Travis Kalanick and Garrett Camp had both launched and sold successful start-ups before. In fact, Logan used StumbleUpon to help filter his own web searches. And their new idea seemed solid, especially from his perspective as someone who had lived in both London and New York where the odds of successfully hailing a cab on a rainy night after a Katy Perry concert let out were about the same as the odds of Colin winning an Olympic gold medal for figure skating. On demand personal drivers you could order with a tap of your phone; Logan would use it. And the more he read of their business plan, the more interested he got. They were currently looking for VC money to get this thing off the ground and they were hoping a few good write ups could get them the attention they needed. And that worked for Logan because working on his column for Hugo was one of the few things that could distract him from the total mess his life had become.
Of course, he had been trying to mostly work from home this week to avoid one very significant mess he'd made. But he knew he couldn't avoid her forever, even if he wanted to—which he didn't. The truth was, he didn't want to avoid her at all. He wanted to be with her. There was no denying it anymore, not after their kiss the other night. But that wasn't an option. Not with the threat of Mitchum lurking around every corner and down every alley. Not with the article yet to come out. Not now. According to Rory, maybe not ever. He couldn't blame her. The obstacles seemed too insurmountable to overcome. But he couldn't stop feeling like they'd already surmounted the biggest one. He could look at her and not see the image of her in nothing but Mitchum Huntzberger's shirt. He could kiss her and not taste the lingering essence of Lagavulin and Opus X cigars. He wanted to be with her again.
But that couldn't happen until Mitchum had lost every shred of power he had—and was preferably behind bars. And that meant he needed to keep his head down and not make waves while Jackson did his work. It had been almost a week since he and Rory had kissed outside that club, and they had yet to hear anything from Mitchum about it. It was starting to feel like maybe they'd miraculously managed to dodge a very dangerous bullet. They wouldn't get that lucky again. So, for now it was best he kept his distance from her.
Unfortunately, they shared a place of employment and despite the flexibility to work from home more often than not, they were bound to run into each other occasionally. So, he was hardly shocked when he saw her walk around the corner with her head buried in a stack of papers. His heart rate picked up at the sight of her. She was wearing a blue dress, cinched at the waist with a belt, and a long brown sweater. Her hair fell in waves down past her shoulders and her long bangs framed her epically blue eyes which were highlighted with just a touch of eyeliner. God, she was beautiful. She'd never stopped being beautiful, but for the first time in a long time, he was allowing himself to appreciate just how beautiful she was.
She looked up from whatever was in her hands and her eyes caught his, holding for a just a moment before she diverted them back down again and kept walking to the other side of the room. They hadn't talked since the kiss—at least not soberly. So he wasn't sure if she was avoiding him, or she was mad at him for avoiding her. Either way, it seemed she wasn't interested in interacting with him. Which should be fine considering the thoughts on the matter he'd just been contemplating mere moments ago.
But it was sure as hell a lot easier to keep his distance when they weren't in the same room. And besides, they still needed to communicate somewhat—right? What if she had new information to pass on to him? What if Mitchum had reached out to her? Or she'd picked up a tail? A lot could happen in a week.
He heard the scrape of his chair legs against the linoleum floor before he even registered that his own body had begun the process of rising from its seat.
Without giving himself the chance to start second guessing it, he was walking across the room towards her. He allowed his steps to slow as he walked past the desk she'd picked out for herself, but he didn't stop, just shot her a quick look, trying to convey with a mere glance that he wanted her to follow him.
He kept walking, over to the stairwell, up the stairs and to their usual room. He pulled the blanket and throw pillows they kept stashed there out of the closet and set them down, and then he waited.
Five minutes later, the door opened a crack and Rory slipped in.
"Hey," she said, her eyes failing to meet his, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. "What's up?"
"I thought we should talk. I haven't seen you since…" he trailed off, it was best if he didn't say the words. They both knew what he was talking about.
"Yeah, well, I've been here." Her emphasis on the possessive made it clear that she was pointing out whose fault it was that they hadn't talked. "Paris doesn't have class this week—spring break. You worked on the Daily News with her, so I'm sure you know what it's like to try to write in the same room as her."
"Actually, I didn't do much writing back then, but I can imagine."
"Right." The silence settled uncomfortably between them. She remained standing near the door and he was still sitting.
"Look," he finally said. "It's clear you think I've been avoiding you."
She finally did look directly at him. "Haven't you been?"
"Yes," he admitted.
"Swell, can I get back to work then?"
He let out a frustrated exhale as he pushed himself up to standing. "You know why I had to," he implored her. He couldn't stand the thought that she was mad at him. Not now. Not after…
Her shoulders slumped, her armor melting away. "I know," she admitted.
"Have you heard anything from him? Seen anything?" he asked.
"No," she shook her head. "You?" He mimicked her gesture. "Do you really think he might not have seen it? Could it be possible?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Anything's possible."
"I was so sure," she replied. There was a slight tremble to her voice, an unmistakable fear lurking behind her eyes. "So sure he was going to… I've just been waiting all week for this huge bomb to detonate and blow everything to pieces. Everything we've been working towards, everything I've started to rebuild."
He didn't really know what to say to reassure her. He was waiting for the same thing. He was still waiting for it. Sure, it seemed like they had managed to avoid setting off a ticking time bomb but he still couldn't be completely sure. And even if they had, that just meant the bomb was still ticking, waiting to explode. And as he stood there staring at her, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. All he could think was how badly he wanted to kiss her again.
"What" she asked, squirming uncomfortably under his gaze? "Do I have something on my face?"
"I want to kiss you." God, he could kick himself.
"What?!"
"I'm sorry, I just," he buried his head in his hands, wiping at his face in frustration. "I'm terrified too, Rory. And everything is a mess, I know that. But I can't help it. I can't get it out of my head. I can't get you out of my head."
"We can't!"
"I know that!" He threw his hands up in vexation. "Don't you think I fucking know that? Why do you think I've been avoiding you all week?"
"Right," she nodded her head, inhaling deeply. "You were right to stay away. We should just…keep our distance for now."
"Rory…" He took another step towards her. She was angry. He hated that she was angry. She had enough negative emotions to deal with right now, he didn't need to be the cause of anymore.
"No!" she held up a hand and took a step back. "You need to not come any closer."
"Cherry…"
"No," she repeated. "You need to not come any closer because…" a small huff of air halfway between a scoff and a laugh left her lips as her eyes looked up to the ceiling. "Because I want to kiss you too."
"What?!"
"We should just stay away from each other for now."
"Right." He nodded in agreement.
She turned around and went to leave the room but he stopped her.
"Wait!"
"What?" she asked as she turned back to see what he wanted. With two brisk strides he was standing right in front of her. He didn't think about it, didn't give himself time to question it, he just lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hers came up to his shoulders, encircling his neck. Her fingers brushed lightly against the fine hairs at the base. Her mouth fell open and he took the opportunity to push his tongue inside letting it dance with hers.
When he finally pulled back they were both panting heavily. He kept his forehead resting against hers. "This isn't going to last forever," he whispered. "We're going to stop him. And when we do…"
Rory nodded, still trying to catch her breath. "When we do," she repeated breathily. They pulled apart. They didn't say anymore; they didn't have to. They both knew what this was. It was goodbye…for now anyway. But at least they finally had something to look forward to.
The tart acidity tingled in her mouth sliding down her throat and sending a wave of serenity through her body. She let out a deep sigh of contentment as she settled back into her chair.
"Is everything to your liking, Miss?" the waiter asked, his hands clasped politely behind his back while he waited for confirmation that nothing else was required of him at the moment.
"Everything is wonderful." Honor was in her happy place—Neiman Marcus. And after a morning of marathon shopping for non-maternity clothes, sexy stilettos, and adorable baby outfits, she was contentedly sipping a perfectly oaky Chardonnay at the Neiman Marcus Café while she awaited her goat cheese salad. God, how she had missed wine and soft cheeses.
Here, as her daughter slept soundly in her stroller, nothing could bother her. Not the weeks of sleepless nights associated with having an infant to take care of, not her mother's critical voice, and not her brother's continually erratic behavior as he fell further down the rabbit hole of orchestrating their sociopathic father's demise. In Neiman Marcus, she was just a girl with a no-limit credit card that she planned to put to good use. Nothing could touch her here.
"Hello, Honor."
Or maybe it could. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deeply through her nose, before letting the breath out through her mouth in an attempt to release the tension that had suddenly suffused her being at the sound of the voice. She was unsuccessful. With a relenting sigh, she turned to face her visitor.
"Hello, Dad," she replied with her perfectly curated society smile in place. "What a surprise running into you here."
"I needed some new…ties."
"Right," Honor nodded. "And you just decided to hop on the LIE and take a drive out to the Roosevelt Field Mall to buy them yourself." Mitchum Huntzberger couldn't be bothered to personally purchase his own clothes. And even if he had had the sudden urge for a shopping spree, it would never be at a mall on Long Island. Mitchum hated malls. And every inch of Long Island that wasn't on one of the forks. When he did head out to the Hamptons, he took a helicopter so he could fly over the less savory parts in between.
He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Last time I entrusted someone else to pick out my ties, I wound up with a creepy fish hanging around my neck." His gaze shifted to the stroller by Honor's side. "And I suppose this is the ineffable Penelope Lane?" he queried.
Honor instinctively pulled her daughter closer. She was suddenly immensely glad that the canopy of the Orbit Baby G5 stroller was all the way down, shielding her child from the prying eyes of the man who was grandfather in name only. "She's sleeping," she said coldly.
"Well," Mitchum said, squaring his shoulders and dismissing the slight, "never wake a sleeping baby. Even I know that." He pulled out the chair across from Honor and sat without invitation.
"Is there something I can do for you, Dad?" Honor asked.
"What? A man can't see his daughter and come and say 'hi'?" he asked, reaching across the table to help himself to a piece of focaccia from the breadbasket.
Honor raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side; a look that clearly conveyed that she wasn't buying the mere coincidental nature of their run in. Not that it mattered, Mitchum didn't expect her to buy it. The pretext wasn't meant to be convincing, it was meant to provide him with a degree of plausible deniability.
"Listen, Honor, I know we haven't always had the strongest relationship…" Honor laughed at that, she couldn't help herself. As far as understatements went, that was akin to saying the Big Bang was a little explosion. She noticed his eyes narrow, a micromovement that was just barely perceptible. "Look, I get it," he continued on. "You went to live with your mother, and I worked all the time. We never really got a chance to know one another."
"You think absenteeism is what made you a bad father?" Honor scoffed. "Funny, I'd argue that not being around more was one of your better parental choices."
Mitchum gave a succinct nod of his head. "I can see why you'd think that, what with the lies that your brother has no doubt been filling your head with."
"Well, he learned from the best," Honor snarked. Mitchum pursed his lips, his body tensing an infinitesimal amount. A less trained eye might have missed the change as he immediately relaxed again, regaining the easy, unphased posture that helped give him the upper hand in most of his dealings in life—inside of the boardroom and out.
"Your brother's not thinking straight. He's gotten himself in over his head and I'm worried about him," he said, deciding to ignore the slight.
Honor found the statement borderline amusing in its absurdity. Did he actually expect her to believe that? "Yeah, you seem real worried, what with your air of nonchalance and your day trip to stock up on neckwear."
"He quit the company."
Honor rolled her eyes. "I think I heard something about that."
"He's got nowhere to live."
"He's got somewhere to live," Honor contested with a huff. Her home wasn't nowhere; it was somewhere, it was home. Which was more than Mitchum could likely say about anywhere he'd lived. She was quite certain all her father had ever had was 'a place to live.' She doubted he'd ever lived in a 'home' a single day in his life.
"Nowhere of his own," Mitchum clarified.
"My house is his house—for as long as he needs. You see, that's what It means to be family. Not that you'd know anything about that." Honor could feel herself getting defensive. It was a skill Mitchum Huntzberger excelled at—putting other people on the defensive. Throw them off their game, get them thinking with their emotions instead of their head. And then once he succeeded, he could come in with his calm disposition and his smooth talking and take what he wanted. Honor knew this and yet she couldn't seem to help herself.
"I know you think I don't care…"
"Gee, I wonder where I'd get that impression from." She was tiring of this conversation, not that she'd ever been engaged by it. But she was running out of ways to let him know she was never going to buy what he was selling.
"I'm a parent. It's my job to care." He looked to the baby carriage again. "I think you'd understand that better than ever."
"Oh, I do. And here's the thing, Dad, being a parent isn't supposed to be a job; let alone a second one. And that's all your family ever was to you—a job; one that always took second place to the company. So excuse me for thinking all you really care about is how Logan's actions affect you and the business."
Mitchum shook his head and pursed his lips. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better father to you and your brother growing up. I'm sorry you think that I don't care about you. But all I ever did was work to give my family everything they ever wanted. And now, to see my son walk away from it all for some girl? And there's nothing I can even do about it."
He was unbelievable, making himself out to be the martyr in this situation. Boiling other people's actions down to whatever was most convenient for him. Then again, it was classic narcissist behavior, she'd learned that in the years of therapy she'd been to, so she shouldn't be surprised. "Is that what you think this is about?" she scoffed. "A girl?"
"She's no good," Mitchum warned.
"Right," Honor drawled out sarcastically. "She's no good. She's a manipulative harlot who uses her wiles to draw men in, destroy their lives and spit them out. That's why you needed to beat the crap out of her. You had no choice, she made you do it. Just like Mom made you do it. And how many other women?"
"That's not what happened."
"Please, Dad. I lived with you for 13 years. I was a kid, but I wasn't stupid, I saw the things you did to Mom with my own two eyes. Getting away from you was the best thing that ever happened to me. And now Logan's eyes have been opened and he had the good sense to get away too. He didn't leave because of a girl, he left because of you."
Mitchum rested his forearms on the table as he leaned in. "Rory Gilmore is trouble," he replied firmly. "And if he stays with her, I can promise you that the trouble is only beginning. For him and the people he cares about." He gave Honor a pointed look, holding her gaze for an unnervingly long moment before letting his eyes travel to the stroller once again. "And as a parent, I'd hate to see anything bad happen to my family, especially when it didn't have to."
Honor's heart clenched in her chest, the cold, calculating look in her father's eyes sending a shiver down her spine. "Is that a threat?"
Mitchum relaxed back into his chair. "Really, Honor…" He threw a hand innocently over his chest, one eyebrow raising meaningfully. "I'm hurt that you would even think such a thing." Honor felt sick to her stomach. So much for that goat cheese salad she had on the way. Mitchum pushed his chair back and stood. "Talk to him. He'll listen to you." He picked up the remaining piece of bread from the bread plate in front of him and took a bite. "Thanks for the chat," he said with an astute smile. "Enjoy your lunch."
There was something about watching another person sleep that Finn always found incredibly erotic. Perhaps it was the fact that he could stare with wanton desire to his heart's content, taking in every curve and angle, each freckle and scar. Or maybe it was the knowledge that he could touch them however he wanted. Not that he ever would; he had no desire to actually fondle unconscious bodies; but just knowing that he could was intoxicating enough. He supposed that was the point, the vulnerability of it all; the idea that another person, sometimes one he hadn't even known for more than a few hours, could let down their guard so fully and put themselves completely at his mercy.
And yet, as Finn leaned up against the door frame, breakfast tray in one hand and Sunday paper in the other, he had to admit that there was nothing particularly sexy about the scene in front of him. Jackson was almost completely covered by the navy-blue duvet clad comforter; nothing but his right arm, the tips of his left toes, and his head exposed. Still, Finn couldn't take his eyes off of him. His body was relaxed, his face soft and free of the worry and stress that so frequently seemed to consume it due to both the current circumstances of his work, as well as the innate disposition of the man. And sure, Finn hadn't known him in the before, but he knew him well enough now to know that Jackson Andrews was a worrier by nature; always fussing and fretting, always overthinking. And that was a heavy enough burden, but add on the covert, investigative reporting of a man who could bring even the most carefree among them to their knees…hell, even Finn was starting to worry.
But standing there, watching his boyfriend laying in his bed in a moment of utter peace and tranquility, his head lulled to the side, his slightly overgrown blond tresses in disarray, and a smattering of drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, Finn felt his heart flutter.
Which was an odd sensation for him. Finn's heart didn't flutter. It pounded with lust, it ached with desire, it swelled with excitement. The heart was a weighty organ; strong and virile, pumping life blood to essential places. It wasn't light and airy and full of the buoyant quiver of butterfly wings.
Except, now apparently, it was. And Finn couldn't say he wasn't finding the feeling strangely addictive. So much so that he frequently caught himself going out of his way to make those sepia eyes sparkle and those freakishly plump pillow lips curve up into a smile.
Was this that love thing they always went on about in poems and rock ballads? It couldn't be; Finn was fairly certain his emotionally stunted being was incapable of love. At least that kind of love; he loved his friends—Logan, Colin, Stephanie—sure, but this was different. Besides, they'd only known each other for a month and a half.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, watching before an unceremonious snore cut through the air. Finn felt his own lips curve up in amusement as he watched his boyfriend stir. "Morning, sleepy head," he greeted.
Jackson pushed his upper half up with one arm, using the other to rub drowsily at his eyes. "What time is it?"
"Almost 9."
"In the morning?" Jackson asked with confusion. He could understand why he might pose such a question, seeing as the only time Finn was ever awake this early was when he had yet to go to sleep. Jackson on the other hand was usually up and about by the ungodly hour of 8AM, even on weekends. So, when Finn had woken up at 8:30 for what would normally have only been a quick bathroom break and seen his lover still fast asleep, he figured he might as well take advantage of the situation. Jackson needed a nice relaxing morning in after working 12-hour days almost every day for the last two weeks. The outing at the club last weekend was pretty much the only time he'd taken off and Finn knew there was nothing relaxing about that night for Jackson.
At least it seemed he was getting closer to getting his scoop. He had three on the record sources for Peterson, as well as two anonymous sources, he had the two NDAs Logan had taken from the HR files at HPG, hotel footage of the girl at the hotel, and written testimony from one former HR employee attesting to receiving several complaints about Peterson that were brusquely shut down by his higher-ups. He was even starting to get some chatter on Mitchum; Rory, the one ex they'd found, the nurse who had treated Shira…even one of the women they'd found through Mitchum's phone records had finally admitted that Mitchum had coerced her into dating him and had showed violent tendencies, though it had only lasted about a month and he'd never actually laid a hand on her. Still, every single person who was speaking up was doing so either on background, or off the record entirely; that wasn't enough to go to print with. And so, Jackson pressed on, working day and night to get his smoking gun and try to convince someone to put their name to their story.
But not today. Today, Finn was determined to get the man to take a break. "Apparently they have one of those," he informed his beau.
"What's that?" Jackson nodded towards the tray in Finn's hands.
Finn tossed the paper on the edge of the bed and used his free hand to point to the contents of the breakfast tray. "Strawberries, pineapple, croissants—chocolate and plain, and of course…" he picked up one of the two campaign flutes and took a sip, "mimosas."
"Did I sleep for three months straight and wake up on my birthday or something?"
Finn chuckled as he pushed himself off the wall and made his way towards the bed. "I can't just want to pamper my man?"
"Oh, you can. You do," Jackson acknowledged as he worked his way to an upright position, leaning back against the velvet upholstered paneling that spanned the wall, acting as a headboard. "If I recall correctly, you pampered me quite well just last night."
"Mmm," Finn hummed at the memory. Sure, his boyfriend was a work-a-holic who was up to his eyeballs in a dangerous investigation, but fortunately for Finn, Jackson found that nothing beat a physical release to help him manage the stress of it all. And Finn was more than happy to help him work off the tension. Finn placed the tray over Jackson's lap and crawled his way up the bed to curl up next to him. "You did a fair bit of pampering yourself."
"What can I say?" Jackson said with a smile. "I'm a giver." He picked up a champaign flute and took a sip before tipping it Finn's way. "Not that I object to receiving from time to time."
Finn just settled in on his side, propping himself up on his elbow, his head cradled in his hand as he continued to stare.
"What?" Jackson asked as he popped a strawberry in his mouth.
Finn reached over brushing his thumb over the corner of Jackson's lips. "You have drool," he informed him.
"Oh god!" Jackson immediately swatted Finn's hand away and wiped at his mouth.
"What? It's cute." He leaned in to give the man a kiss. Jackson didn't kiss back, and Finn could feel his face scrunch up in embarrassment under his lips.
"It's not cute," Jackson dissented, "It's gross."
"Oh come on. It's not like this is the first time you've drooled, it's just the first time I've mentioned it. If you think about it, this is actually a momentous moment in the overall narrative of our relationship. The moment where we stopped pretending to be perfect beings without normal bodily functions and started admitting to the less ideal aspects of our physical beings. We should mark it as a future anniversary."
"The anniversary of the first time you told me I drool in my sleep? Swell." Jackson rolled his eyes as he started to lift the tray of breakfast foods so he could slip out from underneath them.
"Hey, where are you going?" Finn objected.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"So you can brush your teeth and do away with your morning breath?"
"Maybe," Jackson huffed, not quite meeting Finn's eye. He knew this was making Jackson uncomfortable, which, to be honest, Finn found great enjoyment in. Jackson was still trying to put on a perfect façade, to make himself feel worthy of Finn which was crazy.
He'd been taken aback last week when Jackson had told him he thought he wasn't in his league. The comment had seemed farcical to him. Finn was the one out of his league. Not many people would consider Finn to be lacking in self-esteem, and for the most part they would be right. But Finn knew his strengths and weaknesses. He knew what he had to offer. He was charming and good looking, and rich, not to mention a well-seasoned and attentive lover. On the surface he could see how many people might assume he was out of their league. And for a night of epicurean enjoyment that could leave a person reeling with euphoria, he was out of most people's leagues. But that was all it was; smoke and mirrors and a night of carnal pleasures. He always left them wanting more because he didn't have any more to offer. Finn was fun and captivating, but he lacked depth.
Jackson though, Jackson was nothing but depth. Well, not nothing. The man was indeed a site for sore eyes, though Finn was aware he'd grown into his looks later in life and still saw himself as the skinny, glasses wearing geek he was known as in junior high. But even with those lips that made Finn drool, even with the strong, square jaw, and the broad shoulders that could bench press a hundred kilo, Jackson was not enigmatically charismatic. He was awkward and bumbling and slightly withdrawn; at least he was until he got in his zone; that's where he really shone. Because Jackson was nothing if not passionate; a passionate lover, a passionate friend, a passionate advocate for others. He was ambitious and determined. He was intelligent and perceptive. Jackson was kind yet tough. Jackson was all depth and Finn was all fluff.
And so, in the beginning, Finn had been more than confident in his abilities to woo the boy into his bed. But keeping him there, that was a different story all its own.
"Maybe I like your morning breath," he argued.
"Ew."
"What?" Finn laughed. "You've kissed me with morning breath." Since Jackson was always the first one up, he always had time to go brush his teeth before Finn awoke. But Finn was not usually afforded such time.
"Yeah, because I was desperately trying to please you so you wouldn't get bored of me and kick me out of bed; not because I liked it."
"And now you don't care if I bore of you and kick you out of bed?"
"Ehh," Jackson shrugged, "we've had a good run."
Finn laughed, reaching up to slide his fingers into Jackson's hair and guide his head down to meet his. He pressed their lips ardently together, slipping his tongue into Jackson's mouth to let them tangle for a few moments before breaking apart. "Your morning breath does not scare me. Nor does your drool. But if it will make you feel better, go…brush." He took the tray from Jackson's lap and placed it in his own, tearing off a piece of chocolate croissant and letting it melt in his mouth as he watched his man wander off to the bathroom in nothing but his boxers.
When Jackson returned a few minutes later, he grabbed the newspaper which still sat at the foot of the bed before crawling back under the covers to join Finn.
"Really?" Finn asked. "You went to all that trouble to get minty fresh breath and the first thing you do when you get back is go for the newspaper?"
"I'm a journalist, it's my job to keep up with the news."
"You work too much," Finn informed him matter-of-factly. "And it's Sunday."
"Exactly," Jackson pointed out. "It's Sunday. This is the Sunday Times. It's the most important paper of the entire week."
Finn rolled his eyes but relented. He could read articles as long as he didn't go trying to write any. "Fine, you can have your newspaper," Finn replied with disgust, but then proceeded to pluck it out of Jackson's hands anyway. "But I'm taking the Culture Magazine. I need to find out the latest on Robsten." He removed the magazine insert and handed the paper back. He noticed Jackson roll his eyes as he did so. "You got something against Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart?" Finn asked.
"Not at all," Jackson assured him as he immediately started scanning the headlines on the front page to see what he wanted to read first. "I hope they're very happy together."
They read in relative silence for all of about ten minutes before Finn started to get antsy. He didn't want to spend his Sunday morning in bed with his boyfriend reading, he wanted to get to the good stuff. "I'm bored," Finn huffed.
"I haven't even finished reading about the plummeting rice prices and what it means for Japanese farmers."
"Wow, I'm not even the one reading it and I'm bored."
"What about Robsten?" Jackson asked.
"They're not in here. Even the New York Times Culture section is boring. It's all book reviews and famous physicists. Like anyone cares about the personal life of physicists," he scoffed.
"I'm sure there's got to be something good in there to read," Jackson protested.
"There's not," Finn insisted, spreading the pages out in front of them. "Look at this, it's all boring." He pointed at the article in front of him without even really seeing what it was. "Boring!" he stated. He flipped the page and pointed again. "Boring." He continued flipping even though it was clear Jackson had moved on to trying to ignore him. "Boring, boring, boring, bor…" He stopped mid-word staring at the picture in front of him. A picture that was most definitely not boring. And under other circumstances, he might even be excited, nay…gleeful, at the site that stared up at him. But this wasn't other circumstances, and he wasn't gleeful. He felt a creeping sensation of dread inching up the back of his neck.
"What is it?" Jackson asked, glancing over out of the corner of his eye. "Did Brangelina break up?"
Finn didn't answer, which must have caught Jackson's attention. Finn wasn't seeing anything but the picture in front of him, but he knew the moment that Jackson saw it too. He felt the man by his side tense up and his breathing get shallow. He pried his eyes away from the magazine to see Jackson staring down at the photo of the two very familiar faces locked in a rather obscene looking embrace—at least for the middle of a public sidewalk. Jackson's nostrils flared uncontrollably as he finally managed to grind out a few words…"I'm going to kill them."
AN: Okay friends, do not for one minute expect me to believe you can't think of anything to say in a review about THIS chapter. That was quite a ride we just went on. Between Logan admitting he wants to be with Rory to yet ANOTHER Rogan lip-lock, to Mitchum threatening his own daughter and granddaughter at a mall on Long Island, to some AMAZING JackFinn fluff ending in the big reveal that Mitchum released the pictures of Rory and Logan kissing to a rival newspaper. There was waaaaay too much happening for you to not have anything to say so please, please, please leave me a review.
Also, a couple other things I wanted to mention based on reviews I got.
1) I know it seems like this article is taking a long time but it's been less than 2 months which is not actually a long time for this kind of investigative piece.
2) I know a lot of you are wondering what Jackson looks like and I will tell you now that he is 10000000000% based off of the journalist Ronan Farrow (AKA Mia Farrow's Satchel). I make no apologies for this total rip off. So now you know what to imagine when you're reading.