Jackson clung onto Fletcher as they swerved a right, the bike leaning toward the road and their knees almost grazing tarmac. As they straightened, Jackson threw his head back to waft the locks from his face and edged closer to the warmth and comfort of the body upfront.
“They’re gaining,” he yelled over the roars of engines, tail fumes and honking horns.
“Aye, cheers for that.” Fletcher gripped the handlebars, coming toward the traffic piling up on the Hammersmith flyover.
Jackson checked behind. The Mercedes changed lanes, then again, edging forward with Diego’s stern glower meeting his through the windshield. He drew a line across his neck, then pointed that finger at Jackson.
“I know you’re trying,” Jackson shouted so Fletcher could hear through the foam and metal of the helmet. “But any chance you have experience of stunt riding?”
Fletcher seemed to lean into him then, edging toward his voice, his breath, his touch maybe. But it was probably nothing. Just him trying to hear over the flapping winds that gushed past them as they drove. It was an instinctive reaction.
Because he’d made it clear that it wasn’t anything else.
Just a reaction. A rebound.
Twisting the throttle to rev the engine, Fletcher then slid the bike into the middle of the road and, full throttle, they speared through the traffic just about avoiding the wing mirrors of the various cars and trucks stacked up on either side.
Jackson held his breath.
And Fletcher’s waist.
Fletcher seemed to wriggle back toward him, allowing the embrace. Perhaps it was a way of telling Jackson to trust him, to cling onto him, that he had this all in hand. Without the use of words, Jackson could do nothing but that. He clamped his arms tighter and dipped his head to rest between Fletcher’s shoulder blades. Shutting his eyes, he put his trust in a man he wasn’t sure he should. For all he knew, Fletcher could be leading him into a trap. But there was something about the way his body contorted against his touch, the way Fletcher stiffened, then relaxed, then focused on the road after a deep, unmitigated breath that kept him from leaping from the bike.
If Fletcher was leading him to his death, Jackson would willingly follow.
Fuck. He was screwed.
Fletcher tapped his helmet, then ducked his head and gripped the handlebars. Was that a silent plea to tell him to hide his face, to protect his head should the worst case scenario happen and he was thrown from the bike into oncoming traffic? Or was he telling Jackson to keep his head, keep focused, and stay vigilant? Whatever it was, Jackson had to believe Fletcher could handle this bike. So he buried himself farther into the man’s shoulder blades.
The bike jolted forward, the engine roaring and dust scraping from the tarmac until suddenly a bump, a bang, a slight sputter before the acceleration had Jackson clinging on from fear he would be whipped off the back seat. Noises faded, distant sounds of cars and engines making way for an eerie silence save for the Kawasaki’s distinctive roar.
Fletcher eased off the throttle, the bike slowing, and Jackson finally allowed himself to look up.
They weren’t on the A4 anymore. They weren’t even on any of the city roads that trailed around London. They were cruising down a cycle path meant for pedestrians, cyclists and perhaps the odd mobility scooter, not a racing Kawasaki Ninja. The grassland stretched in front and Fletcher whisked around a few runners.
Hyde bleeding Park.
Nice one, Fletcher. Diego couldn’t get his car through here and by the time he parked up and went on foot, Fletcher and Jackson could be anywhere within the three-hundred and fifty acres of central London’s communal parkland. Easing off the throttle, Fletcher settled the bike to a respectable speed for the surroundings, but his body didn’t unwind from its tightened coil. Jackson could feel the tension beneath his hands and he itched to massage it away, to pretend this was one of the romantic rides he would have taken him on in his youth, that this was them on a date in Hyde Park like the various other lovers who strolled through hand in hand.
Except it wasn’t.
This was them escaping a fate worse than death. This was them hiding from the monster who had plagued Jackson’s dreams.
Eventually, Fletcher came to a stop, hidden beneath large twin oak trees and evergreen bushes that shielded them from prying eyes. He flicked down the kick stand to rest the bike, then… stayed there. With Jackson’s arms still wrapped around him that was now more like a tight embrace than a necessary act to remain in position. He hung his head, the helmet seeming all too heavy for Fletcher’s neck, and Jackson wondered how long it would be before he wriggled free before he ripped himself from the bike and his hold.
He didn’t.
So Jackson had to.
He slid his arms free and hobbled off the bike, scraping his hair back. He glanced left then right, just to make sure nothing was creeping up on them unawares. There wasn’t anything but hungry pigeons and domineering crows hoovering up the scraps left from the various discarded picnics.
“Good choice,” Jackson finally said, breaking the awkward silence.
“And you.” Fletcher eased off the helmet, his dark hair ruffling free and slinking into intrepid green eyes. “Confronting the media like that? That was… genius.”
“I have my moments.” Jackson grinned, then dropped into serious mode. “I’ll be on every media outlet within hours. So will this bike. And you.”
“Aye.”
“So whilst this is good for now, we need a better plan.”
Fletcher slid off from the bike, resting the helmet on the seat and collapsed down on the grass. Knees to his chest, he gazed out at the view. The swirling lake in the distance was a therapeutic sight. Jackson joined him after a while, unconsciously sitting beside him so their thighs were touching. It felt right somehow. To close the gap, reduce the distance. It felt natural. Calming. Fitting.
To him.
Fletcher picked up a few twigs from the grass, snapped them in half and threw them away. “How deep does this go?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” Jackson leaned back on his arms. “I’m probably the tip of an iceberg. And when we point it out to the nation, it’ll be hit from all angles.”
Fletcher craned his neck, peering behind him to meet Jackson’s gaze. “Story of the millennium.”
“Better believe it.” Jackson sat up, a whisker away from Fletcher’s lips. “And you get to write it. But you’ve got two months to do that before it’s buried by Y2K.”
“Better quit that job of mine, then.”
“I think it’s for the best.”
“I’ll need to be somewhere rent-free.”
“You can see why my place isn’t ideal. Otherwise I’d be more than happy to put you up.” He smiled, hoping to God that didn’t come off as some creepy arse come on. Or worse, a threat. “Means we both need somewhere rent-free until I can sell my place and buy a cottage in the country. Somewhere preferably in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere far away. Somewhere no one will even think to look for Jackson Young.” He cocked his head. “Know anywhere like that?”
Fletcher narrowed his eyes, glancing ahead at the squawking birds fighting over a piece of leftover sausage roll. Then, he said, “Middle of nowhere, eh?” He chuckled, ripping up blades of grass from the ground. “I’ve been escaping from the middle of nowhere all my life.” He met Jackson’s gaze. “You got a passport?”