Chapter 6
Jackson
As they make their way down the hall, Jackson takes a moment to appreciate the view.
The executive assistant’s posture is ramrod straight, suit neatly pressed, and from behind, those pants are doing wonders for him.
Damn, Jackson thinks, biting his lip. He’s so buttoned-up, vibrating with tension, that Jackson would love to be the one to undo him… figuratively, of course.
“Right through here,” the guy says, opening the door to an office that looks like it was last renovated during the Clinton administration: all painted concrete block and humming fluorescent strip light.
A single golden pothos languishes on the windowsill, sending out runners like it’s looking for a more hospitable home.
Somehow it still smells faintly of fish, even all the way up here.
Jackson takes the guest chair, waiting to be offered coffee or water. Maybe the chance to flirt. Could I get your number instead? floats through his mind. But before he can deliver the line, the guy hustles behind the other side of the desk.
“So, uh, where do you want to start?” he says.
That immediately throws Jackson off his game.
According to the photo on the company website, Ben Whitaker, the self-described ‘Seafood Packaging and Processing King of the Eastern Seaboard,’ was a man in his late fifties with dark hair giving way to gray at the temples.
This fresh-faced blond definitely isn’t that.
“Sorry. I’m actually here to interview Ben Whitaker. ”
The guy looks like he’d rather dissolve into the upholstery than face whatever’s next.
“Right… so, that would be me. Ben Whitaker. The Third.” He rather helplessly holds up three fingers for emphasis.
“My father is Ben Whitaker Jr.” He hesitates.
“I realize it can be confusing. He’s out of town this week, though. ”
“Oh. So I’m getting the Fish Prince instead of the Seafood King?” Jackson jokes lightly.
The flick of Ben’s eyes to his watch is fast, but not fast enough to hide the wince. “Sure.”
Usually nepotism gives people a lot more unearned confidence than this. Ben Whitaker III seems like he might crumple like a styrofoam cup if you put the slightest pressure on him. None of this is remotely funny to him.
Jackson recalibrates, a little softer, a little more formal. “Really, it’s no problem, Mr. Whitaker. Thanks for fitting me in on short notice.”
That seems to do the trick. Ben’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch, and Jackson presses on with his reporter spiel. “I’m writing a piece on local businesses. Whitaker Seafood’s a huge part of this community. Figured it deserved the spotlight.”
“We’re always happy to support the Gazette, Mr. James,” Ben says, textbook polite. “I’m sure my father will appreciate the attention on the plant.”
Jackson notes that carefully. My father will appreciate. “Absolutely,” he says, paging open his notepad. “So give me the scoop: how long has the plant been in operation?”
Ben clears his throat, shifting into full company-spokesman mode.
“We were the first processing plant in Silver Shoals. Opened in ’95, started small, then grew fast. My grandfather was a fisherman, and back then, people had to haul their catch to Chatham or Brant.
My dad saw an opportunity and built this place from the ground up.
” It sounds like a memorized speech, almost verbatim from the ‘About Us’ page on their website.
Jackson scribbles a few notes. “And what’s your official role?”
“I’m the Production Manager. My dad likes to joke that every fish that goes out the door should have my signature on it,” Ben says with a nervous laugh, like he’s repeating a line he’s heard a hundred times too many.
“Must be hard living up to that legacy.”
Something sparks in those wide blue eyes, charged with new energy.
“It can be, yeah. But it’s not just about our past. I think we also need to be looking forward, you know?
Modernizing….” Suddenly, Ben seems to realize he’s ad-libbing and clamps right back up, cheeks tinted pink.
“Anyway, I’m proud of what we’ve built here, and my part in it. It’s the backbone of the town.”
He was about to say something interesting, Jackson thinks, before retreating into the company line. He takes care to keep his expression neutral, even as the sight of color in Ben’s cheeks sets something humming under his own skin.
“I’m sure you do a lot of good,” Jackson says, tone casual but questing. “Especially this time of year. Why don’t you walk me through some of that?”
Ben brightens. “We sponsor the soup kitchen year-round by donating part of the catch. I even dish out chowder every Sunday. And we organize meal baskets for families in need. There’s also our annual toy drive at Christmas and…
” He’s well-rehearsed as he goes on, but his genuine pride comes through.
Beneath the slightly forced corporate smile, this sweet ball of nerves clearly wants to do good.
Of course, sometimes the do-gooders are pushed on by a guilty conscience.
Eventually, Ben winds down. “Was that… helpful?” Ben asks, voice hopeful, like he’s waiting for a grade. The sincerity’s so naked it makes Jackson feel a little like a conman for loading up his next question. You don’t give the cute ones a pass though.
“Absolutely. It’s great content.” Jackson offers what he knows is a disarming smile, pen tapping lightly against his notepad. “So, you mentioned modernizing a minute ago. I’m curious how that translates to, say… sustainability. Waste management, that kind of thing.”
The shift isn’t dramatic: a slight rigidness of the spine, a quick flick of Ben’s gaze back to his watch.
But it’s enough to register that the conversation has suddenly veered onto shaky ground.
“There’s nothing unusual about our waste management,” Ben says primly.
“We handle it like any other processing plant.”
Jackson doodles a little fish skeleton in the margins of his notebook, letting the silence hang until it’s thick enough that Ben, well-bred and mannered to a fault, can’t help filling it.
He pastes on a brittle smile. “We do everything required by law.”
“Of course.”
“I just…I don’t see why this needs to be part of the article.”
If they don’t want it in print, it’s probably news, as the adage goes.
“It’s not necessarily in the article. I’m just asking questions, Mr. Whitaker,” Jackson says, keeping his face pleasantly clueless.
“That’s my job. I will remind you that you are on the record, so probably best not to say things like ‘I don’t see why this needs to be part of the article. ’ People forget that.”
“There just isn’t much to say on the subject. The plant is fully compliant with any and all environmental regulations,” Ben says tightly. His attempt at control barely masks the panic bleeding through. He’s clearly imagining the fallout: bad press, misquotes, a disappointed call from his father.
“Then you don’t think anything happening at this plant would lead to higher mortality rates in marine life in the area?”
Ben’s mouth goes white at the corners.
“No. I don’t.”
Then Ben glances at his watch. Again.
“Am I keeping you from something more important?” Jackson can’t quite hide his annoyance, even as he’s committing the cardinal sin of giving an interviewee an out.
“No. I mean, yes,” Ben says, clearly warring with being polite and absolutely not wanting to answer any more of Jackson’s questions about their waste handling practices. “I mean, I’m just extremely busy this week, managing everything while my father’s away.”
Jackson masks a little smirk. “I’m sure you are. I guess I’ll let you get back to your kingdom, then, Fish Prince.” He enjoys the way Ben’s cheeks flame in response.
That heat doesn’t make it to his voice, which has gone icy. “Thank you for understanding.”
Jackson stands, not missing how Ben’s eyes follow him. He can’t resist one last nudge. “Can I call you later? You know, in case I have more questions?”
Ben’s throat bobs, and for a brief moment, Jackson imagines popping open the button on that starched collar. “I think we’re done, Mr. James. I don’t think there’s much of a story here for you.”
Jackson meets Ben’s stare. He tucks his notepad under his arm, feeling that pleasant buzz of curiosity mixed with something hotter.
There’s something under the surface here.
The pinched corners of Ben Whitaker III’s mouth make him all but certain.
“I usually let my readers decide that for me. I’ll be in touch. ”
He turns on his heel, holding back a grin. Whatever Golden Boy’s hiding, professionally, personally, or otherwise, Jackson plans on finding out.