Many called for Jackson himself to make an appearance. To testify to the knowledge that his on-screen partner had been having an affair with his off-screen one. To say something. Anything.
Jackson wouldn’t, though. He hadn’t even really spoken to Fletcher. Choosing to remain muted as he tucked into his bacon roll from the takeout, leaning against the Kawasaki in the services car park.
Fletcher flipped his bag over his back as he approached. “They want you to make a statement,” he said.
Jackson screwed up the paper from the roll and chucked it into the nearest bin. “You know I won’t do that, right?”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“My statement is this book. Your book.” He straddled the bike, flicking up the kickstand and levelling the Ninja out with his weight alone.
“Our book.” Fletcher reassured him, and adjusted the straps on his bag to keep the thing secure during the next two-hour leg to north Wales. He’d decided he wouldn’t keep all the royalties. It didn’t seem fair. Not after everything Jackson had been through. Not now he had relinquished everything. He’d need the money from this book to start a new life wherever he chose to. Which reminded him. “Are you going to tell me?”
Jackson tugged down the helmet and slapped shut the visor. “Tell you what?”
“What you remembered?”
“Of course I will.” His words were muffled but pronounced enough to know it wasn’t a flippant lie. “But let’s get out of here first.” He gestured for Fletcher to get on the bike.
Which he did. Flicking his leg over and resting his hands on Jackson’s hips, he snuggled in closer than was necessary. Jackson seemed to lean back against him, adjusting their bodies so that they fit snug, as one and just so. That made Fletcher, for some unfathomable reason, brush his forehead along the dip of the man’s shoulder blades. The smoke and diesel wafting up from the Kawasaki only mildly masked Jackson’s own. It was a smell that had become so familiar. So intimate.
So compulsive.
“This is going to be difficult.” Jackson’s voice was stifled through the foam of his helmet, but Fletcher heard every loaded word.
“I know.” He inhaled, his chest fluttering with the foreknowledge that Jackson was more than right.
“I don’t just mean the book.” Jackson hung his head, hands gripping the handlebars so that his knuckles turned white.
Fletcher slipped his hands from the man’s hips and around him. “I know.”
Opening the visor, Jackson peered over his shoulder. “We’re both not ready for this.”
“For what?”
Jackson held his gaze, his blue eyes the window to his truth. “Us,” he said.
Fletcher drew in a breath, sliding the passenger helmet over his head. “Let’s just see what happens.”