Maybe it could be urban chic?
Fletcher fixated on the dip of the mattress and his stomach rippled with tension, with anxiety, with a sudden rush of something he didn’t want to acknowledge. So he really was going to get into bed with Jackson Young, despite what he’d said to the contrary earlier. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Leaning back against the desk, he put his thoughts into some sort of order. This was a professional meeting. Regardless of where it was taking place. Jackson was his client, his subject, his exposé. Where should they start? The beginning? Did he want to delve into Jackson’s childhood? Or did he want to start where everyone would expect him to?
“What do you want this book to look like?” he asked, rifling through his bag.
“What? Like, the cover?”
Fletcher laughed. “No. That’ll be the publisher’s decision. I mean, is this a gentle walk through your rise to fame? Have you got childhood anecdotes? Influential moments in your life that made you strive to the top? Do you want the reader to board the journey you took to fame and super-stardom?” Fletcher held his gaze, finding the confidence to be the writer he’d been preparing to be for the best part of five years. “Or do you just want to focus on recent events?”
“I want my story told. Whichever way you think is going to get it to fly off the shelves like your trash rag does.”
“Right. A full exposé then. Into the mind of Jackson Young. Warts and all.” Fletcher waggled his mini recorder. “Mind if I record?”
“Yes. I do mind.”
Jax and Kris shared a passion to not be taped, then. Interesting.
“That makes my job harder,” he said but shoved the device back into his bag.
“I can’t guarantee you won’t send that off to some paper, can I?”
Fletcher stared long and hard. The fear in Jackson’s eyes was evident. The raw, entrenching tartness of leftover betrayal. Did he know that Fletcher was still supposed to write that article for London Lights? He had to write it, or he’d be out of a job. His chest tightened, squeezing him into submission. He was a rat. A dirty, filthy rat.
But what choice did he have?
If he was going to do this, if he really was going to be getting into bed with an accused criminal and number one suspect in an unsolved brutal murder then he had to get Jackson to trust him. They both had to trust each other. And that meant gaining Jackson’s confidence.
Lie to him, in other words.
“You know how much of this shite I get sent daily?” he asked.
Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Enlighten me.”
“Tons. I sift through fuck tons of lies, of fabrications, of revenge stories to find the ones that I can print.”
“You’re not instilling me with much confidence.” Jackson sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, and twiddling his fingers between his legs. He looked vulnerable. As though he were a small child locked in a man’s body.
“What I mean is.” Fletcher uncrossed his legs to appear less closed off, less threatening, less him-and-me. He needed to feign a mutual amity to get this ball rolling. “I’m the one people send this to. Why would I send it anywhere else? That’s a conflict of interest.”
Jackson contemplated that. At least Fletcher assumed that was what he was doing whilst he stared at his feet, scratching fingernails on his jeans and inhaling vociferously through his nose. After the cogs had finally whirred, Jackson said, “I’d still prefer it if you didn’t.”
Fletcher had to accept that Jackson was going to be a tough nut to crack in terms of trust. He might have said he wanted to bear all, lay everything on the line, but it was going to be on his terms. A man who’d been around the press too long, who knew the tricks of the trade, who knew how to reply to questions without giving any answers, the once-a-celebrity would no doubt fall back on his years of interview techniques and media training. Fletcher would have to probe a bit deeper than he did with those who offered their kiss-and-tells so easily for a round London Lights one-hundred.
“How about we just chat?” Fletcher offered, widening his eyes to appear unassuming.
“Like a counselling session?” Jackson shifted on the bed. “You sift through all my self-indulgent bollocks to get to my story?”
“Sure. Why not?” That sounded like a plan. He was a good listener, after all. But the time display on the bedside clock reminded him he was meant to be elsewhere, listening to something—someone—else. Someone who would bollock him for a no show. “But I haven’t got much time right now, so we need to find a starting point so we can hit the ground running next time.”
“You late for something?”
“I’ve missed the matinee. No stress. I’ll have to rush to make the evening performance, though.” And he better had. The comfort of his own room depended on it.
“‘Performance’? You got theatre tickets?”
“Sort of.” Fletcher hefted out a resigned breath. He’d have to say it. Building trust and all that. “My partner. He’s an actor. Was his opening performance this afternoon. I’ll be in the dog house that I missed it. And probably the spare room tonight.”
Jackson flinched. Only slightly. But a definite jar that couldn’t be ignored or thrown away as if it had been nothing. “You’re gay?” he asked, voice clear, concise so as not to confuse the question.
“Aye.” Fletcher cocked his head. “Is that going to be a problem here?”
Jackson had the audacity to laugh at that. “No,” he said. “I’ve roamed media circles my whole life. It’s never a revelation. Fuck whoever you want. Just, I thought with you pouncing on my bike earlier after seeing that woman up the duff, you were hiding your own dirty little secret.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Ha.” Fletcher stiffened. “No. Not possible.”
“Right. Well, it now makes sense.”
“What does?”
“That review. What happened? Did I take the part meant for your partner?” The cocksure tone in Jackson’s voice might as well have been a slap around the face.
The arrogance was back. Gone was the beguiling man, the poor-me, the hurt and lost soul, the vulnerable act. Returning in its wake was Jackson Young, the eejit.
“As a matter of fact, no.” Fletcher crossed his arms, closing himself off. “He didn’t audition for that part. My review was exactly as it stated. You were shite.”
Jackson laughed.
Fletcher took that to mean he could keep going, just to hammer the nail firmly in. “You couldn’t hold a note, you didn’t learn your lines. It was Jax up on that stage and not the character you were meant to portray. It was painful to watch.”
“Don’t hold back just ‘cause I’m offering you a chance at the big time.”
“I won’t.” Fletcher shook his head. “That’s exactly what’s wrong with theatre today. You were what was wrong. Filling coveted roles with celebrities in order to yank in an audience is a mockery of the whole profession. So-called stars”—Fletcher added the quotation marks with his fingers to accentuate his point— “who haven’t spent years and years training, or auditioning several times, or practicing lines over and over, land the roles as if it’s their God-given right. Meaning actual trained professionals—who hone their acting, their performances—are shoved out in favour of the zero talented who relentlessly grace the small screen on trash reality shows.”