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

by Krista Ritchie

  I can’t help but smile. “You rely on your talents; I’ll rely on mine.”

  Oscar grins. “After you.” He waves me on. But really, we squeeze closer together as we journey ahead. Not much room to shift between trees. Our arms brush, our hands skim, and I almost feel him catch onto my fingers.

  To hold my hand.

  But he retracts fast—so fast that my pulse skips. He doesn’t want to force you to come out. I hope that’s it, and it’s not Oscar being scared I’ll bail on him.

  As we battle through the thick brush, my heartbeat rises to my throat. We keep glancing at each other, and the inability to talk or touch with Charlie so close is adding unnecessary strain.

  We’re working.

  That fact slams against us as we find Charlie in a small cloverfield clearing. He knew where he was going. I focus my shot on him. He leans against a mossy boulder, book in one hand and a blunt between his other fingers. He doesn’t glance up at us as we arrive.

  “Getting lost in the woods together—one of my favorite romance tropes,” he muses and sticks the blunt in his mouth.

  Oscar and I share a tense look.

  Fuck.

  Charlie hasn’t let go of this “set-up” even after confessing his intentions. I guess he wouldn’t. The more I’m understanding Charlie, the more I’m realizing he’s more of an open book than people would believe, but his pages are written in an ancient language.

  “Hilarious,” Oscar tells his client, then presses a hand to his earpiece. Listening to comms.

  My walkie-talkie beeps in my own surveillance earpiece. “10-2,” Jesse calls. “I’m a mile from camp. Can I go in the woods?”

  10-2 is code for I need to take a number 2.

  A shit.

  I stifle a smile and detach my walkie, pressing the button and speaking low. “You can’t take a 10-2 in the woods. You’re a professional.”

  He grunts like he’s running with gear. “10-4, over and out.” 10-4 means he’s received the message.

  Oscar watches me attach my walkie, and surprisingly, he tells me under his breath, “Donnelly made a joke about Wawa catering the event on comms.”

  We draw closer together. Quietly, I tell him, “My brother needed to take a shit in the woods.”

  He laughs hard.

  Which causes me to laugh, and Charlie eyes us from his perch on the boulder. Like we’re being discovered, the noise slowly fades from our mouths.

  Back to business.

  I hoist my Canon. Camera rolling.

  Oscar scans our surroundings.

  “I have a question,” I tell Charlie.

  “And the sky is blue.” Charlie flips the page of his book, smiling at something he’s reading. I can’t make out the title of the paperback. It looks like he—or someone else—scratched off the letters with a knife.

  I prod further. “If you hate Ernest, why don’t you just quit the board?”

  “It’s not a job. It’s an obligation,” Charlie tells me for the umpteenth time.

  It hits me now.

  “You can quit a job,” I realize. “You can’t quit an obligation.”

  Charlie flips another page. “I suppose I could quit an obligation, but it’d have far reaching consequences.”

  “The company would dissolve?”

  Charlie nods. “My parents, my aunts, and uncles would pull their money out. Something Maximoff built from the ground up would be destroyed overnight.” His yellow-green eyes flit up to me. “I don’t love being the life support, but it’s where I’m at.”

  He sinks into his book and his blunt, and while my subject is stationary, I change lenses and focus on wide shots. Oscar chats with security, and I try not to bother him.

  An hour later, we walk the same densely wooded area back to the open field with the starting line and registration. Charlie doesn’t try to lose us this time. Maybe giving up on the whole “romance lost in the woods” act.

  We breach the thick, tall trees, and I’m surprised no crowds are here. The only runners who’ve completed the 5k loop are Sullivan, Ryke, and Maximoff.

  Sweat barely stains their tees, water bottles half-empty, and they loosely stretch on the grass like they just jogged one-lap around a block.

  Oscar, Charlie, and I walk closer to the registration tables.

  Something…itches…

  I scratch my shoulder. Grimacing, I try to relieve the irritation a few more times, but the itch only grows. “Hey, Oscar,” I say. “Is something on my back?”

  He walks around and scratches at his own bicep. He zones in on my shoulder that peeks out of a sleeveless tee. “Highland…”

  My eyes fall to his arm. Small dark bumps dot his brown skin. Oscar. “What’d we walk through in the woods?”

  He itches his bicep again. “Let’s go to the cabins.”

  Medical is located in the camp cabins.

  Shit.

  18

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  Charlie is scratching his neck, so I tell him to seek medical with me and Jack, and on our way to the cabins, I’m resisting the urge to maul the inflamed patches on my bicep.

  Poison ivy, that’s my best guess.

  We frolicked through motherfucking poison ivy.

  I could grumble over comms, but A.) Jack is beside me and I don’t want to be that petulant in front of him. I have to show some class.

  And B.) drama strikes.

  “Fight at the refreshment tents!” an Epsilon temp shouts over comms, using the main frequency for the event. Every bodyguard is on the same channel. “I need backup!” His voice pitches in my ear. “I need backup!”

  I narrow my focus on the white tents as we cross the open field. A bunch of teenagers are crowding the table with water jugs and cups. And two teenage boys are yelling at each other while the stocky temp tries to pull them apart.

  They shrug off the bodyguard and keep shouting. Can’t piece apart the words from here.

  I strain my eyes, making out dark-brown shaggy hair and a camera in his hands. Holy fucking shit, that’s Jesse Highland. Alarm triggers in my body, and I don’t think. Just react.

  “Charlie stay here for a sec,” I tell him.

  His brows knit together, but he stops mid-walk.

  Jack hears the commotion under the shady white tents, and he takes off with me as I sprint towards the fight. “Jesse!” he yells at his brother, camera gripped tight. “JESSE!”

  I click my mic and speak as I run. “Oscar to Security, I’m handling the fight—don’t send anyone else.” Last thing Jack needs is to have security all over his little brother’s ass.

  A douchebro shoves Jesse in the chest, and Jesse shoves him back. They push each other and yell a few more times, and right when we reach the tent, both boys thrust each other into the table. Water jugs fall and spill, paper cups litter the ground. The crowd cheers on the douchebro, and the teenagers wrestle on the grass. Neither throws a punch, and I grip the douchebro beneath the armpits and wrench him off Jesse.

  I growl out, “Come on—”

  “Grow a fucking funny bone, bitch!” He’s still yelling at Jesse, even as I drag him back.

  “Grow a fucking brain, ass-clown!” Jesse shouts hotly, trying to charge forward. Jack puts a hand on his chest and restrains him.

  “Cool off, breathe,” Jack coaches. “Hey—Jesse.” He forces him from rushing at the douchebro, and I’m doing the same to the other teenager.

  “I need everyone to exit the tent!” I shout at the gawking teenagers. “Now!”

  “He started it!” a few yell and point at Jesse.

  “Exit the tent,” I say with threat and force. “Now. I’m not fucking around.” Intimidation on point, the teens take the hint and shuffle out, leaving a broken plastic table and litter in their wake.

  While Jack talks to his brother under his breath, I interrogate the other teenager.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the douchebro and release my tight grip on him.

  “Tyson.”

&nb
sp; “Last name too.”

  He rolls his eyes and then glares at Jesse. “This is all his fault!”

  Look, I don’t know Jack’s little bro that well, but Jesse seems like he has a good heart. And Jack calls him a free spirit. Not a devil or a dickhead.

  “Lay off him,” I growl at the teenager. “What’s your last name? I’m not playing around, bro.”

  Charges won’t be pressed for a schoolyard shove-fest. I just need to log this down for security, and you bet your ass that I’m remembering his full name so he never invades Jesse’s space again.

  “Why aren’t you giving him the third-degree?” Tyson gapes. “I’m telling you, he started it! This isn’t fucking fair!”

  Jesse huffs and shakes off his older brother’s hold, just to pick up his camera that fell on the grass. He says nothing.

  Jack reaches out a consoling hand. “Jesse—”

  “I have more B-roll to grab.” He hoists his backpack on his shoulder. “Sorry, Kuya.” Apologies flash in his eyes to his brother before he exits. Not saying what happened.

  Jack is about to run after Jesse, but when he reaches the flaps of the tent, an imposing man blocks him.

  Aw, shit.

  Bad timing has crept upon us again.

  The Epsilon lead is here, hands on his radio and hip. A surly soldier, Korean-American, mid-forties and one of the longest-lasting bodyguards—I’ve known Jon Sinclair since I first joined security years ago, and his beef with me has annoyingly endured.

  “What in the goddamn fuck is going on?” His glare nails onto me, then the douchebro.

  “Tyson was just telling me his last name.” My deep voice is all severity. “He was in a fight with another teenager. It’s done and diffused.” I leave out Jesse.

  I’m playing favorites.

  Is it fair? Yeah, no. Life isn’t fair, and I have intense feelings for the pretty boy with the camera. And if his little brother is in a pickle, I’m going to help get him out.

  Without the details of the fight, I might not be on the right side of morality, but I don’t always need to be.

  “It was that kid named Jesse,” Tyson complains. “Not me.”

  Sinclair spins onto Jack. “Your brother Jesse?”

  Jack tucks his camera under his arm. “It was a misunderstanding—”

  “Did I mishear the part where production is starting fights at a charity event?” Sinclair cuts him off.

  The Epsilon lead cutting off one of his bodyguards, fine. Him cutting off Jack Highland, not fine. Not at all.

  “It’s diffused, Sinclair,” I rebut and tell him lowly, “we should leave this area before more runners pass the finish line and need water.”

  He’s stewing more than the douchebro.

  But Tyson blurts out, “I was joking. That guy Jesse can’t take a joke.”

  “What happened?” Sinclair questions.

  “I was fake-humping the table, and Jesse got bent-out-of-shape over it because another person—not me—said that’s how I should ride Winona Meadows.”

  My jaw hardens, eyes narrow, head cocks because I’m used to these aggravating comments. No one likes this kind of peanut gallery, but they can’t shut up when it comes to the famous ones.

  Jack looks exasperated, also too used to hecklers. “Your friends can’t talk like that here, man, and they shouldn’t talk like that anywhere—”

  “Let security deal with security issues,” Sinclair cuts in before reiterating the same shit to the teenager. “That’s no way to talk to any woman or any person.”

  Tyson scratches a pink bumpy patch on his fair skin, and what do you know—I think I gave the douchebro poison ivy.

  I’d laugh about it, but I’m busy watching Jack back away from the situation. I only want to follow close before he disappears on me. And also, I left my vanishing client alone.

  It’ll be a miracle if Charlie is still waiting for me.

  Sinclair surveys the mess of water and cups on the grass. “Clean this up,” he orders the temp guard. “More runners are about to come in.”

  Jack exits the tent, but not before casting a glance back. Our eyes catch in a beat that says, we’re on the same side.

  Not necessarily as production and security.

  But just as myself and him.

  As Oscar and Jack.

  I’m really falling for this guy, aren’t I?

  He disappears.

  It pounds my pulse. Aches my joints and muscles, almost pushing me to go after him. Run after him. With one more professional exchange to Sinclair and a short talk with Akara over comms, I sprint out of the tent.

  Jack is already gone.

  Charlie….is also gone.

  My muscles are on fire, breath caged as I click my mic. “Oscar to Farrow, is Charlie in the med cabins?” Farrow has been off-duty for security and on-duty for the med team.

  Right now, my desire to chase after Charlie has been replaced with a full-fledged desire to chase after Jack.

  Comms crackle. “Farrow to Oscar, that’s a yes.”

  I exhale.

  If Charlie is safe there, then I can go find Highland. And so I text him and wait for his answer.

  Jack and I meet-up in an empty cabin called Blue Daisy, just four bunks here, a rustic bench, and a blue trunk.

  Farrow left us a tube of corticosteroid cream to treat our poison ivy, which he diagnosed after looking at Charlie. I must’ve had the plant oils on my clothes and that’s how Tyson got the rash, otherwise it’s not really contagious person-to-person.

  I’m officially off-duty while I treat this shit.

  My arms, my legs, my neck—it all burns and itches like I’ve been dipped in a vat of fire ants. I shed my shirt and unbutton my pants.

  Jack places his camera on a top bunk, the mattress thin and flimsy. “You think Charlie knew he was leading us into poison ivy?” He pulls his tee over his head. “Just to get you and me naked together?”

  I let out a laugh. “Now that would be some 5D-chess.” I step out of my pants.

  “It is working,” Jack notes, standing in only gray boxer-briefs. But he’s itching his neck to hell and back.

  “Stop scratching, Highland.” I catch his wrist.

  His chest rises, his eyes drop down my half-naked build. I’m only wearing dark blue boxer-briefs, and a part of me is screaming to kiss him. To clutch his jaw and pull him closer. But we’re both in slight pain right now, and a lot just happened with his little brother.

  I slide my hand down his wrist and into his palm.

  I hold his hand.

  Jack sweeps my features with questions that I don’t understand. It makes me nervous. Does he like this? Does he not?

  I glance down at our interlaced fingers. “You have a good grip, Long Beach.”

  He smiles that dazzlingly smile.

  A heady feeling washes over me. Butterflies. I’m thirty-two and still getting butterflies from a handhold, and we’ve already run some bases together.

  Jack squeezes. “Not too tight for you?”

  “Never too tight for me,” I grin.

  We take a seat side-by-side on a bottom bunkbed. The camp cabin creaks with a heavy gust of summer wind, and we inspect each other’s rashes. His worst is along his neck, flaming his light-brown skin.

  Mine is crawling up my arm and shoulder.

  Jack unscrews the ointment. “Charlie ran through the poison ivy too, so if he did it on purpose, he’s knowingly making himself suffer.”

  “Yeah.” I nod slowly. “He doesn’t have much care for his own life.”

  But the more Charlie doesn’t care, the more I just want to ensure he’s still standing at the end of the day.

  Jack looks troubled.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “The ethics of this show, but…that’s not even at the forefront right now.” His smile is sadder. “My brother.” He tips his head to me, the light in his honey-brown eyes almost fading. “Did I make a mistake attaching him to this project—to these fa
milies?”

  I shake my head. “He’ll learn that you can’t fight fire with fire. You and me—we’re jaded. We’ve seen it all, been through it all, and when you bring a soul in here who hasn’t experienced the ridicule and hatred, it’s going to hit them differently.”

  “I don’t want this to change him,” Jack confesses. “I don’t want him to be bitter or for him to lose his innocence too fast.”

  I think about Quinn.

  When my brother first joined security, he was naïve, not realizing how much unwarranted shit is thrown at the families, and I know he’s more hard-edged now than before.

  “He’s seventeen,” I tell Jack. “Our brothers are gonna grow up whether we like it or not. The good thing is he’s here with you, and you’re with him.” I hang my head with a coarse breath. “But let’s be honest, I’m probably the last person who should be giving brotherly advice.”

  Jack slips me a smile. “No, you’re the first person who should. At least for me. You’ve already been twenty-seven with a seventeen-year-old brother, and not that many people can say that.”

  I grin and scrunch my brows. “Are you calling me old, Highland?”

  “Would you be flattered if I did?”

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  We laugh.

  Jack smiles more at me. “Turn around, I’ll get your back.”

  “I’ll do you first.”

  He shifts at my choice of words, his nose flaring. Heat blankets me, and I search his eyes for more understanding but…

  I can’t read him that well.

  Sadly.

  Gladly? I don’t know, it’s definitely adding something between us. Can’t say it’s all bad. But a few bricks mortar around my heart.

  Don’t get hurt, Oliveira.

  He angles his head back, giving me more access to the nape of his neck. I squirt cream on my fingers, dab the patchy spot, and rub small circles with my thumb.

  I hear his breath in the quiet. Ragged, winded.

  The noise seeps pleasure in my throbbing veins. Alone in a camp cabin, a palpable current of intimacy is strung between me and Jack.

  “Is this what it was like?” he asks me. “Back when you were fourteen and had a sexual awakening at summer camp?”