Hell was Waterloo. His old stomping ground. The broadcasting corporation and studios had started his career, removed every obstacle in his way and elevated him to super-stardom. It had all been ripped from beneath his feet now. They wanted nothing to do with him. They hadn’t stood by their star. A celebrity’s shelf life rapidly diminished if they brought the corporation into disrepute.
A murder would do that.
Parking along the side of the road, he kept the engine idling as he stared up at the building. He’d be in there. Jackson knew he would.
Hanging his head, he closed his eyes and bit back his flaring temper. A few deep breaths and he got himself under control. This wasn’t the way to go about things. A smack to the mouth would be written about in the media within minutes. Leading to another black mark against his name. The only option he had was to get the public back on his side.
The revolving doors twisted, capturing Jackson’s attention, and he watched, heart elevated, as two men exited the building.
“What the…” he muttered, his warm breath dampening the foam in his helmet.
Fletcher Doherty trundled out of the studios, said something that Jackson couldn’t decipher over the bike’s engine to a man behind him. He must’ve been a studio hand, someone who’d been floor staff at least, as he was familiar. Hauling Fletcher into an awkward embrace, Studio-man slapped him on the back. Fletcher didn’t return it. Instead he clutched the strap on his bag, nodded with a solemn smile and watched him bundled back into the building, the revolving doors whooshing at speed.
“Fucking arsehole.” Jackson gripped the handles on his bike, ready to tear off and leave this whole idea behind. How he could have ever thought he could trust anyone to hear him out first, to tell his story, to be in his corner?
No one ever was.
Fletcher closed his eyes for a moment, twisted on his heels, then landed a surprised gaze on him. Jackson cocked his head. He should leave. He should bugger off into the distance and find someone else to write his damn book. He didn’t need this deceitful bag of dicks—
—“You know what, Jax? This wreaks of jealousy, of envy and of someone who had a major crush and is trying to convince himself he doesn’t still fancy the fucking pants off you. He could actually be an ally for us.”—
Tules’ voice echoed through his mind, the memory as vivid as the beautiful husky tones of her proceeding laughter while she’d slammed that incriminating review by Dastardly Doherty into the recycling bin.
And that memory prevented Jackson from being able to flee, as Fletcher jogged up to him with a flippant, “You keep showing up where I am, I’ll think you’re stalking me.”
Twat. “I didn’t expect you to be here, did I?” Jackson flicked up his visor, then nudged his head toward the building. “Who’s the bloke?”
“Oh.” Fletcher adjusted his bag, glancing back to the studios and shrugged. “Cam. An old uni friend.”
“Yeah? He looks familiar.”
“He probably does. He’s a floor manager. He worked on your old Roadshow.”
Gripping the bike’s handles harder, Jackson noticed his knuckles fading to white. The git was already seeking insider info on him, not merely a few hours after he’d begged for him to listen to him first. Why did this shit always happen? He’d always found trust hard to come by, which had only increased when he’d been worth millions, constantly in the public eye and his celebrity status had outweighed press conscience. He’d learned the hard way.
Yet here he was. Doing it again. You’re wrong, Tules. He’s like all the others.
“I saw Kris too.” Fletcher’s eyes filled up with something that could almost emulate concern. Fear, maybe? Of Jackson’s reaction?
Well, what did he expect?
“No shit. Give you a nice quote did he?”
“I said I wanted to do a thorough piece on you.”
“Yeah, and I asked you to come to me first. Shit! If this is what you do then go fuck yourself. You’re off the book.”
Twisting the throttle in his hand, the engine revving, Jackson had every intention of skidding off and never turning back. How far could the bike take him? He could run off to the forest, live there on the land, forget everyone and everything. Start over as a hobo in the woods. Become the epitome of the unknown…
Fletcher’s warm hand sliding over his prevented him from doing any of that.
“Wait. Hear me out,” he pleaded.
Lifting his head, Jackson met green eyes, and the sudden warmth creeping into his fingers made him loosen his grip on the throttle—see. He shook Tules’ voice off again. By hearing Fletcher out, he would be following her instructions from beyond the grave, and he wasn’t sure if that was destiny calling or the madness suffocating him.
“The opportunity came by chance,” Fletcher said, his voice low and calm, as though talking to a feral beast. “Cam’s an old friend. I told him I was doing a piece on you. He offered me the chance to come here. I couldn’t turn it down, and nor do I have any way of contacting you to let you know.” Fletcher didn’t remove his hand and the heat burned through Jackson’s skin. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he’ll be speaking to me again.”
“Why not?”
“He told me not to do it.”
Jackson snorted. “Course he would.”
“He wasn’t too enamored with the direction of my questioning.”
“Kris doesn’t do personal.”
“So I see.” Fletcher slipped his hand away, leaving behind a streak of sweat. “He also said you were being too obvious. What does that mean?”
“No idea,” he lied. He had a hunch what Kris would be getting at. But there was no way he was going there.
Not now. Not ever. Not again.
“I’m willing to do this. I am. But, like I said, I want the truth. I want you to be honest with me.”
“I am. I will.”
Fletcher looked dubious to say the least. He certainly had the makings of a decent investigative reporter. His long stares, those laser-green eyes that seemed to read every flicker of non-verbal response, that demeanour that said, I know there’s more and I’ll find it out.
“I want to gather all the information. I want to know what people think of you. Why you’ve gone from the height of stardom to a man believed capable of murder. That’s the story. That’s the book. Not just your sob story.”
“Sob story?” Jackson shook his head, his helmet weighing him down too much. “You think me losing my livelihood, my family, my girlfriend is a simple sob story?”
“Not at all. But you just put Tallulah as the last one on that list. Some might read a lot into that.”
“And by some, you mean you?”
“I’m a writer, Jax. That’s what I do. I read into everything. I observe, I gather facts, I write my opinion. You say you want this book to show the true you. Is the true you someone who put his stardom and popularity as a priority over his loved ones?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his answer. He did want to tell the truth. Well, most of it. The relevant parts. “And I’m having to deal with the consequences of that. But never did I think it would put me in prison or on a lynch-list for the entire British public. Yes, I thought I’d lose her. Eventually she’d see sense. But this? Did I think my selfishness would cause this? No. I did not. Is that the story you want, Fletcher Doherty? Then let’s write it.”