Bring to Light (London Lies 3)

Chapter One: New Beginnings

Jackson Young was a new man.

The sweet, shallow breaths that trickled onto his neck and erupted him in a delightful sheen of goosepimples confirmed that transformation was now complete. Enveloped in warmth, in heat, in comfort, he melted away from an outside world that he had no desire to roam in anymore. This was where he wanted to stay. Closed in. Coddled. Safe. And wrapped up in arms and legs that clung to him like a limpet.

Like a lover.

The birds outside the hotel room window tweeted and Jackson wondered, for the few moments he now had to lay as content as he were, if he would ever get used to being woken immersed in such nirvana. He hoped not. That would be admitting defeat. He would pray to never get used to having one of Fletcher Doherty's legs flung haphazardly over his hip, one of his arms draped over his chest, and his face nuzzling into his neck and breathing him in like he was the cool morning air. Because this, right now, was perfection personified. He never wanted to take this for granted. There was life after the Jax. And if this was it, he never wanted to it to end.

He could live like this forever.

But he knew, deep down, it couldn't last. Nothing did. It didn't mean he wouldn't be hoping, praying and clinging onto the chance that this could be it. This could be the way he wakes for the rest of his life.

However long that now was.

Fletcher jerked. Then, sliding away, he rubbed his eyes and that miniscule movement declared the time for self-indulgence was now over. Jackson remained where he was though, facing away in the bed and curled up, hoping that Fletcher would forget what this day had in wait and sink back in beside him.

He'd never been this needy. Not for another man. But Fletcher was like the drink. The coke. The lights, camera, action that had fuelled his needs since the early years. Fletcher was his addiction. His lifeblood. His obsession.

But if Fletcher found out any of that, he'd make Jackson go cold turkey.

So he'd not said it. And he wouldn't say it. He muted himself.

No comment.

The covers slipped from his body, making him shiver in the early morning cold, and Fletcher rolled away, lifted, and checked the illuminating numbers on the digital clock. He then fell back to the pillows with a sigh and the scratching of fingertips down coarse facial hair indicated that any moment now, Fletcher would declare their peace and tranquillity in the safe haven of a Surrey B&B had come to its bitter end.

As he would no doubt, any second now, say—

"Jackson?"

Jackson feigned sleep. He didn't respond. Nor move. If Fletcher was going to start the day, then Jackson wanted him to start it the right way. For them both.

Fletcher kicked him under the duvet. "I know your fecking awake."

That wasn't exactly what Jackson had had in mind. But he smiled, and with him facing away, he knew Fletcher wouldn't be able to tell.

"Fecking eejit." Fletcher rolled back and clasped his arms around him to pull him to his chest and settled those soft, enticing lips of his to Jackson's ear, rumbling a deep and guttural, "Get up."

Jackson twisted, falling into Fletcher's arms and attacking the moment to kiss him. "I'm up," he declared against the morning breath he craved like nicotine.

No, he wouldn't ever get used to waking like this. He'd cherish it. And not take it for granted like he had every other morning of his life thus far. It might have been contrite. A tad inappropriate, perhaps. And not the right moment to be indulging in each other's arms. But if they couldn't do it now, when could they? Would they ever get to the point where they could be entangled in each other without the dark clouds looming over them? Without the threat? Without the fear and worry and everything else that had brought them together in the first place.