Book Title: Bring to Light (London Lies #3)
Author: C F White
Publisher: C F White
Cover Artist: Etheral Designs
Release Date: December 10, 2020
Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance, Romantic Suspense
Trope/s: Hurt/Comfort
Themes: Coming out
Length: 79 000 words/358 pages
It is book 3 and the final part in the London Lies series.
Buy Links
Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK
It’s a race against time, with a deadline not only on their story or their growing relationship but on their entire lives.
Blurb
Jackson Young and Fletcher Doherty are back in London and on a mission—to bring to light the murky underbelly of the Charles Payne media empire and, in doing so, get justice for the murder of Tallulah Payne.
It’s not a simple task though. They need proof. They need people to speak up. And they need to keep their hands off each other long enough to track down the other manipulated Lotus Flowers, convince them to come forward and find a way to bring it all to the public. Not so easy when they’re up against the most powerful men in London who are determined to separate and silence them by any means possible.
It’s a race against time, with a deadline not only on their story or their growing relationship but on their entire lives.
Throwing the keys onto the wooden dressing table, Fletcher hefted out a sigh that suggested this adventure was waning on him too. “I’ll go pick up food,” he said, less than enthusiastically.
Food. That was their other problem. They’d been living on service station meal deals for the past few days. Jackson was sick of sandwiches. The last decent meal he’d had was the breakfast back in Donegal that Fletcher’s sister had cooked for them. He missed that. He missed that moment when everything had seemed hopeful and bright with possibilities of a future riding in the wind. Until it had been ripped from them both with violent, bare hands.
Jackson shuddered. “Where you going?” he asked.
“Saw a Londis down the road. I’ll grab a sand—”
“Please! No more BLT’s!” Jackson cried, collapsing onto the bed and flinging an arm over his eyes.
The mattress dipped beside him and Fletcher peeled his arm away to look him in the eye. “What do you want then?”
“Steak?” Jackson suggested in hopeful inflection. “Fillet. Medium rare. Red wine sauce. With triple-cooked, thick-cut chips. Served on a wooden chopping board and a glass of Malbec.”
“Missing the taste of the good stuff, eh?”
“Honestly?” Jackson sat up, bringing him a whisker away from Fletcher’s lips. “I’d kill for a burger right now. And I’d chug a bottle of Jameson’s with it.”
Fletcher snorted. “Like your taste in poison.”
“I’m partial to Irish brands.”
“That a fact?”
“Have I not shown that enough already?” Jackson stole a kiss then. A kiss he wouldn’t be handing back. Fletcher didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was content to let Jackson steal another. And another. And another.
Until he splayed a hand on Jackson’s chest and urged him away. “All right,” he said. “I’ll find you a burger. But how about I’m the only Irish that gets inside you?”
Jackson breathed through a laugh. “Deal.” He kissed him again. Because he could. And he wanted to. And needed to feel something good after the past few hours of stress. Plus it wasn’t too much of a hardship to agree on. He’d gone cold turkey on the booze when inside. He didn’t crave it half as much as he’d used to. So if Fletcher wanted to substitute himself for his daily alcohol consumption, then he was all game to switch vices.
Fletcher stood, heading toward the door and Jackson perched up on his elbows to watch. Fletcher hesitated. He looked as though he was battling with something. As if he wanted to ask something. Another question that would lead to yet another difficult answer.
“No tomato,” Jackson called out in a way to keep things light. He’d had enough of the laden questions for the day.
Fletcher held his gaze. “I should take you to dinner.”
Jackson widened his eyes, propping himself up against the headboard. “What?”
“We should go on a date.”
“Sure thing. But maybe we save that for when we know we’re not being hunted?”
“You’ve probably been to all the fancy steak houses though, right?”
Was that what this was about? Fletcher realising that, once upon a time, Jackson had been rich. And famous. And a celebrity who, no matter how much cash he had to his name, was given expensive restaurant meals for free anyway. He’d been part of that ridiculous cycle where the rich got handouts while the poor starved on every street corner. Jackson had been oblivious to the vulgarity of that austerity back then. Not oblivious. He hadn’t cared. He’d been a selfish bastard.
Time to change.
“I haven’t been with you,” he said and hoped Fletcher would take that as it was meant.
“Would you have wanted to?” Fletcher reached for the door handle. “Before all this? Would you have been seen out in the Ivy with an Irish fella from the arse crack of nowhere? Would you have been seen out with a nobody?”
“You know that wouldn’t have been my call.”
“But if it had been?”
Jackson couldn’t look him in the eye when he said, “You’re not a nobody, Fletch. Not to me.”
Those words hung in the air, spilling through the silent distance between them. Until Fletcher replied with his usual exasperated, “Still didn’t answer my question.”
Jackson met his gaze. “No tomatoes,” he repeated. Deflected. And screwed up Fletcher’s question and shot him back a nothing. Because that was who he was. He wanted to be different. He did. He could have lied and placated Fletcher with an answer that he’d wanted. He’d promised no more lies.
He hadn’t promised no more no comments though.
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
Eventually she moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and it brought pen back to and paper after having written stories as a child but never had the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, C F White can’t stop.
So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
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