You said you wanted him to make a move.”
