Hard Pressed

Chapter 1 Phillip Drake walked into the room, interrupting a conversation. He hadn’t knocked, and he hadn’t asked anyone’s permission, but deliberately so—he loved what he could catch people doing when he broke the rules of morality like that. He caught the end of one sentence: “…going to do this?” then the beginning of another: “We…” The first speaker was one Nick Sandford, the second, Alex Lasseter. Both men were actors, colleagues, and—if Phillip wasn’t mistaken—lovers. Not that he ever doubted his intuition, but he’d tailed them for weeks, his persistence finally paying off. The hopeful, happy look fell from Nick’s face. Alex’s expression turned stony. The man was in the process of buttoning his jacket, but Phillip caught a glimpse of dark patches on his shirt. They looked like wet splashes. Two men alone in a room with no drinks around that he could see; now what kind of spillage could occur under those circumstances? Hmm… Phillip flicked his gaze between the two men, gleaning everything he needed to know from their expressions and body language. These two were here to announce something about a new film, something to do with the fast-rising star who was the director of their latest joint project: Robert King. Phillip believed he knew what that something was, but he’d struggled to find actual proof. That wasn’t like him, and he didn’t like to be off his game. It made him bad-tempered, made him want to lash out. “Care to make an official statement, gentlemen, or shall I just ask my questions in the midst of the conference?” He watched for, and saw, the calculation that flitted through their eyes—whether to put on a bold front or to uphold their denials. “No comment,” Alex said. The expression on Nick’s face replied for him. Although Phillip expected Alex to keep his cool demeanour, to see Nick’s mien turn to anger instead of despair was new. He was so used to Nick’s ‘trapped-in-the-headlights’ stare that, oddly, he missed it. Disappointed, he asked, “Really?” “No comment because there’s nothing to comment about.” “I see.” Phillip set his briefcase down on the table, opened it and reached in. Having extracted what he wanted, he flipped back the cover of an old-fashioned reporter’s notepad. He owned more up-to-date devices, but he loved the feel of real paper and a pen in his hand. The physical connection often helped him to think. He began reeling off dates, times, and places of when Nick had gone to Alex’s house, or Alex to his. For the first time, the two men displayed signs of wavering confidence. Alex’s glance at Nick spoke of concern, although clearly Alex Lasseter also felt unsettled. An unexpected twinge gave Phillip a jolt. The thought of how he would feel if he were the one some reporter was chasing—he ignored the idea of stalking—flashed through his mind then vanished. This was his job. People wouldn’t want him to gather information if it wasn’t important to them. People needed to know because stories like Alex and Nick’s revealed things about their own lives. Some part of him honestly believed that; he just didn’t know when that idea had begun to shape his career—that and circumstances. Lost in his own thoughts, the information he rattled off from his notes came out rapid, like gunfire. Phillip barely heard the sound of his own voice until…“Hey!” Alex was a big man. Although Phillip was tall, he was slender. Not that size and stature had much to do with fighting off Alex—the man was strong. Alex’s hands curled into his lapels, propelling Phillip across the room. This wasn’t the first time he’d been manhandled. The memory of his first celebrity interview flashed into Phillip’s mind—some goon twisting his arm up his back, forcibly ejecting him from the property. He’d learned to twist out of many a grip, how to run, how to duck, especially since the time when a female celebrity had come after him with a frying pan. Usually these things were accompanied by expletives, so Alex’s silence made a change, disturbingly so. Still, Phillip didn’t feel as shocked as he might have. A moment passed before he registered that his beloved notebook had fallen from his hands. The meeting rooms in this hotel had some built-in storage—cabinet space for coats and sundries. Alex dragged him to one, but by the time Phillip understood why, Alex had already shoved him inside. Phillip clung to the door frame, doing his best to resist the force that was Alex, part of his head, his hands, and feet the only things still sticking out into the room. He’d never considered himself weak, but Alex Lasseter didn’t even break into a sweat. “What are you doing?” Phillip demanded. “Putting you in the closet,” Alex said. Another shove gave Phillip no option but to duck or bang his head. The door slammed shut in his face, and the lock clicked into place. Phillip heard Alex say something about a chair. Torn between banging on the wooden barricade and trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, Phillip dithered, figured a pause in conversation was one of them picking his notebook off the floor, and shouted, “I have all that info on my personal organiser. I have pictures, too.” That was out in the briefcase but that didn’t matter. If they stole that too, he had it all backed up in cloud storage. Instead of the rejoinder he expected, the conversation resumed; he pressed his ear to the door, trying to catch a snippet or two. “I’m ready if you are,” Alex said. The rest came through muffled. Nick replied, saying something about the press conference. Alex mentioned King by name. Then…silence. Phillip strained to hear, trying to work out whether the two men had left. Pushing against the door proved ineffectual. Giving it a kick only made the opening rattle. The tight space made it difficult for him to hurl his weight against the door, but he had to try. Ow! “Son of a—” Rubbing his now bruised shoulder, Phillip tried to turn, wincing when the action pulled a muscle in his side. Pain made him gasp, but the air he breathed in seemed to thicken. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he removed it with an angry swipe. He’d managed to put the fact that he was a little claustrophobic out of his mind until now. Could he suffocate? Of course he wouldn’t. The gap under the door was large enough to emit sufficient air. As much as Alex Lasseter likely wanted to strangle him right now, he didn’t believe asphyxiation had anything to do with the reason the man had bundled him in here. Phillip couldn’t blame Alex for his dislike of enclosed spaces. That was his father’s doing. Fighting old and very dark memories induced hysteria. A wild fit of giggles overtook him. If his family could see him now. Wouldn’t his father be proud? Got to be a man. Got to be hard. Only certain types of men are successes, son. You remember what’ll happen if I hear that nonsense. He cut the sound of his father’s voice dead, not wanting to let it take hold, knowing it would carry on, head towards other times and places, other things that bastard had said—worse, vile, sordid, hate-filled things. Besides, his father had been one to talk. Call himself a success? At what precisely? Using his fists? “f**k!” Phillip Drake let out several years of frustration in that one expletive. For a moment, he could almost visualise the curse detonating, blasting the door open. Unfortunately, no amount of swearing would help. It’s not a coffin, not a coffin. It’s a cupboard. You’ve been in worse. You’ll get out of here soon. You’re not…trapped. He took a deep breath, refusing to let the situation defeat him. Alex Lasseter had no way of knowing that shutting him up like this would affect him. Probably wouldn’t have cared if he did. Although on some level, that thought was unkind, Phillip could hardly blame the man if it were true. No one wanted hounding. In truth, Phillip was crap at his job. Or to be accurate, he was good at what he did, but even he knew that what he did started with a capital C. He’d never been able to hack it as a real reporter, so he’d succumbed to chasing insignificant celebrities, trying to air their dirty laundry just to prove his father wrong…and he’d failed miserably, too, because nothing he did could make his father proud. His mother was pleased for him, but that hardly compensated. She’d never told his father she was impressed, because she’d only ever stood up to his father in the most dire of circumstances…and sometimes not even then. Not that he blamed her…precisely. Nothing much eased the disapproval in the old sod’s eyes—same look that had been there…oh forever, but especially since… Again, Phillip silenced his internal monolog. He should no longer care whether his father had approved of him. If the man had lived long enough to see him shut up in a cupboard, or ‘closet’ like this, then he’d be swearing, going on about how his son was a disappointment to him. For some reason, the idea tickled Phillip’s funny bone…and his other bone come to that. He was getting a goddamned hard-on. How had that happened? The temptation to jerk off in the cupboard convinced Phillip he was going mad. Maybe Nick Sandford and Alex Lasseter were a celebrity story too many. His job had driven him insane. Call someone. He’d have rather got free without anyone knowing but needs must. Phillip sort through his pockets before he remembered dropping his phone into his briefcase. He kicked out in frustration, knowing it would do no good. Peering through the gap, he could see Alex had braced something in front, recalled the mention of a chair. He could throw himself at the door, and he’d probably get loose, eventually, or make noise and hope someone would come. Best to start with the noise, despite what it might do to his mental and emotional state. This wasn’t the first time he’d banged on a hard surface, shouting to be let out. His ego was plenty bruised. He didn’t need to add too many physical contusions. Sometime later, Phillip hurried along to the conference room, trying to straighten his hair and his suit. Someone had finally heard him banging with the shoe he’d removed. Telling the concerned man to Never mind, he’d taken the time to put his shoe back on, retrieve his belongings, and then hurried off to the meeting. A couple of startled glances told him he looked flushed, and a look in a mirror revealed that his appearance suggested he’d forgotten to have his jacket pressed. At least, unlike Alex Lasseter’s clothes, his carried no stains. His eyes were the worst; his gaze looked wide and haunted. A hand stopped him at the door. What the…? He glared at the security guard. “I’m Press.” “Your pass?” “My…?” Phillip looked down, made ineffectual patting motions over his torso, fished in his pockets. No pass. Gazing down the corridor as if he expected to find it right there on the carpet was plain stupid when he knew where it had to be—back there in that damn meeting room, if not the cupboard. He almost whined in desperation. “Look, you know who I am.” “Read your column all the time, sir.” “Well?” “Can’t let you in without a pass, sir.” “I have my NUJ card. I have my Metropolitan Police Press card.” Phillip opened his briefcase, sorted through, digging out the forms of ID, trying to shove them at the guard. “I can’t let you in without the accreditation issued by the organisers, sir.” Sometimes one only need look into a person’s eyes and know to give up. f*****g jobsworth. Swearing under his breath, Phillip hurried back the way he had come. At least the disagreement had taken the edge off his underlying terror. Being locked in a cupboard had freaked him out more than he’d realised. By the time he found the pass, made his way back, and ground his teeth down to stubs as the security guard made a show of examining the card under a microscope—or would have if he had one—Phillip almost threw himself into the room. His momentum even made him stumble. Gathering his composure, he gazed around. Nick and Alex were standing. He’d arrived just in time to see the two men glance his way. Alex said, “It’s a union we hope may quite possibly last the rest of our lives.” Phillip stood there watching—the other reporters falling over themselves trying to capture the best shot, to have their questions answered—feeling strangely numb. He should feel angry. That bastard had stolen his thunder, turned his revelations into yesterday’s news. Alex Lasseter had also laid hands on him. He’d forced old memories to resurface. He could have the guy arrested. He should… The other reporters tripped over their own feet as well as other obstacles and each other, and Phillip experienced a raw type of dissatisfaction. Just like in the cupboard, a wild humour threatened to overtake him. He smiled. He laughed. Seeing Alex and Nick looking his way, he pointed at them and then back to himself, mouthing the word, “Interview.” He wasn’t at all surprised when Alex gave a nod. Inadvertently, he’d just obtained an exclusive. Maybe he could save something from this debacle. For a brief time, Phillip Drake stood there, wondering whether he was talking about the news item, or his own life.