“We’ve kept him out of the press as much as possible. He’s… unstable. I guess, in some strange way, that’s why my parents pinned so much hope on me.”
“How do you mean ‘unstable’.” Fletcher tried to untangle his conflicting emotions and get his professional head firmly back on. It was hard, though. Considering he was now holding Jackson’s hands with his thumbs stroking cool, smooth skin.
Maybe involuntarily, maybe not, Jackson entwined his fingers with Fletcher’s, then met his gaze. Fletcher knew whatever was coming next was going to be yet another revelation that would change things forever. But he didn’t remove his fingers from entwining with Fletcher’s when he said, “He’s in an institution. He tried to kill himself. At sixteen. I guess he just couldn’t take it anymore. The pain, the neglect, watching me get all the attention.”
Fletcher bit his bottom lip, preventing more questions from tumbling out. Jackson was finally opening up. He didn’t need Fletcher torpedoing into all the sharing. He needed to allow Jackson to let it all out at his own speed. However he needed to. He could write it down later. If he ever got his hands back.
Not that he made any attempt to do that. Jackson’s hands were surprisingly warm and soft. And comforting.
And a perfect fit, entwined with his own.
“The toddler contest was equally the best and worst thing to happen to me,” Jackson admitted. “It allowed Derek into our lives. It sent my brother on a downward spiral of neglect and shone a light on how easily manipulated my parents could be. Alex tried to end his life because of me. Because I got all the attention.” Tears pooled in his eyes but he sniffed them back as Fletcher stroked his thumbs along Jackson’s finger. “They gave my parents luxuries they never thought possible, while they moulded me to be the perfect entertainer. One who wouldn’t rock their cash cow.”
Dipping his head forward, Fletcher searched for Jackson’s eyes to meet his gaze. But what he found was his lips tingling, his body thrumming and yearning for another taste.
A sober taste.
A real taste.
“Jackson—” he whispered but the shrill of his phone cut the sentiment off.
Jackson slipped his hands away, clearing his throat and ruffling his hair from his face. As though he was ridding the memories of what he’d just had to say. Or maybe he was getting some distance between them.
Lord knew they needed it.
Checking the display on his phone, Fletcher cursed. “Shite. Sorry, I best…” He waggled the mobile as a way to mime what he needed to go do, then leapt from the seat and staggered to the door. “We’ll continue this after.”
What ‘this’ was, he wasn’t sure.
He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Outside in the hallway, he answered the call with a panicked, “Yea?”
“Fletcher Doherty?” He didn’t recognise the voice, but he knew the number. He’d programmed it into his phone for emergencies. He hadn’t expected to ever use it.
“Aye.”
“You’re going to need to come to the theatre.”
“What now?”
“It’s Heston. He’s refusing to go on. We have curtain call in one hour. And we can’t get into his room to dress the understudy.”
“Why is he refusing?”
“No idea. So I got your number from his emergency contacts. Hurry.” The phone clicked off.
Fletcher stared at the display for a while, leaning with his back against Jackson’s door before slamming down the call button on Heston’s number. Straight to answerphone. He tried Katy. Same. Last resort, he attempted Natalie.
“Fletch? Where the fuck are you?” At least she answered, albeit panic-stricken.
“At work.” It wasn’t a lie. Technically, he was. But he still felt shit about the deceit. “I just got a call from the Apollo. Heston’s refusing to go on. You heard from Katy at all?”
“Not recently. She had a call from Heston this morning saying you didn’t come home last night.” The inflection in her voice said it all. She was pissed off. With him.
How was that justified?
“Did she also tell you what Heston did?” he asked with a hopeful lilt.
There was a pause, then a deep breath. “Yes. But, Fletch, he only asked.”
“What?” Fletcher pushed away from the door, scrubbing his forehead. This headache wasn’t ever going away. “Are you on his side?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. All I know is that he asked you. He didn’t force you. And if you declined, then that’s fair enough. Is it not?”
Fletcher slapped his palm against the opposite wall, dipping forward to stare at the floor. Wasn’t he entitled to feel aggrieved about this? Why did he, all of a sudden, feel like the bad guy? Heston had only asked. But again. After having told him many times that he wasn’t into sharing.
“He loves you, Fletch. He’s clearly worried about you. And you know he gets like this sometimes.”
Fletcher closed his eyes, nauseating guilt surging through him. Had he overreacted? If he’d just declined the offer politely, would the evening have continued on as if nothing abnormal had happened? Would Heston have been fine with it?
Would they have gone to bed together, snuggled under their duvet and woken to another day of the monotonous same?
If he had, he wouldn’t have found Jackson in the street being beaten to a pulp… Would he even have been here now?
“Maybe you should go to him.” Natalie’s voice cut off his unravelling thoughts.
“Shite.” Fletcher mumbled under his breath, unable to figure out what was real, what was raw and what was damn near suicide.
“The show must go on and all that jazz,” Natalie singsonged.
“Fine. Fine. But fuck sake, if my boyfriend asks me for a threesome again, it’s justified I feel a wee fecked off, right?”
“Yes. So go sort it.”
Hanging up the phone, he immediately opened the door to Jackson’s room and almost smacked him in the face.
Jackson stumbled back, edging toward the kettle. “You want a tea?” he asked, his voice a notch higher than usual.
“No. No.” Fletcher swallowed. Had Jackson just heard what he’d said outside? “Listen, I need to shoot off for a wee while. But I’ll be back as soon as I can. No more than an hour. Tops.”
“Is everything all right?” There was concern in that voice, but also a slight hesitation. Fletcher couldn’t blame him. He’d just poured out his soul to him and now he had to leave.
He felt like a bastard.
So he added a nonchalant, “Boyfriend troubles.” He might as well be honest. Jackson had been with him.
“Right.” Jackson stared down at the kettle, fidgeting with the lid.
“I’m just gonna catch up with him at the Apollo, then I’ll be back. Feel free to jot some stuff down that we can work on later. Maybe start from the beginning. Write about your brother. Your family?” Fletcher knew he was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop as he gathered his bag and headed backward for the door, his hand behind him searching for the handle. “Maybe stay away from the clubs and shit for now, eh? Let’s get this thing written.”