Page 74 of Broken Lines

“Uh…yep,” I lie again.

But whatever. Shoot first, figure out how to get Jackson to legally agree to let me write and publish a story about him later.

Chuck snorts.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Melody,” he snickers. “If you don’t have it yet, just work on it. These star-types…they just need to get leaned on sometimes. They need their fuckin’ egos stroked. So…lean on him.”

I furrow my brow, not saying anything. Chuck sighs.

“What.”

“It just seems…I dunno, Chuck. I mean the story is interesting, or I think it could be. But he ran off from the world for a reason.”

“A reason we’re going to print and make a cover story about. A reason that you’re going to write a great story on, and it’s going to define your career.”

My lips twist. Even with how much of a prick Jackson is, it just feels…scummy to go into this “leaning” on him to force him into allowing me to do this story.

“Melody,” Chuck grunts. “Let me fill you in on a little secret. Guys like Havoc? They can pretend they’re running from the fame and the press and whatever they want to bullshit themselves about all they want. But these people…they live for this shit. It’s a drug to them. Believe me, he wants this story to break, too.”

I nod slowly, my thoughts sliding back to the island.

And him.

And his hands sliding over my body, turning me to fire.

I shiver as my thighs squeeze together.

“If you want everyone to like you, Melody, believe me…journalism is the wrong business for you. If you want that, go be a rock star or some shit. You get me?”

I nod. “I got it, Chuck.”

“Good. Now go get me that story, Melody. Yesterday. Get it whatever it takes.”

16

Jackson

I pacemy living room like a caged bear, back-and-forth, my jaw grinding painfully.

What thefuckwas that.

And what fuck was I thinking? This isn’t backstage at Madison Square Garden. This isn’t the after party at some fancy hotel. And she’s not a fucking groupie bending over begging me to stick it wherever I fucking want.

She’s thepress. And I let her the fuck in here.

A reporter—one who is now on her way off this island ready to tell the world a: where I am. And b: probably that I’m some lecherous tit-grabbing monster.

Fuck.

I storm out the front door and bolt down the path towards the shore. But when I get there, half expecting to see Melody trying to use a rock to bash her the lock off my boat or trying to build a fucking raft out of God knows what, that’s not what I see at all.

I seenothingon the rocky beach when I get there. No Melody. No sign of her trying to break the lock chaining my boat to the dock. I frown, but when I look out over the bay, my eyes narrow.

It takes me a half a second, but then I realized the small figure sloppily rowing away across the bay back towards town isMelody.

Melody in a boat. Not my boat.

Herboat.

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