I nod, but my stomach cramps in a way I didn’t expect. I try to hold onto his assurance about no timelines, but I feel behind. Maybe the overachiever in me is recoiling. “Were they happy?” I wonder.
“Oh yeah, my mom loved Ryan Kruger. He ended up being a D1 football player, then got drafted to the NFL.”
Ryan Kruger. I bite down hard to keep jealousy at bay.
“My dad loved him too,” Oscar continues, staring off in thought. “But like I said, physical prowess means more to my family. It doesn’t matter what gender you are. They only have an issue if you’re too delicate and can’t lift a fifty-pound weight. My dad wants all his children with athletes who can take a hit.”
I try to expel a breath. I am an athlete. But I’m not sure if I can take a hit.
What are you worried about, dude? It’s not like Oscar wants me to meet his parents. But yeah, I’d want to be liked by them. Accepted. Welcomed.
When he first brought up his parents valuing physical over mental skill, I was fucking nervous. I just kept thinking, they won’t like me. I attended an Ivy League. I’m a documentary filmmaker. A producer. I can’t punch worth shit. All my trophies are for art, not athletics.
Though, again, I was a college athlete.
It seems like my only in into the Oliveira family. Then again, swimming is a non-contact sport.
Oscar is studying me too much, so I ask, “How’d your friends take it? You said you were most nervous about them knowing you’re bisexual.”
He rubs his knuckles. “Yeah, all my close friends in high school were straight. I was afraid they’d treat me differently. Some did. I wasn’t invited to hang out with the guys anymore; if I brought up dating, they were suddenly not interested. Other friends stayed the exact same.” His mouth curves upward. “Those are the best. They still make the same crass jokes, still ask about who I’m with—even if it’s a dude.”
I smile off his smile.
He holds my gaze. “You know it wasn’t until I went to college that I had friends who weren’t straight. I joined LGBTQ clubs, learned more about gay culture, and I also learned something important.”
“What’s that?”
“Some people will tell you you’re not ‘gay enough’ or ‘bi enough’ or ‘this enough’—that you don’t do X,Y, and Z—and even when you think you’re around the most inclusive people, someone will try to set requirements and a checklist that you feel like you need to complete to be accepted.”
I recall what he said earlier, They can’t tell you who you are. The fact that they’re trying to says more about them than about you.
“That happened to you?” I ask him.
“I definitely felt pressure to belong my Freshman year of college. I overcompensated at first. My dorm room had rainbow flags, rainbow coasters, rainbow pillows—don’t get me wrong, I love rainbow, but not when it looks like a Care Bear took a shit in my dorm.” We laugh together, and he adds, “I still love drag shows. A lot of slang like realness and throwing shade originates from the drag community in the 80s. Especially from trans women of color.”
I nod, actually knowing this because of a documentary about New York’s ballroom scenes. “I’ve seen Paris Is Burning. It’s one of my favorite documentaries.”
Oscar grins. “You have good taste, Long Beach.” He collects his thoughts. “What I’m trying to get at—you don’t need to have a dozen rainbow flags or attend drag shows. It doesn’t make you any less into men. We’re all human, and humans have different interests. You do you.”
It sets me more at ease knowing it’s okay if I don’t fit a “mold” of the perfect gay guy or bi guy or whatever-label-I-choose guy. That the label I pick isn’t just one type of person. All it defines is my sexuality. Not everything about who I am.
I inhale a bigger breath, and I think about coming out. To my family. And Jesse. And so I ask Oscar, “How’d your brother take you coming out?”
“He was only six,” he reminds me, “and Jo was even younger, so they’ve really always just known me as liking boys and girls.”
I nod again, my gaze falling to my hands.
“You nervous about coming out?” he asks me.
I start to shake my head, then shrug. “I don’t know. Changing the status quo on them feels like a big deal.” I take a pause. “I had always imagined my future with a wife, but my parents painted that picture with vivid colors. Especially my dad. He loved whenever I brought a girlfriend along to family trips.”
Oscar nods with understanding.
So I keep going. “My ex-girlfriend always hung out with my mom. She was another woman to talk to when my Lola wasn’t around. So it might not be easy for them to just burn my old future into the trash and replace it with a new one.” I let out a laugh. “It’s not like it’s been easy for me. So can I really expect it to be easy for them?”
“Yeah, they may need time,” Oscar says. “But hopefully they’ll adjust and love whatever new picture you paint. Just do what you do best and stay positive, Highland.”
I smile.
He studies my features. “What about your brother?”
“I doubt Jesse will care, but he might ask a lot of questions.”
“Runs in the family, huh?”
We both laugh. But mine fades as I realize, “I might just hold off until I’m ready.”
“Take your time,” Oscar says strongly. “No rush.”
I frown. “You’re okay with not telling anyone about you and me?”
“Yeah.” He takes a beat. “Look, I didn’t expect to go shouting to all my friends that I kissed you. Otherwise, that forces you to come out and I’m not doing that to you.”
My lip rises, eyes stinging. “Thanks.” I wish I could give him a definite time, not this ambiguity of just when I’m ready, Oscar. I’m a secret he’s about to keep, and as a long-time keeper of peoples’ secrets, I know it’s not always easy. It can take a toll.
Oscar just nods in reply, especially since I yawn into my bicep. He stands up. “It’s almost 6, and I’ve fucked with your sleep enough.” He grabs me a pillow and blanket from the closet. Tossing them to me, he says, “See you in the morning, Highland.”
I watch him climb up the stairs to the loft. “See you in the morning,” I call out. Even though I’m yawning up a storm, I don’t know how I’m going to fall asleep tonight.
He’s all I’m thinking about.
17
JACK HIGHLAND
“Jesse, concentrate.” I try to catch my brother’s wandering eyes while we separate our equipment. I trust him, I trust him, I trust him—that’s why he’s here among the famous ones and not some random friend of a friend camera operator.
He’s taking in our current location: Camp Calloway. Which he’s only ever seen on the docuseries or social media posts. The woodsy camp in the Poconos is fit for a Charity Fun Run today, hosted by H.M.C. Philanthropies.
Charlie Cobalt is on the board of the charity that Maximoff Hale created, but he’s wasted no opportunity to tell me that he’s unemployed. He has no job. I have way too much footage of that response, even during a spontaneous interview I did at a café yesterday.
Thank God I remembered my portable lights. Setting up a key light and secondary light for interviews makes the quality of the shot infinitely better, and I had to rig it all in a matter of minutes, like my life depended on the speed. Any longer and Charlie could’ve just stood up out of boredom and bolted.
Anyway, I remember his response at the café when I pressed him further about H.M.C. Philanthropies.
He said, “That’s not a job. It’s an obligation.”
Well, today I’m filming Charlie at an HMC event, and I’m curious to see how he’ll handle being at one. If it really is just an obligation to him.
Jesse rifles through his camera bag on the grass. “I’m concentrating, Kuya, but it’d be easier if security kicked out the dildos over there.”
I have no clue who he’s calling a dildo.
But I glance a
round the packed campgrounds. Security are posted at various spots like knights in the woods, and I stop myself from searching for Oscar among them.
Dude.
You’re the one who needs to concentrate.
One breath out, I focus.
The famous families are congregating in their respective friendship groups, and the runners who bought tickets to attend the Fun Run are stretching at the starting line or still registering at a check-in desk near the mess hall.
Refreshment tents are off to the left and largely unoccupied right now. The cluster of camp cabins are also pretty barren, except for a banner that reads, Medical. Good thing no one is hurt, looks like.
Oscar already gave me a map of the Fun Run this morning, and the trail is supposed to lead down a hill, then wrap around the glittering lake. No one has left yet.
So I have to ask, “Who’s a dildo?”
Jesse looks up and around. “They must’ve left somewhere.” He explains, “Some guys who look my age were being crude towards the families.” He doesn’t specify towards who.
“It happens a lot.” I squeeze his shoulder. “It’s good to empathize, but don’t let it distract you.”
His shaggy hair shifts with the shake of his head. “This is their charity event. Shouldn’t their bodyguards send them packing?”
“We’re production,” I remind him. “We don’t do security’s job for them, and they don’t do ours.” We have to respect that boundary or else we’ll both start trying to walk all over each other. “And anyway, if security tried to remove every person that made a transgression against the families, there’d be like five people here, Jess.”
He sighs. “That blows.”
I lift my camera. “We film the shit that blows. With the small hope that it makes a difference when people see it. Empathy, Utoy. Don’t lose it. Use it.”
Jesse smiles. “Always, Kuya. You’re so petmalu.” It means amazing in Tagalog slang. He nudges my arm lovingly. “Lodi.”
I can’t believe I know that lodi is idol. It’s also slang, and it’s idol spelled backwards. Stuff he picked up from our cousins on social media.
I smile brighter and mess his hair. “You’re grabbing B-roll today.”
“Sweet, I’ll use the telephoto lens.”
I also hand him an ultra-wide lens. “Use your walkie-talkie if you need me.”
“Got it.” He’s in charge of B-roll, basically extra footage (landscape, wide shots, etc.) that’s used in the show.
“Who are you not allowed to film?” I ask him while we both fit on our lenses and adjust our camera settings.
“Winona Meadows.” His eyes flash briefly over to the Meadows girls. Sulli and Winona stretch under an oak tree together. “Also, Beckett Cobalt and Vada Abbey.”
“Yep.” Those are the only three that are more private and haven’t signed waivers to be on We Are Calloway or in the background of Born into Fame, the working title of the docuseries.
We stand up. I hand him the backpack with his extra lens. “Boom kit is also in there if you need it, but you shouldn’t have to mess with sound too much.” I plan to leave the heavier camera bag at cabins with medical.
Jesse slips on the backpack and clutches his Canon, ready to go.
“Now go get me some B-roll.” I make the hang loose gesture. “Shaka brah, brah.” I smile.
He smiles back on his way to the lake. “Talk later, Kuya!”
A minute later, I drop off the camera bag and regroup beside Charlie. I’m gripping two handlebars on either side of a Canon. The gimbal helps steady the camera and avoid shaky shots. Sometimes I’ll use a Steadicam, which is harnessed to my chest, but both are hard to operate and ache my muscles after a full day shooting.
I can already tell my forearms are going to kill me.
Beauty is pain, and I’m searching for that beautiful up-close frame. The one where I push closer, that feels personal, like the viewer is almost uncomfortable at the intimacy. Feeling like they’re a voyeur to Charlie’s life.
I am.
I am one, and it’s something that I know has to be translated well or else it’s all for nothing.
Right now, I capture footage of Charlie waiting for a woman behind the registration table. She reaches out and hands him a bib number.
I feel Oscar nearby.
He’s off to the side. To my left and a little further back. He’s surveying the crowds, but as I risk a glance, our eyes catch for the briefest second before we return to our jobs.
My breath hitches.
Focus, dude.
That’s how it’s been for the past three days.
All work.
We haven’t done anything since the night I slept over—not for lack of interest—just lack of time. It’s July 31st. We Are Calloway production starts tomorrow, and when Oscar is off-duty, he’s been in security meetings for the Fun Run. We’re both swamped outside of Charlie’s show.
And still, Oscar has occupied almost 80% of my mind.
I just keep replaying everything over and over and anticipate it happening again. We’ve texted a little, but not enough to distract us from our professions. My nighttime dreams of him and me do that enough.
I angle my camera more on Charlie. Focusing. “Are you excited for the race?” I ask him.
“Overjoyed,” he says dryly.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” A business-casual man in a pair of gold-rimmed aviators shoves his way to the front of the line, next to Charlie. Oscar sidesteps to let him through, and a second passes before I place his face and affiliation to the families.
Ernest Mangold.
CEO of H.M.C. Philanthropies.
He’s the same board member who exercised a coup and overthrew Maximoff from the position. I step back to capture him.
Ernest’s salt-and-pepper hair flies with a gust of wind. He lays his sights on Charlie, but Charlie ignores him by slowly sticking his bib number to his mesh tank top.
Unfortunately, Ernest whips to me. “Shut that off—”
“No,” Charlie says flatly. “It stays on. He’s filming me.”
Ernest says words like lawyer and sue and not authorized before reaching for the camera, and that’s when I have no choice but to stop rolling.
“It’s off,” I ensure, pulling away from him.
He makes me show him that I’m not recording.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Oscar shooting daggers at Ernest like he almost seized my baby from me.
I begin to smile. I’m not used to a bodyguard being on my side. Usually they’d be cheering Ernest on. Take the camera down. Makes their job easier.
Now that Ernest has disabled camera footage, he closes in on Charlie. “You said he wouldn’t be here,” he whisper-hisses.
“Who?” Charlie asks.
“You know who.” After an agonizing beat, Ernest says, “Maximoff.”
I glance over at the open field where most are gathered before the race. Maximoff is extending his arm over his chest, leading a group stretch with his uncles and dad.
“He’s a Hale,” Charlie tells Ernest. “Last time I checked, H.M.C. Philanthropies stood for Hale, Meadows, Cobalt. You’re an idiot if you think he wouldn’t be here.”
Ernest’s eyes darken. “Watch yourself, Charlie.” His voice lowers. “I own the board. I could remove you tomorrow if I wanted.”
“You do already want that,” he says flatly. “But you won’t. You know why?” Charlie tilts his head, avoiding a ray of sun. “Because I’m the son of Connor Cobalt. And the only reason this company hasn’t dissolved is because I’m still a part of it. I will concede—you do own the board, Ernest. I have no control over them. But you don’t own me.”
He walks off towards the west side of the woods, completely avoiding the entrance to the trail.
Jesus, shit.
I jog after him. Following close as we leave behind everyone at an alarming rate. Oscar keeps the same pace on the other side of my subject. “What was that?” I ask Char
lie.
“A prick.” He dips his head underneath a branch and enters the dense part of the woods. People are fading behind us. Tall evergreens landscape the area.
“Can’t get rid of him,” Charlie says, stepping over a boulder. “Just have to withstand him. Story of my life.”
Muscles burning, I keep a steady shot. “What do you mean?”
“Hey, let me get out front, Charlie,” Oscar tells his client.
“You don’t know where I’m going,” he refutes.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Oscar counters.
Charlie grins and glances back at both of us. “Do I?” His brows rise. “Maybe? Maybe not. Isn’t that the fun of it?” He continues his pace and answers my earlier question. “Story of my life is being surrounded by people who aggravate the fuck out of me.”
“Is your family among that group?” I wonder.
“Sometimes. But they usually aggravate me the least. Especially Beckett.” He takes a sharp right into a thicker area. But he’s skinnier than Oscar and me, able to slip between trees and branches easier.
Plus, I’m busy looking through a camera.
I stumble over a rock, and my heart jettisons, mostly fearing my equipment will be crushed underneath my weight. And I’m not referring to my dick.
Oscar extends an arm and grabs my waist. Keeping me from enduring a massive face-plant. I balance better, two hands on the handlebars of my gimbal, and Charlie’s pace quickens.
My fuck-up puts us behind him.
“Shit,” I curse, watching him disappear behind a larger oak.
Oscar follows my gaze. “We’ll catch back up.” He pushes a branch away from my face, and I duck and move with him. “What do you want to ask him so badly anyway?”
Am I that obviously eager to interview him? “I don’t understand why he’s a part of the board, if he hates Ernest so much.”
Oscar’s face softens.
“You know?”
He nods. “For a lot of people, Charlie’s a mystery. But I’ve already solved parts of him a while ago.” His lip hoists. “And I didn’t need to interview the hell out of him to do it.”
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 17
