“Why? Where you thinking?”
“Middle of nowhere? Ireland. My farm.”
Jackson breathed through a smile. “You want to take me home to meet Mammy and Daddy?”
Fletcher stood, wiping the dirt from his jeans. “Don’t look so happy about it. I got three sisters as well. They’ll rip you to shreds.”
Jackson leapt up from the floor. “Sisters I can handle. Lead the way.”
“We’ll have to go by ferry. Tomorrow, though. I need a rest. We both do.”
“We can snuggle under the stars until then.” Jackson offered up a smile, realising he was going too far with the niceties if he had to keep his distance. “Except, wait, I don’t have my passport actually on me.”
“Driver’s licence? Any photo ID will do.”
Jackson winced and shook his head.
“Fuck.” Fletcher rammed his hands on his hips. “We can’t go back to your place.” He looked at Jackson, trailing his gaze up and down and worrying on his bottom lip. “We’ll have to borrow one.”
“From where?”
Fletcher hefted out a sigh when he said, “I know someone who you could pass for.”
“Can you trust this someone?”
“I keep his secrets. He’ll keep mine.” Fletcher threw the helmet at Jackson. “You wear it. I’ll drive.” He flipped his leg over the bike.
There was only one thing for Jackson to do. Don the headgear and sink into position behind Fletcher.
* * * *
Getting to Angel, in the heart of Islington, couldn’t have been more inconvenient. Biking through the major city roads from Marble Arch to Baker Street, Euston then Kings Cross wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. But they made it without being stopped by any authorities who would throw the book at Fletcher for not wearing the safety headgear.
Now he was here, his old stomping ground for the majority of his three years on his journalism degree course, he was more than a little apprehensive as he parked up the bike on the side of a block of flats just shy of the high street.
Apprehension seemed to be the permanent state in his gut at the present time though. And with each new twist and turn in this rollercoaster of a day, it added a touch of seasoning to the unbridled fear and overhanging dread that he already had swirling in the pit of his stomach. He was surprised he hadn’t wilted down to a quivering wreck. It was merely reserved adrenaline keeping him going at this point. And the fact that this running from danger meant he hadn’t had to dwell on the fact he was now single, jobless and homeless.
All that he feared the most.
Except now, maybe, in hindsight, a gun to his head.
Placing the helmet on the seat of the Kawasaki, he angled his head for Jackson to follow him up the narrowed path that led through the communal gardens to a row of privately let flats. Swallowing down the bile curdling in his throat, he buzzed on number eight. He daren’t look at Jackson. It was best to pretend he wasn’t there, standing behind him and witnessing this car crash of a moment.
“Hello?”
Feck it. Fletcher closed his eyes. That was a female voice.
“Vanessa? Howaya?”
“Fletcher! Come in!” The door buzzed and clicked open and Fletcher pulled it as a shiver of unease spiralled down his spinal cord.
Jackson followed without instruction, and Fletcher climbed the first set of stairs to the first floor where the door to flat number eight was being held open by a heavily pregnant Vanessa. She glowed. A radiant mother-to-be with long, dark spaghetti-straight hair that framed a rounded face. Her heart-shaped lips and pointed nose with just the glint of stud on the left side.
She beamed at his arrival but added a tsk, condemning him for how long it had been since his last visit. That soon drained away as she caught sight of Jackson Young behind him. She stepped back into the flat, holding onto the door and through the side of her mouth, called out a demanding, “Cameron!” She then turned back to Fletcher. “You better wait here.” She put the door on the latch as she hurtled back inside.
Jackson chuckled beside him, then leaned into his ear. “Nice to know I still get that star-struck reaction from the fans.”
Fletcher flicked his gaze to him, not a hint of amusement in his warning glare. He didn’t need the distraction.
“Was a joke,” Jackson said, backing off a bit and giving Fletcher the space he was clearly proving he needed.
The door cracked open and Cam filled the entranceway, baseball cap firmly down on his head and gave Fletcher a stern glower. “Fletcher? What the fuck?”
“I need somewhere to stay.” Fletcher glanced at Jackson. “We need somewhere.”
Cam flicked his gaze from him to Jackson and back again but didn’t remove himself from the doorway, preventing them from getting inside. They were out for all to see on a communal floor in a public place. Any moment now someone could pop out of a nearby flat, recognise Jackson and their hideaway would be blown to shit. Fletcher didn’t have any other ideas. There wasn’t anyone else he could trust to help. All his London friends were Heston’s, really. Which gave him a stab of remorse that he hadn’t found any of his own. His work colleagues were that, and employees of the very man they were running from. He’d been certain he could trust Cam. Regardless of the distance that had followed their intense friendship. There was too much between them for him not to.
Or more, Fletcher had too much on him for Cam not to.
“Come on, will ye?” Fletcher demanded, hoping to keep lighthearted enough not to cause Cam to revolt and slam the door in his face. “Let us in before the whole fecking neighbourhood sees this fella and ye get the press on your doorstep.” Not only the press, but Fletcher thought best not to mention that.
Cam sighed and slid away from the entrance, allowing Fletcher to bundle Jackson through first. Cam shut the door, his glare remaining on Fletcher. It was as though he didn’t want to look at Jackson. Maybe he thought that if he did, he’d have to admit to being an accessory to something he knew nothing about. In a way, Fletcher couldn’t blame him.
“We need to talk.” Cam twisted on his heel and marched past the bedroom that had used to belong to Fletcher but was now a decorated nursery with a Moses basket perched on a rocking stand and a rotating bunny mobile above. Farther still, he passed the main bedroom and living space to stop in the kitchen at the back of the flat.
Fletcher met Jackson’s gaze, then glanced behind him to where Vanessa stood in the living room chewing on a thumbnail. She stared straight back at him, fear and trepidation in her porcelain doll features. She closed the separating door. Fletcher sucked in a breath. That nursery and baby bump was a painful reminder of everything, but also a stabbing indication as to what Fletcher had just brought to their home.
“Wait here,” he said to Jackson then trailed on into the kitchen.
Cam, back to him, his broad shoulders stiff, leaned on his arms against the far counter. He peered over his shoulder for Fletcher’s arrival, then after a coarse inhalation, he slapped the surface and faced him.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I had nowhere else to go. And I need a really big favour.”
“Other than bringing him here. To this flat. That I share with my pregnant girlfriend.”
“Aye. I also need your driver’s license.”