Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7)

by Krista Ritchie

  Instead, I’m grinning. “Long Beach, you’d bulldoze everyone?”

  He shares my smile. “You think I’m all sunshines and buttercups, but I’ve got a mean side.”

  I think about how he made an enemy out of the girl who hit on me, but I don’t bring it up. “You’re sucking on a lollipop, legitimately.”

  He smiles more, putting the sucker back in his mouth. “Who doesn’t like suckers, Oliveira? And you know, you say ‘legitimately’ a lot.”

  Guess I’m not the only one noticing habits. “I do,” I agree. And while I untie my bandana, I tell Jack, “I’d definitely like to see this mean side phenomenon.” Flirting again. Twenty points deducted from Slytherin.

  The Hale family would be so proud of my geeky ass thoughts.

  “What’s with the bandanas?” Jack wonders. “You always roll them so they don’t even keep the hair out of your face.”

  “Yeah, but it wicks away sweat.”

  He nods, thinking that’s my full answer.

  “I like how I look with them. And I look fucking hot. That’s my real answer, Highland.” Returning to the small box, I take out a handheld device and attach it to the doorframe.

  “What’s that?” Jack asks, shifting his sucker from the left to right side of his mouth with his tongue. Fuck, I wish he wouldn’t do that.

  I wet my lips and glance at the wall. “An alarm. It’ll alert me if the front door opens, and luckily, this is the only way in and out of the apartment. So while we’re out searching for Charlie, I’ll know if he comes back home.” Installing cameras here would be easier, but it’s too invasive. He deserves whatever privacy he has left as an American god.

  Jack studies me for a long beat. “You love the challenge of it all?”

  I’m a tactical badass, and Charlie is the one person who awakens a specific part of my brain. “I’d say it’s more the strategy of it all, and I’d love it more if I knew Charlie was safe.” I sweep him up and down. “You’re not breaking a sweat yourself.”

  He smiles brighter. “Sometimes I film Ryke Meadows free-solo. I’m not climbing beside him. Usually I’ll be at the top or on the ground doing drone shots, but watching that guy climb his full route with no rope, no harness…man, that’s stressful. This is a lower tier. Probably because you’re with me and you’ve gone through it all before.”

  Yeah, but not many guys on SFO would be okay with this situation. Lost a client. He’s out in the wilderness of a bustling city. No one to radio for backup. Knowing Jack and I have to find him. There is no alternative. No what if or maybe tomorrow.

  It’s a lot of fucking responsibility, and not everyone has the confidence to hack it.

  I glance at my watch. “Ten more minutes here, then we’re going to head to Le Chat Rouge. The show starts at nine.”

  There’s a good chance Charlie will be there. I’ve never known him to come to Paris and miss some type of performance, whether it’s theatre, the opera, or anything in between. Doing the numbers in my head, I realized the longest time has passed since he’s been to Le Chat Rouge, one of his favorite cabarets in the city.

  “And we can’t go in tees and jeans.” I open a baroque armoire.

  “You keep clothes here?” Jack stands up.

  “No, but I’m using his steamer.” One that Charlie never uses. Guy puts on wrinkled shirt after wrinkled shirt with zero care.

  I squat down and rifle through a shoebox where he keeps it. “Pro tip: don’t wear tees if you forget a bag.”

  Jack watches me. “Why is that?”

  I grab the steamer and go to my backpack on a Queen Anne chair, digging for clothes. “Let’s put it this way, I’d much rather be wearing workout clothes to chase down Charlie, but when I first got on his detail, I had to chase him into a three-star Michelin restaurant.” I unzip my backpack. “I didn’t pass dress code, and I had to find the nearest department store and buy a suit. By the time I did, he was gone. Went to the airport and flew to Anchorage. I was a real cranky ass over comms that night.” I pull out my suit.

  Turning around, I face Jack, and I meet his edging smile and honey-brown eyes that dip into me. Like I’m an ocean he’s swimming in. “Next time, call me,” he says coolly. “I’ll drive over with a suit.”

  “Yeah?” I lick my lips slowly, recalling his apartment. “Aren’t all your suits in a cardboard box in your bathroom?” I begin steaming the white button-down, black slacks and suit jacket, catching sight of Jack’s widening smile and laugh. “Where’s the joke?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and pops the sucker out of his mouth. “There’s no joke. You saw my Balikbayan box.”

  My brows furrow. “Your what?”

  “My mom’s side of the family is from the Philippines. We use a Balikbayan box to send household goods and clothes back to relatives. I had a couple old suits so I threw them in there. Once the box is full, I’ll sea freight it to my uncle’s house. He lives in a province in the Philippines called Batangas, where my mom grew up. Balikbayan is really a term used for a Filipino who’s gone abroad. Balik means came back. And bayan means country, land, a people, town.” He pauses to add with a smile, “What can I say, I’m a proud Filipino.”

  I grin more, loving getting to know about Jack and his family, his culture. The biggest worry: the more I know, the deeper I’ll fall and I’m already flying too mother-effing close to the sun.

  While I finish steaming out wrinkles, I tell him, “From one proud Latino to a proud Filipino, I gotta say I’m most interested in your snacks.”

  “Filipino snacks?”

  “Oh yeah, Long Beach. I need to try them. For research.” I check the time on my watch. “And we need to move faster.” I throw him the black slacks and white button-down. “Put these on.”

  He frowns, but pulls his crew-neck over his head, not wasting time. “What are you wearing?”

  “The suit jacket over my T-shirt, and the slacks I have on. You’re the one wearing blue jeans.” I thread my arms through the suit jacket. “Luckily, my pants might just fit your thin frame.”

  Jack chokes on a laugh and extends his arms. “Is this thin, dude?” Bare-chested, his six-four height and sculpted abs tell the story of a letterman jacket jock.

  I shake my head with a short motion. My muscles contract in desire that I try to thwart. Letting him change in front of me—not healthy. My cock hates me. My emotions are all over the fucking continent. Make that two continents, the one we left and the one we’re standing in.

  “You’re hot, Long Beach,” I tell him bluntly, mentally checking off everything we have and need. I glance at a missed text from a contact. No Charlie spotting. “A classic athletic pretty boy.”

  He steps quickly out of his jeans, tugging the fabric off his ankles. His eyes keep rising to mine. “I always thought you were the pretty boy between the two of us.”

  Don’t check him out. He stands in tight blue boxer-briefs, and I run a hand across the back of my neck. “I have scars all over my face and body; I’m not a pretty boy.”

  “From boxing, right?”

  “Yeah, hard blows.” I request an Uber while he finishes changing.

  Jack steps into the slacks, and in my peripheral, I notice how he studies Charlie’s apartment. His curiosity grazes the pale-yellow walls and the ornate crown molding.

  Most people ask who bought it: Charlie or his parents. Every time Charlie brings someone here, it’s their first question.

  His reply never changes. He smiles bitterly as he says, “My money is inherited. It doesn’t matter. It’s all the fucking same.”

  But I was here the day Charlie walked into this place and signed the contract. His parents weren’t around. He was eighteen, and this apartment was his first big purchase as an adult. The price tag is a hundred times higher than what I spent on my first apartment after college.

  But his reaction was the same as mine. Like he knew this was a monumental stepping-stone in his life.

  I love this apartment for that reason alon
e. I know what it means to Charlie, and I’m probably the only person outside his family that he’s let use it. He’s told me multiple times, Anytime you want to stay here, Oscar, it’s yours. We don’t have a buddy-guard relationship, but there is a level of respect and kindness that exists between us.

  Despite this current Houdini situation.

  “You regretting this show?” I ask Jack as he finishes buttoning his slacks. “Now’s the time to back out.”

  Jack smiles, but it’s a weaker one. “I’ve considered it.”

  Rare surprise hits me. “Really?”

  He slips his arms in the button-down. “Probably not why you think.”

  “I’m thinking it’s because Charlie can be a pain in the ass.”

  Jack laughs. “I’m fine with that, really. I just don’t know if I can put a crew through this. Fuck, I don’t know if a crew would want to do this.”

  “Why do you?” I wonder.

  He fishes buttons through his shirt. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Honestly…being a creator of a show has been a lifelong goal. I’m stoked to be where I am on the docuseries, but I’m also just one of many execs on We Are Calloway. But this…this would be mine.” He tucks the button-down in his slacks. “And like, sure, don’t attach your dreams to a sinking ship, but I’ve also never closed a door to an opportunity this big.”

  I didn’t realize how much this means to him. “You were the extra-credit, straight-A high school student, weren’t you?” I sweep his frame. “And the category is, overachiever.”

  He looks me up and down. “Didn’t you get straight-As? Yale, right?”

  I nod heartily.

  But the room deadens until I vocally answer, “But I wouldn’t call myself an overachiever.” Jack and I—we have a lot we can relate to.

  Ivy League grads.

  Little brothers ten-years younger.

  This, though, this is where we diverge. “I don’t have lifelong goals that kick my ass up the rungs of a career ladder,” I say, our eyes locked. “There is no yearning for more when I have exactly what I want right here. I had the whole fight harder, achieve greater when I was a pro-boxer, and I landed flat on my face.”

  I’ve failed too many times in my life to think sticking any type of dreams on any ship will sail me to shore.

  Jack slips on his shoes and tells me, “I can’t imagine a life where I don’t pursue what I want…” His voice drifts off with his eyes.

  Is it selfish to wish he was thinking about me?

  I push some curls off my forehead. Jack is so driven, so optimistic, so hopeful that he can achieve the pinnacle of success—whatever that is to him, and now I know it’s this show.

  I’ve felt failure, and it’s a shitty fucking thing.

  Maybe I can try to make this shit show about Charlie Cobalt actually work—for him and his dreams at least. It’s a scary prospect, because for my job, burying this show into the ground would be easiest.

  A notification pings my phone. “Our ride is here.”

  Jack spreads out his arms, my slacks molding his ass and my button-down a little tight on his chest and biceps, accentuating his muscles. “Perfect fit?” His flirty smile causes my mouth to curve up in a grin.

  If you were my boyfriend, I’d fuck you.

  I nod a few times. “Yeah.” My grin fades knowing he’s nothing to me, just a guy I’m working with. “Perfect fit.”

  11

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  “Maison bondée,” Gaspard tells me outside the cabaret. “Je ne sais pas s'il est à l'intérieur, mais vous êtes invités à regarder.” Packed house. I don’t know if he’s inside, but you’re welcome to look.

  “Merci,” I say as Gaspard lets me and Jack into the side entrance of Le Chat Rouge.

  Jack slips me a quick glance, not the first one I’ve noticed when I’ve spoken French.

  As we move further into the playhouse, I tip my head back and whisper, “Holding in a question, are you coming down with a fever?” I rest the back of my hand to his forehead. Just in a flash of a second.

  His smile grows, bending closer to me. “You have a lot of friends in Paris?” That’s not the question I expected.

  We pass dressing room doors. “They’re acquaintances, not friends.” I only talk to these people if I need something. Same goes for them. And if they’re in New York or Philly, I’m only a phone call away to help them out.

  His voice is hushed as he says, “Looks like your phone is bloated too.”

  I told Jack his phone must be bloated with the numbers of friends. It feels like he’s telling me his catalogue of friends aren’t as close to him as I thought. Can’t read his features well in the dark, and we don’t have time for a longer conversation.

  We follow Gaspard quietly, and Jack leans closer to me, whispering against my ear, “You’re fluent in French?” There’s the question.

  His warm breath tingles my skin.

  “Yeah,” I whisper, “and it’s not the only language I’m fluent in. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime, Long Beach.” I have to face forward more as we roll to a stop. Gaspard led us to a heavy black curtain, which merges to a side aisle in the audience.

  Before he leaves, Gaspard tells me that if we find Charlie, we can’t stay. Packed house, after all.

  This is a mess.

  I don’t even know if I want to find him. I can’t yell at him in public, and I’m going to. Client or not. He’s going to hear it from me.

  I push aside the heavy curtain to a wonderland of velvet, lace, and 19th century glamour. Champagne soaks in ice buckets on candle-lit tables, chandeliers glinting overhead. Patrons puff on cigars and cigarettes, and under red-tinted lights, they watch artists dance with belle-epoque style feather headdresses that are taller than the women who wear them.

  Jewels dangle from costumes and ears. Music thumps the floor as they twirl, melodic voices billowing around the playhouse.

  No matter how many times I’ve been here, it’s easy to be swept inside the magic. But I disentangle from the glitz and drama. Le Chat Rouge is a small playhouse, and despite the darkness, I have a good vantage.

  My eyes flit from the dancers to the back of the room.

  Sitting at his usual table, with a cigarette between two fingers, is Charlie Keating Cobalt. “There he is,” I say hushed to Jack.

  He follows my gaze. “Should we wait. That way we don’t cause a scene.” He’s thinking from a producer vantage. How would this look to the public?

  But I’m not about to wait for the show to end and have a massive group of people in my way again. From security’s standpoint, I need to be closer, and he needs to know I’m here.

  “No,” I say. “We’re doing this now.”

  Letting the curtain fall behind us, we make our way to the back of the room. Waiters stroll around the tables, refilling champagne flutes, the atmosphere casual. So I don’t feel conspicuous walking to Charlie.

  When I’m inches from his table, he leans forward and smashes a cigarette in the ashtray. He stands without hesitation. “I’m ready.”

  I almost expel a breath of relief. Quickly, I skim his body. No signs of injury. I nod once. “You can go ahead.” I don’t trust him to follow me tonight.

  The three of us exit the cabaret. Stars blanket the night sky, a crescent moon and old streetlamps adding light. With Jack walking beside me, I’d call the setting romantic.

  But the walk home is strained. Quiet.

  Silent.

  Leftover frustration and ire is bubbling up inside me.

  No one says a damn thing, and Charlie casts glances back at me every two minutes like he’s worried I’m not following him. So by the time we reach the middle of a bridge, I’m not shocked when he stops dead in his tracks and spins to me.

  His golden, sandy-brown hair whips around with the warm July wind, a striped button-down half untucked from his pants.

  Confusion laces his yellow-green eyes. “I’m fine,” he says through his teeth. “Nothing h
appened. You don’t need to give me the silent treatment like I’m five-years-old.”

  “If I were giving you the silent treatment, I would be the five-year-old,” I refute. “I was waiting to talk to you in private.”

  He lets out a brittle sound. “No one has been on this fucking road for five blocks.”

  Sure enough, the bridge is asleep. I only hear the sound of a violin off in the distance. Maybe on the other side of the river.

  I give Charlie a look and then nod to Jack.

  Jack raises his hands. “And I’m fine with staying out of this. I can go on ahead and leave you here to talk—”

  “No,” Charlie snaps. “You’re filming my life; who the fuck cares if you’re here or not? I don’t.” His eyes bore into me. “Vrai?” True?

  “Fine.” My voice grows coarser. “You haven’t disappeared on me like that in months. And all day, I’ve been going over it and over it in my head, and I need you to tell me the truth. Tell me if this whole fucking ‘show’”—I use finger quotes—“isn’t some elaborate plan to distract me and make it easier for you to go motherfuck-knows-where. Get yourself in troub—”

  “Did it look like I was in trouble?” His eyes flame, and he points towards where we left with the cigarette still pinched between his fingers.

  “That was one minute out of three-hundred,” I tell him coldly. “I don’t know what happened…” My voice trails off when he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Charlie, stop,” I say, my tone tempered. Hand outstretched.

  “You want to know what happened in those two-hundred-fifty-nine minutes. I’m going to show you.” He tosses his shirt off to the side, pale chest in view. His fingers nimbly unbutton his pants.

  “Charlie, what the hell,” Jack curses and swings his head around the bridge. No one is here to look or take photos.

  “Oscar’s worried I let someone lay a hand on me,” he explains.

  I intake a tight breath through my nose.

  The air stills.

  Deadens again.

  Jack looks to me for answers that I can’t give him. All I know is that Charlie could have phrased that a million different ways, but he went with the truth.