For Fletcher.
The very man bundled up from the subway steps and, head down, marched forward, oblivious to Jackson’s presence. Until Jackson called a sarcasm-laden, “I had no idea how important celebrity gossip was.”
Fletcher stopped in his tracks, the shock evident on his face. He appeared tired. As though he’d been tossing and turning all night. Or maybe he’d been partying. Whatever it had been, Jackson wasted no time caring about it. He had a story to tell. The quicker, the better. He wasn’t sure how much free time he had left.
Any time left, for that matter.
“It’s not even eight and you’re not the first one in.” Jackson pointed up at London Lights HQ, the place illuminated through the glass.
“We have deadlines,” Fletcher said, although he squinted to peer through the window, surprise crossing his features. It was just about eight o’clock. Clearly he’d thought he’d be one of the first ones to arrive.
Jackson had hidden behind his helmet when several of the early bird London Lights staff had ventured into the office block before dawn. Not one of them had batted an eyelid at him. They’d all missed their chance at daily scoop number one. So much for journalism.
“Of course.” Jackson swallowed his coffee, wiping his mouth with his leather sleeve. “God forbid the British public don’t hear about the latest Love on the Rocks pairing on time. There would be uproar.”
Narrowing his eyes, Fletcher inhaled a deep breath. “What are you doing here?”
Jackson took a step forward. “I’m waiting for your answer.”
“It’s not been twenty-four hours yet.”
“I can wait here all day. I literally have nothing else to do.” He shrugged. “Not anymore.”
“Lucky you.” Fletcher pointed toward his office. “But I still have a job, a life, bills to pay, so…” He made to head in, but Jackson pushed away from the bike and grabbed his arm.
So much for not trying to come across as the desperate junkie from yesterday. Fuck it. He was desperate. He needed this out there. It was in the public interest at the very least. Once people knew, he could head off into the distance, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.
He could die happy.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been happy.
“You don’t have to do any of that,” he said, clinging to Fletcher’s arm in the hope of making him see. Anyone else would have jumped at the chance.
“What? Work? Live?”
“I’m worth millions to you.” Jackson dug his fingers into Fletcher’s arm harder. Not on purpose, but even after he noticed, he didn’t bother to loosen the grip. “You can quit that shit, dedicate the time to my project, and soon enough you won’t need to worry about bills. Your life will be changed forever.”
“Once again, I’m astounded by your modesty.” Fletcher wriggled free from Jackson’s hold, adjusting his bag, but there was a distinct unease in his demeanour. Maybe he didn’t like being touched?
Touching was an ingrained habit of Jackson’s. Being a TV presenter, he’d had to make his guests feel at ease in his presence. Physical contact had become second nature. A squeeze of an arm, a hand on the small of someone’s back, a double kiss to their cheek.
This was different, though. This was pure desperation.
“You think my book, my truth, won’t sell in its millions?” Jackson widened his eyes, staring across the pavement at him in challenge. Money was the sure-fire way to get this deal settled. Everyone wanted money. Money made the world go round. Fame kept it spinning. Fletcher would have both.
“Doesn’t your magazine sell millions of copies?” Jackson kept going. “And all that holds is a bunch of half-baked truths, lies and trash. I’m giving you the truth.”
Fletcher stared back at him, gaze roaming up and down. Jackson had sorted himself out to appear at least how people would have remembered Jax from the telly. He was clean-shaven, hair cut—by his own fair hands—and skin scrubbed. He doubted he had the youthful glow he’d had over six months ago, achieved through daily salon visits to hide his aging complexion, but he’d sorted himself out enough to be half-decent. To show Fletcher he could still have the mass appeal that would sell his book. But the way the man’s gaze roved over him, maybe he’d achieved it better than he’d thought.
Huh.
“I don’t doubt you have a readership,” Fletcher said, snapping to. “I’m just concerned.”
“About what?”
Fletcher gave him a look that Jackson could only guess was him trying to convey he didn’t want to get up close and personal with hated man number one. No amount of money could be worth the backlash from that, he supposed.
“I’ll give you everything. From my first break to what kept me at the top. I promise you, after that. You’ll understand.”
Bustling commuters marched through the space between them, Fletcher mouthing an apology for being in the way. Jackson didn’t bat an eyelid. His focus remained on Fletcher. And Fletcher alone.
The man was young. Too young to know what this could mean for him. He must’ve been straight out of school.
“How old are you?” Jackson asked.
“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Twenty?”
“Twenty-four.”
Jackson chuckled. He could work this to his advantage. “When I was twenty-four, I signed my first contract for half a million to present a kids’ Saturday morning live TV Show. No presenting experience at all. How do you think I got that? Considering, as you say, I’ve no talent?”
Fletcher shrugged. “I said you had no musical talent.”
“And yet I landed a lead role in His Girl without having to audition. Why? Because there are people behind the scenes who make the decisions based on what they know will sell.” Jackson held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together. “Money. It’s all about the people with money. Those people can make or break you. Six months ago they broke me. Permanently.”
“Why? You were at the top of your game?”
“You want to know that. You take this deal.”
Fletcher sighed, staring down at his feet. When he glanced back up, Jackson knew he had him. “Okay, look. I want free rein to research. I don’t want to write just your say-so. I want to talk to people. I want to investigate a little.”
“What does anyone else’s opinion matter?” Everyone else would lie. It was what they were all good at.
“I want a rounded reveal of who Jackson Young actually is.”
“I’m telling you who he is. No, wait.” Jackson held up a hand, then bowed. “I’m showing you.”
Fletcher arched an eyebrow. “All right, I want to know what other people think of you then.”
Straightening, Jackson narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t supposed to be the deal. “Who will you talk to?” he asked.
“Everyone. Anyone who knows you, who’s worked with you, who’s been part of your life. Your parents, your friends at school, your ex-girlfriends.”
Jackson clamped down on his bottom lip. If Fletcher spoke to others, this could get ugly. There were those who knew him, there were those who thought they did and there were those that only knew what he allowed them to. None of them were unified. It could make him appear like a Jekyll and Hyde. Something he was avoiding.