I’ve been filming Maximoff Hale long enough on We Are Calloway to know he isn’t judgmental. He’s empathetic to a fault. But he does get in his head a lot. So if Charlie is saying his cousin would over-analyze everything his sister writes, then he’s probably right.
But I don’t know if that’s what Charlie is saying.
And I don’t know how to ask him to clarify without a leading question. So I stop asking. We’re not shooting right now, anyway.
Charlie sticks his cigarette between his lips. “Car’s here.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
“It’d be better if I knew the location,” I say, hoping to have some idea. I can hear my crew complaining and griping already.
“I never said I’d be easy to work with.”
“But me filming you is also helping you somehow, right?” I say lightly, trying to be friendly about this. “So let’s help each other, Charlie.”
He relents. Partially. And just tells me, “We’re going out of the country.”
Shit.
Fuck, I didn’t even pack a bag.
“Bye, Jack!” Luna calls from the stage. She waves with Tom, who yells goodbye to Oscar.
I make the shaka brah hand gesture, and then Oscar and I turn to each other.
Oscar adjusts his earpiece. “Told you to grab a toothbrush before we left, Long Beach.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Some days, I wish I were.”
It’s beginning to be clear that diving into Charlie’s life means I’ve just put myself in the passenger seat to Oscar Oliveira’s.
8
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
After talking with the flight crew, I gather enough information about the spontaneous trip.
Destination: Paris.
Me: Unshocked.
The small private jet hums, and I pass Jack a Gatorade from the cooler on the wall. We sit across from each other at one of the tables. I glimpse over my shoulder to check on my client. Charlie sleeps three rows back, a Cobalt Diamonds-branded mask covers his eyes and bright pink earplugs cancel out all noise.
Jack follows my gaze, and I meet his eyes when I turn back to him. “He’s got the right idea,” I say. “You should get some sleep now, if you can.” He couldn’t have slept that much after Charlie and I left his apartment. He had to meet me at my studio in New York like two seconds later this morning. And since then, we’ve been on-the-go chasing Charlie’s shadow.
He uncaps the Gatorade and takes a swig. “It doesn’t annoy you that he keeps you in the dark?”
I rarely talk about Charlie. With anyone. It feels too personal.
My reservations must be written all over my face because Jack winces. “I’m not asking as a producer of a show,” he clarifies. “I’m just…asking as a friend.”
I laugh a little. “Is that what we’re calling this?” I dig in my backpack and pull out a bag of Doritos. Snacks are a bodyguard’s best friend. Charlie and I keep overnight bags on the plane for his impulsive trips, and I almost wish I knew Jack would be joining. I would’ve packed more clothes for him.
Then again, Highland loves to wear my clothes. And I’d be a Liar with a capital L if I said I didn’t like him in them.
Jack frowns. “What would you call us?”
Us.
That word spasms my muscles like I just got zapped in an electric fence.
“Co-workers,” I answer. “Production. Security. We’re not employed by the same company, but we deal with the same rich, white east coast families, blue-check-marked and verified WASPs.”
“Co-workers,” he repeats like it’s settling in.
“Yeah,” I nod.
“Do you ask all your co-workers for a kiss?” he shoots back.
I smile, trying not to disintegrate in my seat from this conversation. “Only the cute ones,” I say, popping a chip in my mouth. As smooth as that was, I regret it. Oliveira, stop flirting with the straight boy. Holy fucking shit, I’m hopeless.
My phone rings, a saving grace really. Thank the Lord for in-air Wi-Fi.
Caller ID: Donnelly
I nod up to Jack. “Sorry, I’ve got to answer this.”
“Yeah, no problem, dude. I’m just going to take your advice.” He gives me a smile, and it takes me a second to realize what Jack means. And then I see him pop in a couple earbuds and close his eyes.
I retreat to the jet’s bathroom, which resembles a fancy powder bathroom with a rose gold faucet and a shiny rose gold toilet. As a kid, I was just happy to be on a commercial plane flying international to Brazil. That was and still is a luxury for a lot of people.
But this, this is like a fantasy made for royalty, and I know for me and a lot of security, it’s cool to be a part of it all. Especially guarding the Cobalt Empire, the epitome of lavish extravagance. But we’re here first and last because we care about the lives of the families.
I take a seat on the shut toilet lid, a comfortable amount of room here. “Hey.” I press the phone to my ear. “What’s going on? You alright?” We haven’t spoken since his vague text this morning. Sun has set, and we’re scheduled to land in Paris tomorrow.
I’m more on edge knowing I left the country before getting answers from Donnelly. But I trust if something is really wrong and time sensitive, Farrow would’ve checked in with me.
For a lot of reasons, I have a love-hate feeling towards Donnelly not being Beckett’s bodyguard anymore. I wish he still were, but I’m also glad he’s not for his sake.
Blast to the past, Donnelly used to live with me in New York, while on Beckett’s detail, and if anyone asked, I’d probably say he’s the worst roommate and to give me someone else—just to fuck with him. But he’s not that bad. We saw each other every week. Almost every day.
I miss that.
It’s lonely being the only Omega bodyguard in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Yeah, yeah,” Donnelly replies. “I’m almost back in PA.” His South Philly lilt comes out strong. “Just made a mandatory pitstop at Wawa. Where you at?”
“Plane bathroom. Sitting on the rose gold shitter.”
He laughs lowly. “Charlie whisk you off to Neverland again?”
“Second star to the right.”
“Let me guess, let me guess. Dubai.”
“Way off, bro,” I say. “Paris.” We can play off each other to annoyance, just ask Farrow, and before we get carried away, I add, “I’m serious though. Why were you at the lake house this morning?”
“Yeah, about that…” Donnelly’s tone sobers. “I need to tell you before everyone else hears.”
My body goes cold. “Tell me what?”
“You know my Uncle Scottie?”
“Yeah…” I’m caging breath.
“I’ve been visiting him in prison, and I finally got him to let Farrow and Maximoff adopt Ripley. So I brought the papers to the lake house.”
“What?” I’m choked.
Emotion tunnels through me. Warring together. I clasp a hand over my eyes that well. Happiness for my best friend. Farrow and Maximoff are adopting their son. Deep weighted concern for my other best friend. What the hell did Donnelly do?
“Paul…” I scrape my hand from my eyes to my mouth, and my chest collapses. I don’t want to diminish the magnitude of what he did for Farrow, who’s practically the reason Donnelly is living and breathing—though Farrow will never say this to anyone.
I hear him sniff, choked too. “Don’t call me that, man. The name’s Donnelly.” His voice is trying to lighten.
“It’s amazing…what you gave him.” Motherfuck, I’m crying. I wipe my face. “But, bro, what’d you do?” My chin nearly shakes.
He comes from a meth-addicted family. All of them are in prison, except for his father who was recently released.
All I can think is that he convinced Scottie to terminate his parental rights by agreeing to something. So what exactly did Donnelly agree to?
“It’s alright,” he says. “Like
I told Farrow, I’m good. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Now I’m worried,” I tell him. “He didn’t ask you to push drugs?”
“It’s not anything with drugs. I’m good. It’s all good. Nuthin’ I can’t handle.”
I rub my wet eyes and swallow the rock in my throat. “Can we do anything to help you? I get you keeping shit from Redford while he’s on his honeymoon, but I’m on a motherfucking plane. I can’t kick your ass if I’m in a different country. Bro, this is the perfect time to come clean.”
He laughs softly, but the noise fades.
Leaving heavy silence.
I close my eyes slowly, my grip on the cell intensifying. He’s not going to say anything. “Donnelly—”
“It was worth it.”
Is that the measure of our actions? Whether they’re worth something for the people we care about?
A text pings my phone the same time he says, “I’ve gotta go, Oscar. I’m on-duty soon, and I need to check in with Thatcher.”
“Call me tomorrow?”
“Sure thing. Hey, have a crepe for me. Miss those fuckers.” Only Donnelly would call a crepe a fucker.
We say our short goodbyes, and I check my text messages.
Cancelled the Craigslist meet-up. Still looking around for places. Know anyone in NYC? – Baby Sis
I mutter to myself, “What is it with these teenagers and Craigslist.” Between her and Tom, Christ. I formulate a text. I already called my sister and talked her out of the Craigslist roommate.
And I learned she doesn’t want to live at home anymore because she’s A.) nineteen, and B.) employed as a pro-boxer, and C.) sick of our strict dad who pushes her too much as her trainer and father.
Mostly, it’s C.
Her going head-to-head with our dad concerns me, so I want her out of there too. It’d be healthier for both of them.
Which is why I said, come live with me, again.
She said, you live down the hall from the most obnoxious Cobalt boy. I’ll pass. I thought she meant Charlie, but then she told me, Beckett.
I love that she hates him because he’s been trying to hit on my sister since Scotland. And I know what kinds of clubs Beckett goes to, and I don’t want my baby sis anywhere near that.
Right now, I send her a new text: I know one person in NYC who has a place. Me. Offer is still open. And the apartment is all paid for. You can take the bed. I’ll take the pull-out.
Will it be inconvenient? Yeah.
But there are some inconveniences that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s a bed, not a college diploma I’m forsaking.
I’m about to put my phone away, but I rub the wet streaks off my face with my shirt and decide to take my mind off everything for a few minutes.
Popping open Instagram, I scroll through Faith’s profile. I’ve been seeing her off and on for the past couple months. Nothing serious. Her hair is dyed a pale purple, and she blows kisses with her hand in most of the pics. No captions, just a couple heart emojis.
Sleeping with her has been fun, but that’s all it really is. Nothing there beyond the surface. Against my sanity, I click out of her profile and type in Jack’s username.
I may have dug around for that info.
JackStuckOnThe405 pops up. His profile is curated with beautiful landscape shots of Philly and LA, but it’s his selfies that get me. His bone structure is can’t-tear-your-eyes-away stunning, and I’m almost shocked he’s never been an actual model considering all the time he’s been in the industry in California.
I skim his bright hundred-watt smile.
I grin back, then cringe.
Holy shit, I’m torturing myself.
I log out of Instagram.
Fuck this.
I delete the app.
I’m about to vacate the bathroom when I remember something. Benji Strong.
Jack keeps surprising me. His confession about his porn star crush as a teenager almost annihilated me. Never heard of the guy though.
I could…do some research…
Alright, this is the last time I check up on anything Jack-related. After this, he’s not allowed to take up space in my brain.
Quickly, I type in Benji Strong’s name in a popular porn site.
Gay.
Gay porn.
XXX GAY PORN.
Tags to the videos. The actual video titles are more graphic: Big Cock Bangs Twink. Benji is definitely the big cock.
I grin into a laugh.
His build is…hmm, we’re similar. Not vein-popping bodybuilders, but toned and cut. And the entertainment of this new information slowly fades as reality sinks in.
Benji is a gay porn star. Jack watched gay porn as a teenager.
Blood rushes down south, my body ready to jump his bones. Ready to explore Jack and see what’s hidden under his clothes, and deeper. To feel his leg slide against mine while I pin him to the bed and fuck him good—yeah, I’m ready.
But really, this doesn’t change anything but my attraction to him. Ramping up to the hundredth degree.
He’s still straight.
A straight boy that watches gay porn. Or used to watch it. I wonder if he still does.
Wow, I sure know how to fall for them.
9
JACK HIGHLAND
Steam fogs up the shower, water slowly gliding down my temples. Dazed, head light and heady, heat cocoons my limbs. Shutting off the faucet, I grab a towel draped over the glass shower and tie the fabric around my waist. Still drifting, floating, a swelter pricking my nerves.
I shift…a little conscious that…I’m…this is a dream, but I relax and sink back into the thick, steaming warmth.
Quietly, I step onto the cold bathroom tiles, and I look up.
Oscar perches against the sink, coolly. Towel slung over his shoulder. Drawstring pants low on his waist, abs glistening…he’s wet from the shower.
His curly hair is damp, the strands brushing his forehead. Already showered, he’s in the bathroom with me. My dick rouses, pulsing for a need. A hunger for him, and I stroke his body with my eyes. He undresses me with his gaze, even though I’m already buck-naked.
I can barely move, blood pumping in my erection. Like he’s already fisting my length. But fog and space separate us, and so I walk over to him in that heady daze.
Dreaming.
Shut that out, dude. I want to see what happens. I want to feel it.
My eyes trace his unshaven jaw, heartrate skipping, and I whisper, “How does this work?”
Oscar grips my hardness with the assuredness I need, and breath hitches in my throat. I clutch his waist, firm muscles beneath my palm.
Our mouths edge nearer, nearer. Ask me again, Oscar. I choke out, “Ask me.”
He pumps me in a pace that swells arousal, vapor and a tormenting desire wrapping around me. With my other hand, I clasp his hard jaw, but I can barely feel him in my clutch.
Dreaming…just a dream.
“Ask me,” I choke out again, our mouths grazing but not touching. Ask me if I want to be kissed.
His hoarse, deep voice says something against my lips. I can’t hear him, and I’m dying under the almost-there, the so-close, the one-breath-away of this moment. This second.
“Long Beach…” My nickname is faint.
I glance down at my cock and watch his large hand tug me. Shockwaves ripple through my muscles, my veins, my head—I’m spinning and a groan erupts from my throat.
“Long Beach.”
I jolt awake.
Oscar shakes my shoulder, standing in the aisle of the private jet. Our eyes meet, and a new type of heat bathes me. Mortified.
I’m on the plane. I fell asleep on the plane and had a fucking sex dream! Dude, dude, dude, Jack. I’m a smooth operator. I flirt, date, and sleep with women without tripping, but around him lately, I want to go for a dive and end up belly-flopping.
Again, mortified.
“We’re about to land,” Oscar says, his hand stil
l on my shoulder and we both suddenly zone in on that fact, his breath and my breath stilted. He pulls back, but no lie, I wish he wouldn’t.
Did he hear me groan?
Oscar has a black bandana, already rolled, and begins to tie it around his forehead. “If you need to use the bathroom, now’s your chance.” His eyes dip for half a second. To my crotch.
I glance down. Oh, fuck, Jesus, I have a boner. I’m rock-hard, the outline of my cock pressing against my dark jeans.
And I was worried that he heard me groan. Shit. I shoot to my feet. Embarrassment deflating me more. “Yeah, thanks for the heads up.”
He grins, hopefully just at my choice of words. “Hey, it happens to the best of us.” He pats my shoulder, and again, the placement of his hand on me catches our breath.
I stare at his hand for a second too long. That hand was just wrapped around my shaft, and it’s not just an act I want to stay in my head.
I’m not straight.
I can’t be straight with how drawn to him I’ve been. With how aroused I become, and the attraction is too clear to deny or question. Those clouds are gone.
But the endgame of my future is nothing but a fog. My life’s plan—what does that even look like now? I’m used to having the big picture mapped out. High school. Prom King. College. Swim Team. Producer. Wife. Children. Awards. Happiness. Retirement. More happiness.
I’ve erased essential parts of my map! But the fuck if I even know what a map is anymore. Or maybe, I’ve added question marks to it. Husband? Or wife? Or spouse? Children???
What even is my sexuality if I’m not straight…I don’t know.
Oscar drops his hand.
I slide out into the aisle, catching his eyes. I think about work. I’m here to film Charlie, and I can’t open the floodgates to me and Oscar in this moment—that’s if he’d even want me.
I need to play off what just happened. So I say, “What is that you told me? I don’t need an emotional baby blanket. Same goes for me, Oscar. Treat me how you’d treat any of your other co-worker non-friends.”
He nods slowly. “Nice woodie,” he says casually.
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 8
