Bring to Light (London Lies 3)

Chapter Five: Thinner Than Water

There were more than a few times in Fletcher's life when he questioned his choices. Declan in the cowshed had been one. Cam and every time the man had asked him to provide a warm mouth was another. Moving in with Heston. But they were all choices he'd made based on the irrationality of hormones. The question he was asking himself now was a wee harder to shake off to those pesky feelings.

This was a risky thing to be doing—clinging to Jackson Young whilst he zipped the Ninja through traffic toward the suburbs where he'd grown up. But Fletcher believed that this was a vital stop. That they had to do this to blow the thing far and wide. They had to lead a mass strike and not just throw a solitude pebble into a lake that would fall to the bottom and drown. Was it the wrong choice? Was it going to bite him on the arse? Probably. But he was used to the clean up from personal mistakes.

So he gripped Jackson's waist and allowed himself to be led into the fire.

The fire being a detached house in the suburbs. A gleaming white-bricked modern palace. The sort of place an upwardly mobile couple would purchase. The sort of statement house that said social climbing. It wasn't rustic and homely like the Doherty farm. It was a middle finger sticking up to all those back on the estate.

Jackson pulled the bike to a stop and flicked down the stand. He lifted off his helmet and, as he peered over his shoulder, the anguish on his face said it all. He didn't want to be here. He hadn't wanted to go to Alex either. But they were both vital pieces in the puzzle that made up Jackson Young. And they needed allies. They needed people to stand up and tell the truth. They needed as much evidence as they could get their hands on. And they were still Jackson's family. They needed warning. Or at least to be told what was coming. So Fletcher lifted his own helmet and met Jackson's gaze with a curt nod of understanding.

"Want me to handle it?" he asked. "The questions?"

"They won't talk to me. So knock yourself out, you raving reporter."

"And how about the other thing?" Fletcher slipped off the bike, dumping the helmet on the seat.

Jackson copied and threw back his hair. "Can we just not right now?"

To say he didn't feel the stab of rejection would be a lie. But Fletcher was used to lies, so he hid his instinctive reaction. Then, following Jackson up to the front porch with no words of discouragement, he tried not to think how this was the way it had been with Cameron. Lovers by night. Mates by day.

Except Cam was nowhere near the sort of lover that Jackson was.

Biting down those memories, Fletcher hovered on the doorstep and awaited the clamping of shoes from beyond the PVC after Jackson had rung the bell. He peeped out of the corner of his eye. Jackson was yet another multifaceted display beside him. He was tense. But also kind of hidden. And jaded. A shadow of the man Fletcher had come to know. He was about to ask him if he was okay when the door flung open to cut him off.

"Jackson!" That must be his mother. Fiona Young. Tight grey-blond curls, an emerald green jersey dress that was inched in the waist by an embellished belt, she was exactly how Jackson had portrayed her. She was desperate to keep up appearances. "What are you doing here?"

She peered over his shoulder, glancing this way then that, mostly over to the neighbours before landing a fractious gaze on Fletcher. He offered a half smile and a nod but allowed Jackson to answer his mother's question before he fired in all guns blazing with his own. He had a ton of them. All piled up in his brain and scribbled down in the notebook pilfered from the more expensive B&B they'd stayed in.

Mostly, though, he wanted to know why. Why a mother would abandon her son—both sons—when they'd so desperately needed her.

"Mother." Jackson's greeting was stifled. He motioned to Fletcher. "This is Fletcher. He's a journalist. He's here to ask some questions."