Page 38 of Your Pace or Mine (Running for the Romance #1)

Jamie was dreading what he would say. He had never thought Jonathan was a bad guy, per se. He was a well-respected agent and had been with Jamie for a while. They weren’t friends, though, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he’d have his back in this situation.

Jamie sat cross-legged on a bench in Sloane Square, trying to calm his tears enough to make the call.

He forced himself to take a few sips from his water bottle and work through the grounding techniques his parents had drilled into him as a kid.

Five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can touch. Breathe in, breathe out.

Convinced he was as calm as he was going to get under the circumstances, he picked up his phone and dialled.

“Parsons and Associates, how may I direct your call?” a bubbly secretary Jamie hadn’t spoken to before answered.

“Oh, it’s, I’m calling for Jonathan, it’s Jamie, he was trying to get hold of me, but I was on the tube and—“ He stopped himself. He was rambling, and this poor girl didn’t need his life story.

“One moment, please. I’ll transfer you,” she replied professionally.

Jamie was grateful for the brief reprieve of the hold music, but before long, Jonathan was on the other end of the line, and he did not sound pleased.

“What the actual fuck, Carter?”

“I take it I didn’t book it then?” Jamie joked weakly.

“Don’t even joke about that right now,” Jonathan raged. “I don’t even understand what would possess you to—you’re so talented, Jamie, why can’t you just suck it up and do what needs to be done?”

“Wait, you can’t possibly be suggesting I—“ Jamie tried to ask, but was steamrolled by Jonathan’s tirade.

“Just show up, do what you’re asked and leave. It’s dance, Jamie, not rocket science, and I bent over backwards to get you this shot after you bailed the other night, you’re fucking yourself over, which means you’re fucking me over, and I don’t like that, Jamie, I really don’t.”

“Jonathan, with all due respect, are you fucking saying what I think you are right now?” Jamie asked as he stood, walking briskly towards the tube station.

Jonathan faltered only slightly at Jamie’s tone.

“You never had a problem with this before. I don’t see why you can’t just put your pride aside one more time to save your damn career?

I told Stephen you could be discreet now, Carter.

And instead, you’re cussing him out and making a scene like a fucking diva. ”

“What did you tell him?” Jamie asked, voice dangerously low.

“Oh, don’t be so fucking na?ve, Jamie. He wanted to take you on tour with him again. What do you bloody well think?”

“So when he offered to give me the role then and there and use his ‘influence in the industry’ if I was willing to be a ‘team player’ and ‘demonstrate my commitment to him,’ you’d already told him that was a done deal? That I’d be up for that? I was in a relationship, Jonathan.”

“Well, from what I’ve read over the past couple of days, that’s pretty past tense,” Jonathan replied.

“Wow. Fuck you, Jonathan. I was hoping we could talk this through and that you’d tell me you’ve got my back.

Tell me it was a mistake, that Stephen is a fucking creep, and I won’t be auditioning for him again.

But fuck that, just tell me whether or not my career is over because of this Jonathan.

But if this is how you want to operate, then we’re done here either way. ”

“Jamie, I’m sorry to inform you that Parsons and Associates has taken the decision to terminate your contract in light of this situation.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re dropping me ?“ Jamie stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, a businessman in a suit and leather wingtips, swearing as he nearly toppled over him from behind.

“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Jonathan said, sounding at least slightly more human. “You’ve got a reputation now, and if you aren’t prepared to lean into it, then I don’t see a direction for us moving forward.”

“So I’m done then?” Jamie asked, his voice small as the weight of what this truly meant hit him. He was really finished.

Jonathan sighed, for the first time sounding almost like the man Jamie’d signed with fresh out of school. “Look, if I were you, I’d try cruise ships.”

“So I can sing show tunes to pensioners for the rest of my days,” Jamie said glumly.

“Sorry, Jamie, you’re costing me money at this point. I can’t keep you on the books.”

He didn’t sound particularly sorry to Jamie.

“Whatever,” Jamie mumbled and ended the call.

He shrugged his bag higher on his shoulder and slowly walked down the steps into the station, back to the crumbling flat in Mile End that he could barely afford.

He felt like a fraud. Everything he’d worked for was slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t have a Plan B, not really.

Just a few days ago, Jamie had felt like he was on top of the world. He’d felt ready for the marathon, he’d had a shot at another major tour, and he’d been hopelessly, desperately in love.

Now…

Darius might never want to see him again, and he’d be right not to.

His career was over, and he had to reckon with the fact that everything that had gone wrong was his fault.

It all came down to who he was, who he had been.

Because he had used people. Used them to get ahead, and he’d have carried on doing it if it hadn’t all backfired on him.

Even then, he hadn’t even really thought of it as wrong, not until it had cost him Darius.

Not until it had been laid out before him in all its ugliness, none of the shiny veneer of hints and flirtations he’d always operated with.

Jamie was finally seeing himself for who he truly was. And he didn’t like it one bit.

The following days were meaningless to Jamie. He gave perfunctory greetings to his flatmates, who barely acknowledged him in return. Such was their relationship, and it was better that way— the last thing he needed was someone questioning why he hadn’t left his bed in a week.

He holed up under the covers in his room, torturing himself through a rotation of reading recent articles featuring what a piece of shit he was, scrolling through pictures of him and Darius together, and checking his bank balance.

In his best moments, he raged against it all. Against the industry, against the press, against society. Even against Darius for believing the worst of him.

He turned down work covering for a dance teacher at a local studio, which he really couldn’t afford to do, but he had no will to leave his flat.

His steadily depleting bank balance told him he either needed to get off his arse and do something or man up and call his parents for help—but he refused to do that. Refused to do anything.

Above all, he refused to run.

He texted the group chat, noting with a hint of sadness the most recent line that said Darius Hewitt had left the chat.

Jamie

I’m dropping out. Don’t wait for me at the start. Good luck, you’ll all smash it.

Then he left the chat too, before anyone could convince him otherwise.

On the fifth day of Jamie’s self-imposed isolation, after ignoring six calls from Reggie, a handful from everyone in his running group (except Mark, but he was a wanker), two from his parents and one that was probably a spam number, there was a knock on his door.

“There’s some bloke here to see you,” his flatmate called from the other side of the door, and Jamie’s heart skipped a beat.

He knew logically that it couldn’t possibly be Darius, but deep down, he was still holding onto that little sliver of hope.

Hope that he could explain everything and that it would all be ok, hope that they could find their way back to each other and live happily ever after.

“Bloody hell, Jamie! Get out of bed and in the shower right now,” Reggie’s voice interrupted Jamie’s internal pity party.

“God, this is vile.” Reggie scrunched his nose as he took in the empty ramen containers that were scattered around the room.

“Consider this an intervention, Jay.” He pulled the duvet off of Jamie and dragged him bodily from his bed.

“You’re not going to fix anything by lying here surrounded by your own filth. ”

Jamie protested weakly but didn’t put up much of a fight as he was marched into the bathroom to shower. By the time he returned, Reggie had tidied up his room and laid out a set of joggers and a T-shirt on his bed. “Come on, we’re going for a shake-out run and then getting food.”

“You made me shower before going out jogging? Seems counterproductive,” Jamie protested. “Besides, I don’t need to shake anything out. I’m not doing the marathon.”

“Yes, you fuckin’ are, you div. But no way in hell I was running next to you like that, smelling like the arse-end of Runcorn on a warm day.

” Reggie grinned. “Now let’s go, you have me at your full disposal for the next four hours.

We’re going to figure everything out, set the world to rights and all that. ”

“I don’t think four hours is enough, Reg,” Jamie sighed. “My life is over.”

“Nah, you just need some fresh air, now move it.”

Jamie would never admit it as long as he lived because Reggie would be fucking unbearable if he did, but things didn’t feel quite so dire once he was outside moving.

He jogged slowly alongside Reggie, his muscles protesting with every step, stewing in his thoughts.

Reggie, for his part, seemed content to guide their jog and let Jamie work through whatever was going on in his head.

They ran through the streets of Stratford.

Jamie kept his pace steady, his breath clouding in the brisk morning air as he jogged.

The paths in Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park were quiet, the kind of calm he rarely sought but always appreciated when he found it.

Reggie jogged a step ahead, grinning like he had a secret.

“You’re unusually chipper for someone running alongside a pathetic, talentless sex addict,” Jamie said, glancing over.