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

by Krista Ritchie

  “I’m trained for this. I’m going to protect you the absolute best I can.” I’m in for the long-haul, Highland. We edge closer, our legs threading as we hug. I press a kiss to his temple, tasting a hint of strawberry.

  His fingers stay in mine for another minute before he lets go and unlocks his car. “Coming out tonight actually makes me feel better. Because at least that fear is largely gone…and I’m not in this alone.”

  He has me.

  Undoubtedly.

  I nod, my mouth curving up. “I’m proud of you.”

  Highland smiles, a more emotional one, and we hug again, this one tighter and longer.

  When we break apart, he asks me, “Where’d you park? I can drop you off at your car. I’ll be at your place tomorrow morning, and we can start early.” He means for the show.

  Work might be his distraction technique from emotional bombs.

  “The other direction.” I point back towards Woody’s and stare at his hair, matted with dried milkshake. “Let me drive you home. I’ll get my sister to come pick up my car.” I’ll owe Joana one, or twenty, for the favor, but it’ll be worth it.

  I just don’t want Jack to be alone tonight.

  “Another second with Oscar Oliveira—why not?” He smiles and tosses me the keys, and when I climb into the driver’s seat, I realize I actually have regrets about how this all went down.

  I wish I screamed louder and harder back at Woody’s that I don’t like Charlie. I wish I yelled that I like Jack.

  I’m dating Jack Highland.

  I’m with Jack Highland.

  Every phrase in every dictionary that means, he’s it for me.

  22

  JACK HIGHLAND

  The hum of the car’s air conditioning is a familiar, pleasant sound. Back when I lived in SoCal, the sun would beat down on my Mazda, and sometimes I’d just shut off the music as I sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the PCH. Windows rolled down. Fresh wind off the coast cooling me as much as the air from the vents.

  Being in my car tonight is a little different. No ocean in view. City noises surround me as Philly twinkles in the early night. Honking. Shouting as people smoke outside bars and gather with friends. And my phone is a mess of texts from people I haven’t even spoken to in years.

  Hey, man! Long time no chat, just saw the news! You’re really with Charlie’s bodyguard?

  Congrats on the new beau! Is it true???

  I had no clue you’re into guys. Good for you, dude.

  Didn’t know you were gay. Why didn’t you tell me?

  And then my little brother…

  KUYA! Wtf?!? – Utoy

  He’s tried to FaceTime and call fourteen times, and I already texted: I promise I’ll call. Just give me a sec. Love you.

  With sticky milkshake coating my skin, my tank suctioning awkwardly to my chest, I shift tensely in the passenger seat and keep scrolling through social media. Who is Jack Highland? has been trending, along with #homerwrecker and #OslieSurvives

  I replay a video on mute of my kiss with Oscar outside the cheesesteak restaurant. Our strong hands are on each other’s face, our builds fused together, our grip tightening in urgent yearning, and our lips beckon the other one closer—a powerful breath floods me.

  That feeling is why I decided to catapult my life in the air with no idea where it’ll land. That feeling with him would be too devastating to lose.

  He’s what I cling to as everything else spirals. My parents—God, my parents are calling me for the fifth time, and I let it ring out and text: I’ll call later. Everything’s okay.

  My phone pings.

  Is this a publicity stunt? – Dad

  Ouch.

  I rock back with a heavy breath.

  “You alright?” Oscar asks, glancing at me for the umpteenth time. His clutch strengthens on the steering wheel. Like if I asked him to go anywhere, he’d whip the car and reroute in a millisecond.

  “My dad just asked if the kiss was a publicity stunt.” I unsnap my seatbelt. Too uncomfortable, I pull the milkshake-soaked tank off my body. “I can’t fault him for going there—even though, I’d like to believe he’d think better of me. That I’m not the kind of person who’d pretend to be into dudes as a PR ploy. But he’s not in my head. We all have different perspectives.”

  “My perspective isn’t as accommodating as yours, bro.” His glare blazes the road, then the rearview mirror. “That’s shitty of your dad to text you that. He could’ve led with anything else.”

  “He’s not that bad,” I say, but I smile at how Oscar is defending me. Wadding up the dirtied tank, I throw the thing in the backseat where my longboard rests and reply to my dad.

  I text: not a stunt. I’m dating Oscar. I’ll call you & mama later.

  Oscar switches lanes. “I’ll try not to judge too harshly until I meet him.”

  Meeting the parents. I buckle my seatbelt.

  Will they like Oscar? He’s a Yale grad, but he’s a bodyguard. Predictably, my dad will ask me, what’s his goal in life? What is he striving towards?

  I’m not sure “protecting a celebrity” is going to cut it.

  My dad served in the Navy. He could’ve gone into a private security sector later on, but he chose a more lucrative career. High risk, high reward.

  Oscar’s job is high risk, no reward. I respect that, but I can’t foresee whether they will.

  Stressed out, I roll my linebacker-like shoulders, stretch my arms up and then extend one over Oscar’s headrest.

  “Is your body sore?” Oscar asks, considering I’ve been hoisting heavy equipment.

  “I’m stressed out, man,” I confess.

  I catch myself off guard whenever I say man. I said “dude” a lot more when I lived in California, and it reminds me I’ve been in Philly since I was eighteen.

  Fuck…almost ten years.

  Where has time gone?

  Chasing a dream. Searching for higher ground. That thought reminds me of a song, of music, and I almost fiddle with the radio.

  Oscar’s concern is on me. “Meu raio de sol, let me give you some positive affirmations.”

  What’d he call me in Portuguese? My lips rise and I look him over. “Isn’t positive affirmation-giving my job?”

  “I don’t just dig for compliments, Long Beach. I know how to give them.”

  I smile more. He’s boosted me up far higher than anyone ever has. “That’s true.” I keep my arm over the headrest.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  He catches my eyes for a beat. “Your phone might be on diarrhea-mode right now, but it’s fleeting. And this stressful moment in time will pass.”

  I like that one.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  I breathe out and try not to look at my phone that’s definitely taking steaming piles of shit.

  “How was that?” Oscar wonders.

  “You’re a solid A+ in my book.”

  “Appreciate the praise.” Oscar slides me a serious look. “But I really meant, how are you now?”

  I nod a couple times. “Adjusting better.”

  I’m dreading the moment where we arrive at my apartment. Not because I have to see Jesse, but because I’ll be saying goodbye to Oscar. He’s my central core of comfort right now, and to leave that behind sounds agonizing.

  “You know what’d be better?” I say with the start of a soft smile.

  “Food.”

  I laugh. We left Woody’s without ordering cheesesteaks. “Yeah, and it’d be even better if you spent the night with me.” I feel smooth in my come-on, despite the stress of tonight. Which I delight in since I’ve been more rattled around Oscar lately.

  “I wish I could…” His voice is strained, lips downturned, and his deep-brown eyes return to the road.

  My pulse plummets.

  Fuck.

  “Charlie’s temp told me he’s back home,” Oscar explains fast. “It’s early for him, which means he’ll probably be awake at the crack of dawn. I n
eed to be in New York.”

  No lie. That hurts a little.

  I swallow down a lump in my throat and press my skull to the headrest. Right as I drop my arm off his seat, he tells me, “Come stay at my place tonight.”

  My head lazily rolls to the side to meet his eyes. He glances from me to the road, then to me with apprehension. I start to smile.

  He sees it. “That a yes?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s a yeah.”

  He matches my grin. “Good.” He takes a hand off the wheel just to clasp mine. I thread our fingers, and his chest rises. He adds, “I’ll stop by The Walnut so you can grab your things at your apartment.”

  “No need.” I have to let go of his hand as I rotate, the seatbelt cinching over my bare chest. I wrench my backpack from the backseat and drop it on my lap. “I have everything right here. Even a toothbrush and a suit. I heard around town that Oscar Oliveira gives good advice, so I thought I’d listen.”

  “Sounds like I’m dating a smart guy.” He checks his rearview as an SUV rides our ass. “And I’m legitimately surprised you packed clothes.”

  I thought about purposefully forgetting just to steal yours. “I surprised myself too,” I smile, but as I shove the backpack to the ground, pressure that I haven’t felt in a while sits on my chest.

  “You have that look again,” Oscar says, worry hardening his face. “What’s bothering you, bro?”

  I rake both hands through my hair, leaving them on my head and leaning back. “I really haven’t given a lot of thought to what I’m supposed to tell my family or the public.” I clarify, “About my sexuality. And I honestly haven’t had time to mull over a label. People are going to ask what I identify as, and I don’t have an answer.”

  “Just say that.”

  “Without one, I’m afraid I’ll keep getting asked, are you sure? over and over. Or people will think it’s a phase.”

  “They could think that even if you say you’re bi,” Oscar tells me.

  I nod. Also true. “You know, if I really sat down with my feelings for longer than a few minutes, I think I’d know that I’m attracted to people. Flat-out. No matter the sex or gender. It’s probably always been like that, but I cut myself off to anything outside of my narrowed frame of what I thought my life would look like.” I let my hands fall to my thighs, expelling a breath. “I’m trying to hold onto what you told me about my sexuality having nothing to do with where I’ve been or what I’ve done. It’s just who I’m attracted to. But sometimes I feel like if I call myself pansexual, I’d just be a fraud. Like I don’t serve the label well enough. I’m twenty-seven. I’m too late to the party.”

  Oscar’s face breaks. “You aren’t too late. Do what you feel without letting judgment cast you aside. So whatever label you choose—or don’t choose, you don’t have to have one—don’t let anyone take that from you. Live your truth. And if someone tries to check you on it, I’m going to check them back in the fucking mouth.” His grip tightens on the wheel, veins spindling in his biceps.

  I can’t look away from him. He’s hot as hell when he’s defending me. “You’re Team Jack Highland?”

  “Let’s put it this way—whatever president was sitting at the top of the Jack Highland fan club has been dethroned by me.”

  My heart swells. “What a coincidence. The Oscar Oliveira fan club president was usurped by me.”

  We’re both grinning.

  I roll down the window. Letting the summer night rush into the car, and I expel another deep breath, pocketing my phone for right now.

  Oscar notices. “Is there something that helps you stay on the bright side?” He must be concerned about me since the onslaught of negativity is just beginning.

  “Confidence, breathing, sometimes surfing.”

  “And when that fails?”

  I stare at the cord to my car’s entertainment system. Plugging in my phone, I tap into Spotify. “Blaring music.” I pause before clicking into the song. “I’m about to be painfully California, but this is my dad’s favorite band and I grew up listening to them.”

  “They’re your favorite too?” he asks, not knowing who it is yet.

  “I know basically every lyric to every song, and they have over ten albums.”

  “So that’s a fuck yes,” Oscar laughs. “Play it, Highland.”

  I put on “Higher Ground” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, originally sung by Stevie Wonder, and I immediately start singing the lyrics and bobbing my head to the beat.

  Oscar surprisingly joins me. He knows the chorus, and with an arm out the window, I tap my hand to the hood of the car.

  We sing to each other, and I thought I had a good voice, one that melts like butter on a hot day. But Oscar sings the fuck out of this song. His voice is deeper and richer and smoother, belonging in the air like a current of wind.

  And his hand slips back into mine. We coast and sing, and I let his affection and the melodies calm the outside noise that fights its way in.

  Don’t let it in.

  “Did I say or do something to where you thought you couldn’t tell me?” Jesse wonders, his face shadowed in the dark over FaceTime. I can barely tell he’s in bed, head on a pillow.

  Oscar just left to pick up take-out and give me some time to call my family. So I cup my phone, sitting on a kitchen barstool with a towel around my waist. Thanks to a hot shower, I no longer smell like strawberries and cream.

  “It wasn’t you; it was me, Jess,” I explain. “I’ve been confused, and I wasn’t ready to tell anyone until now.” Quickly, I add, “And before you ask, I’m still attracted to women. I feel like gender and sex aren’t really factors in who I’m romantically or sexually attracted to at all.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jesse lets this sink in, his grin erupting. “I mean, as far as people go, you really landed an ace in the set. Oscar is sick. At least, from what I know while I’ve been on this project with you. He boxes, protects celebrities, speaks multiple languages, cracks funny jokes—ah wait, question.” Jesse sits up for this one, and I relax forward, happy my brother is cool with the news. “So are you giving or receiving, Kuya?”

  My face feels hot. This is all so new. Including this question from my brother. “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out. Only if you don’t mind me asking you the same questions.”

  Jesse smiles. “That’s totally fair. I have a more important question. The most important question.”

  I stiffen. Don’t know where this one’s going.

  “Does he surf?”

  My lip quirks. “Not that I know of.”

  “When are you going to teach him? We should go to the beach tomorrow. Jesus, Kuya, does he even know the difference between a paddleboard and a longboard?” He goes off on a tangent and I listen with a laugh. I only stop Jesse when he begins to plan a surfing trip to New Jersey tomorrow morning.

  “Postpone that, wild child. We have jobs.”

  He sighs. “Shit, the dreaded J.O.B.” He grows quieter, then asks, “So how long have you and Oscar been dating?”

  Officially? Today. Though, I’ve been skirting around my feelings for years.

  I end up telling him, “Not that long. It’s new.”

  “I like new.” His encouragement means a lot, and I express that, then tell him he has the apartment to himself tonight. Now he’s really amped on me dating Oscar because he has more room.

  “No parties,” I decree.

  “Who would I invite, Kuya? My only friends in Philly are my surfboard and laptop.”

  “I thought you exchanged numbers with Winona after the Fun Run?”

  “I thought so too, but she gave me the number to some Wildlife Conservation fund.” He lies back down, not expressing much defeat in that rejection.

  We talk more about shoots for the Born into Fame docuseries before we say our goodbyes. “Talk later, Kuya,” he says before the screen goes black.

  Now for the harder call.

  I phone my dad, and FaceTime pops up. Bottles of red w
ine in wooden slots fill the screen. My parent’s wine cellar. “Dad, flip to front-facing camera.”

  “Dammit, sorry.” He swears casually often. Once the camera flips, I’m staring at a sun-tanned face that could grace classic western movies. But he can’t act for shit. He warned me too, and still, I asked him for help on an amateur film project about skateboarding.

  He sounded like a robot.

  And he almost broke his ass on cement after trying to ollie.

  I love him a lot.

  “I was just grabbing a 1934 Merlot.” Creases line his forehead. Only a few grays in his brown hair—he was young when I was born. “So…? You’re okay with the press? You’re safe there?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Is Mama around too?” I’d rather talk to them both at the same time.

  “She went to bed, but I’ll let her know what’s going on. She’s very proud, you know. She wants to meet him.” He inspects the label of the Merlot.

  “What about you?”

  He sets the bottle down. He offers a lot of supportive words of me being with a man, as much as I expected. He says he loves me, and then the questions arrive.

  When did you know you liked guys? Are you bisexual? What’s Oscar like? Is he good to you?

  I answer honestly to each one.

  And then he asks, “What’s his goals? He doesn’t want to be a bodyguard forever, right?”

  “I think so.”

  He makes a hmm noise.

  “It’s a good profession.”

  “No it’s not. I have a friend in private security, and it pays nothing. It’s fucking dangerous. Plus, his back will be shot by fifty.”

  “My back will be shot before then.”

  “You need to stop doing camerawork. Take care of your body now before you become old like me.” He pauses for a second. The air strains like he’s thinking back to the serious topics.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’ll be honest, it’s taking me a longer time—longer than your mama—to get used to the idea of you with a guy. I keep thinking that if you marry a man, I’m going to have a son-in-law.” He lets out a breath. “Just never pictured that.”