“Help me how?”
Kris was convincing. A little too convincing. A better actor and TV personality than Fletcher had ever given him credit for. Without Jackson beside him, stealing the light with his dynamic beauty, Kris was able to shine.
But what was he glowing for?
“You can’t write his book,” Kris said, voice stern. “I urge you not to write his book.”
“Jackson Young has a story to tell. Someone should tell it. Why not me?”
“Jackson Young has a vendetta to settle. And his story will be just that. A story. A made-up pack of lies that will somehow make him seem like an innocent party. Someone like you, at the start of their career—so young, so fragile, so bloody naive—shouldn’t be entangled in his mess. Why do you think he chose you, eh? Impressionable, maybe? I said the same to Tules. She ignored me.” Kris slammed the glass back onto the coffee table, the loud crash startling Fletcher out of his skin. “Are you going to ignore me?”
Fletcher forced himself to breathe again, wringing his hands in his lap. He remembered the feel of Jackson’s fingers entangling with his own, the smoothness of his skin, the delicate breath that had tickled his face, the warmth of his lips. Jackson had been so goddamn convincing. His vulnerability had seeped out of him. Fletcher had to hand it to the fella. He’d retract his article about Jackson having no talent if that was him acting.
He held Kris’s gaze.
“Then you need to tell me what happened,” he said. “I can’t walk away from a half-told story.”
“If you are referring to that night, I’m sure as a reporter you can get my statement from the prosecution.”
“I don’t want your statement. I want to hear it from you and why you, of all people, believe him guilty.”
Kris stood. “Well, for that, I’m going to need a stiffer drink.” He stepped over to a Dorchester cabinet on which a crystal decanter and lowball glasses stood atop and he poured himself a scotch. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you…”
Fletcher shook his head. He’d remain stone cold sober to hear this. He needed his head screwed on. He needed to be calm. To not let his unconscious bias to slip through and just hear this out. No longer a gossip columnist. No longer a critic. He needed to be an impartial reporter.
He needed to be a journalist.
Could he even be one with his current mixed up emotions clouding his judgement?
Kris remained standing, next to the grandiose pure-white fireplace, his image reflected in the embellished mirror hanging above. He looked away when he finally said, “Jackson was always troubled.”
“How so?” Fletcher straightened, his fingers itching to write. But also, his body reacting to the man’s name. Had Jackson Young come to mean something to him other than pound signs?
“His parents weren’t particularly caring,” Kris continued. “They threw him into am dram. Pushy parents. You know how it is. They saw how much Jackson could be worth to them and didn’t take no for an answer. That can cause issues farther down the line.” He took a swig of scotch, a pained expression that said he could be recounting his own story. “Just look at the lives of most child stars. It’s a slippery slope to dependency.”
So far, it wasn’t any different to how Jackson had talked about his early years.
“He loved the fame. The fortune. The applause. It was his drug.” Kris screwed his eyes shut. “Until he found a new remedy. Drink and class-A drugs. He hid within them. Like he was trying to drown himself in the alcohol. Bury something he didn’t like.”
Fletcher flicked his gaze to Diego leaning against the wall. There was something about the man’s pause in biting his nails and spitting the ends to the floor that made Fletcher’s hackles rise. Had what he’d suggested in the car been the truth? Diego and Jackson?
Did Kris even know?
“It was a downward spiral.” Kris seemed to snap back to himself and ambled over to the sofa and sat, gripping the glass between his open legs. “Then he found Tallulah. She tried. She did. God rest her soul.” He threw back the remaining whisky and slammed the glass onto the table beside the water. “I tried to tell her he wasn’t ready for a romantic relationship. That he’d forever be a player. That he hadn’t grown up enough to treat her as anything other than a possession. She wanted to prove me wrong. She wanted to save him.” Kris laughed, throwing his head back. Although it wasn’t with amusement.
It was strangled.
Like Tallulah had been.
“As suspected.” Kris’s voice grew cold, gravelly. “She couldn’t. He was having multiple affairs. Much of the time with her in the next room. She was devastated to be treated without even the bare minimum of consideration.”
Fletcher knew his time to strike. “Do we know who these other partners were? Anyone who has come forward? Anyone I can track down?” He flicked his gaze to Diego.
The Italian cocked his head, then blew him a kiss.
Kris snorted a laugh. “For a celebrity gossip-chaser, I don’t think you know how this all works.”
“Are you asking for a fee? Lights gives a round one hundred. But I doubt that does anything to persuade you.” Fletcher flapped his hand, indicating the expensive décor.
“Unless you are new to the celebrity lifestyle, you never get caught in those traps. It’s only the newbies that do. The ones who didn’t expect the fame with their popularity. The first lesson learned is you don’t sleep with a groupie.”
“So, what, it was inner circle only?”
“Of course. Prepped and primed, vetted and vetoed. A one-night stand doesn’t just happen, Fletcher. They’re organised.” Kris dragged a hand through his hair. “The moment you go out of the circle of trust, that’s the moment people like you scoop up the money from the scraps.”
“Nice analogy.” Fletcher couldn’t keep the sarcasm from creeping out. He looked up at Diego. He widened his eyes in warning but Fletcher had gotten comfy. The threat of life or limb no longer an immediate danger.
“Tallulah was an organised lay for Jackson.”
Now that was a surprise. “She was?”
“Of course. No one expected her to go past the first time. She was a notorious party girl herself. She was passed around. It was common knowledge. But, well, she latched herself to Jackson and wouldn’t let go.” Kris shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Sorry, it’s just the image. Of her fighting for life…”
“Are you saying Jackson didn’t love her?” It was the right question to ask. Even if he knew a little of the truth. Or the truth according to Jackson, he still needed to know what Kris was thinking. What he was trying to say. His version of their relationship.
As even a newbie journo knew, there were always two sides to every story.
His job was to choose one and roll with it.
“Jackson wanted to love her. He just didn’t know how.” Kris stood, then poured himself another glass of scotch, throwing the lot back.
If Jackson had a drinking problem, Kris wasn’t far off the mark either with how easily he downed that fiery stuff at this point in the day, having just worked out. Fletcher would’ve been on the floor right now. Maybe fame and celebrity taught more than how to dodge a bad hook-up.