Jackson nodded, watching him. Fletcher couldn’t shake the pinpricks that struck down his spine as he exited through the door and closed it behind. It was like a lingering feeling of guilt—for what? He wasn’t sure. Leaving Heston? Being here?
Leaving Jackson?
Whatever it was, he couldn’t backtrack on it now. He needed to get some perspective. He needed to get away, compartmentalise this situation. This totally fucked up situation that had him not wanting to obey the demanding call from his boyfriend, but to be there for the stranger who needed him more.
So he inhaled a fierce breath then scrambled out of the B&B and waved down the nearest black cab.
Chapter Twenty-One
When the Cat’s Away
Jackson stared at the closed door, mind and body numb. Fletcher had left. Jackson had poured his heart out, revealed the gist of what his story was going to be about, and Fletcher had left.
A-fucking-gain!
Had he imagined the concern, the sympathy, the intimacy they seemed to be sharing? Was it all in his head? He should have been wary as soon as that tingling sensation had tap-danced over his skin whenever Fletcher came near him.
It had been too long since he’d opened himself up to another person. Since he’d trusted someone. Since he’d felt something around someone. Something that was more than just a fleeting pass in the night. There was a connection with Fletcher. He’d been sure of it.
But Fletcher had left.
To go to his boyfriend.
With nothing to do but wait, Jackson paced the room a few times. Then sat with his head in his hands. Then laid down. He got back up and stared into space. After what seemed like hours, he yanked out the stool from the dressing table and sat in front of Fletcher’s laptop screen.
He huffed. Then figured he could use a little inspiration to get him going. So he minimised the screen and went searching through Fletcher’s files for stuff to read. Just to get his own words flowing.
It wasn’t spying.
It. Wasn’t.
If he stumbled on loved-up photographs of Fletcher and his boyfriend, then that was his own fault. He wouldn’t delete them. He wasn’t that petty. Nor did he care all that much anyway. He expected Fletcher would have an equally attractive man on his arm. That they’d be the pin-up couple for a gay love story.
A quick scan through the pictures folder showed celeb snaps, taken by Fletcher at various events, or sent from those who liked to earn a quick buck from a kiss-and-tell. Jackson tutted and slid his finger along to click on a file entitled personal. That should have meant a no-go area. People didn’t name a folder personal if they wanted prying eyes on it, and this was a work laptop. Still, Fletcher had left it with him. Possession was nine-tenths of the law.
Didn’t he know all about that?
Within the folder were several more photos files. Named places: Lake District, Majorca, Heston’s Birthday.
Heston, what sort of a name is that?
Curiosity got the better of him and he opened one of the folders and clicked through the images. Filling the screen were shot after shot of picturesque landscapes. But adding to the beauty of the surroundings was Fletcher. His sparkling green eyes. His lazy smile. His casual, effortless attractiveness.
He kept clicking until Fletcher wasn’t alone in the photographs anymore. An educated guess suggested the older man beaming with pride was the boyfriend. He was older. Much older. Handsome, yes. But still well beyond the age of Fletcher Doherty.
So Fletcher’s into sugar daddies…
Jackson didn’t know how he felt about that. He shouldn’t have felt anything at all about it. It wasn’t his business, but that didn’t stop the slow sinking in his gut. He might be older than Fletcher himself but, here he was, in a dingy B&B with his career down the toilet. He offered nothing but a painful backstory and a link to a suspected murderer.
Realising he’d been thinking about Fletcher for far too long, he closed the pictures down and, back on task, clicked on the last opened documents.
“What the—”
The Cracks in the Jax stared back at him. Had Fletcher started the buggering thing already? Without telling him? Without showing him? Bastard!
Instantly clicking on it, he opened an article that declared it was for print in London Lights. Dated today and written about him. About his recent release. A nice little soundbite from Kris as well: ‘My heart goes out to the Payne family. I can only imagine the torment this latest development will be causing them.’
“Mother fucker!” Jackson slammed the laptop shut and scraped his hair back in utter frustration.
He should have known better than to trust a journalist on a handshake alone. Certainly not one who looked like Fletcher fucking Doherty. Jackson had been fucked over even after signing a foolproof contract his management had prepared, so he only had himself to blame that this rookie writer had screwed him over too.
And not in the good way.
Had he been played? Was Fletcher using him to pass his story on to London Lights with no intention of writing the goddamn book? He’d seemed so genuine. He’d thought he’d got to him before all the others would have. If Fletcher wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t help him tell his truth, then no one would.
He was on his own.
Completely this time.
“Fuck that.” Grabbing his door key, Jackson wasn’t going to fade away to blank. That was what they all wanted. Him gone. Him unable to tell his story.
Gagged, bound and tied.
Well, fuck that. Jackson Young was now set free.
The door rattled on its hinges as he slammed it shut behind his swift exit.
* * * *
Fletcher arrived at the Apollo in record time, shoving a wodge of cash at the driver before tumbling out and through to the theatre foyer where he was greeted by an usher.
“Good afternoon, sir. We aren’t opening the doors for another thirty minutes. So if you could wait out—”
“I was called here. To see Heston Monaghan.”
“Who called you here?”
“I’ve no idea. Could’ve been you. Shall I go through?” He flapped a frustrated hand in the general direction of the dressing rooms. He’d been backstage many a time. He knew where Heston’s room was. Most of the staff knew who he was.
Except for this guy on the front desk who mumbled a hesitant, “Erm…”
But Fletcher didn’t give the usher time to do anything else as he fled up the stairs to the right and trailed the narrow corridors, searching for the door with Heston’s star attached to it.
He didn’t have time for this and wondered why he was even bothering with Heston’s melodramatic attempt at forgiveness. Heston had done many over-the-top theatrics when trying to squirm his way out of an argument—or ‘differing of opinion’ as he called it—but this was hitting new heights. This was jeopardising not only his West End performance, but also Heston’s entire career. He might’ve been a seasoned actor, he might have a dedicated following, but he wasn’t irreplaceable.
No one was.
Heston should know that. He’d been the one to speak so derogatory about all those so-called stars snapping up the lead parts in favour of boosting bums on seats. He was walking a fine line by throwing his toys out of the pram tonight.