Both he knew well.
One he’d hoped never to hear again. It still haunted his dreams.
What the fuck was Diego doing in his fucking house? More than that, why was Fletcher with him?
The pounding in his chest like a bass drum, he plucked up the courage to click open the bathroom door and peer out to the darkened hallway. It looked calm. Empty. But he wasn’t going to take any chances, so he crept across the hall to his bedroom, where he crouched beside his bed, adhering to Fletcher’s warning.
Except, whose side was Fletcher on? Was he a sitting duck? Was Fletcher going to lead him to Diego like one of his cows to slaughter?
What choice did he really have? It wasn’t as though he could confront either of them. He knew what Diego was capable of. He knew Charles Payne hired the best to protect his assets.
Not his family, though.
Jackson shuddered. Maybe Charles was rectifying that mistake.
The creaks of the stairs outside were masked by the hammering in his chest. He swallowed, gripping the towel around his waist. This wasn’t exactly A-grade hiding. This was more toddler hide-and-seek. He could get into the wardrobe, but then he’d be trapped in a closet, and if Fletcher had chosen to represent the other side, then that headline was all too much to bear. Besides, being stuck in small enclosed places reminded him of the past few months’ incarceration. The other option was to jump out of his window onto the conservatory roof. But there was no way he could do that without being noticed by the neighbours or the media hounds who were cluttering Kris’s driveway.
This had been a mistake. All of it. Coming home. Believing he could disappear. Thinking he could tell his truth.
Trusting Fletcher.
He hung his head, scraping back his hair and resigned himself to the fact that this was it. He’d made some epic mistakes in his life, but this was now on the top list of all-time fuck ups. He shouldn’t have come home. He should have biked off into the distance and never looked back. Fletcher wasn’t his. Not anymore. Not if that article he’d read earlier was anything to go by. Not if the man, here, now, was anything to go by as he cosied up to Diego fucking Conti.
The man who’d stolen his life.
“Jax?”
That hesitant whispering of his name made his entire body clench.
“Jackson? It’s me.”
The bedroom door slid open to reveal Fletcher’s silhouette filling the gap. Still Jackson held his breath and waited.
Trust no one.
“We haven’t got long, but I think we need to get out of here.”
Jackson peered up over the bed at that, catching onto Fletcher’s wide-eyed gaze. Neither made an attempt to go to the other. Both frozen to the spot, staring over the double king sized sleigh bed.
Until Jackson couldn’t hold his temper in any longer.
“Damn, fuck, Fletcher! What the fuck are you doing here?” He slapped the mattress, but didn’t stand. He couldn’t. His body had shut down, refusing to do anything but clench tightly as though he was being crushed by the walls closing in around him.
Maybe it was the temperature in the room. Maybe it was the fact he was sat there in just a towel and the steam from the earlier hot shower had dissipated to leave in its haze a frosty air. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off.
Whatever it was, it gripped hold of him, refusing to let him be.
“Shhh.” Fletcher held up his hands, looking back toward the door. “There are men right outside your front door. Any commotion and they’ll be in here like a shot. You want to be found?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” Jackson shivered, holding his arms around himself and digging fingertips in to bruise his skin.
“I wouldn’t think so, no. I just sent Diego to your hotel. We’ve got, what, an hour to get out of here before he finds out you’re not there.”
“What does he want with me?”
“That, I don’t know. But I get the distinct feeling it isn’t to offer you his condolences and a sympathy card.” Fletcher scraped fingertips through his hair and Jackson noticed the trembling in each digit along with the sharp swallow. “Fuck, Jackson, what the fuck have you got me into?”
Scrabbling for the bed frame, Jackson hauled himself to stand and tucked the towel ends back in to wrap haphazardly around his waist. Why was Fletcher so fucking angry? He was the one who had broken into Jackson’s home and was now cavorting with the enemy. If anyone should be upset here, it was him.
“Last I knew, you were heading off to the fucking theatre to catch dinner and show with your annoying cock of an arrogant bastard boyfriend,” Jackson growled, pointing an angry finger Fletcher’s way. “Most likely to celebrate having ratted out me to the fucking nation in your Cracks within the fucking Jax article. So, honestly, Fletcher, right now, I’m close to saying go fuck yourself.”
“You read it.”
“Yes, I fucking well read it. You two-faced, back-stabbing arsehole.” Jackson cocked his head. “What’s the next article about, Fletcher? Hmm? Who had a crack at the Jax?”
“No!” Fletcher edged closer, palms up in surrender. “I wouldn’t out you. But I had to give my boss something or I was gonna be fired.”
“I gave you a fucking job!”
“No, you gave me a potential earning in, at best, what, a year’s time?”
“And you screwed on that to give my story to the fucking Charles Payne empire! Why, Fletcher? Why would you do that? You know who Charles Payne is, right?”
“Tallulah’s father. Owner of the Meridian. And, apparently, my boss.”
“He’s everyone’s boss! He owns most of the media in this fucking country. The hotel’s just a side business. A place to conduct liaisons, make the news. Ever wonder how you got so many tip-offs when it came to clandestines in his hotel? Jesus, Fletcher! You really are naive!”
Fletcher widened his eyes, eyebrows trailing up his forehead.
“I knew I should have gone for a seasoned journalist to do this and not a rookie.” Jackson shook his head, meeting Fletcher’s worried gaze. He softened to explain the rest. “There’s a lot of money in celebrity. And Tules’ father is out for blood. He can convince the world I killed his daughter and turn a nation against me just by controlling every word printed about me. I won’t even be able to buy a pint of fucking milk without fearing for my goddamn life! You, you were meant to be different. You were meant to be mine!” He slammed a hand to his chest. “You weren’t meant to have been manipulated yet.”
Fletcher stepped forward. “I am yours,” he said. “I didn’t rat you out. I purposely didn’t write anything that pointed to where you were. I didn’t say much of anything. Only the stuff I’d gotten from Kris. The real story, I’m saving that. It’s still ours. If we ever get out of here alive! But, right now, Jackson, I’m close to losing it.” His lips trembled. “The last twenty-four hours, I’ve been bundled into a car, had guns pointed at my head, been propositioned into a threesome and walked in on my boyfriend shoving his dick in another man’s mouth. Not in that order. And all of it, all of it, is because of you! Yet I’m still here. I’m still willing to hear you out and tell your story. I have no fucking idea why.”
Fletcher seemed to break down in front of him. His body convulsing, his skin pale. He slammed his hands on each side of his temple, screwing his face up as though all the thoughts were too much, too raw and he wanted to knock them out of his memories.