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

by Krista Ritchie

  “You have Banks Moretti’s number?”

  “Yeah.” He unpockets his cell.

  “Will you text him and let him know it needs fixed?” Banks is the resident mechanic, and Akara has been trying to save money for the new firm wherever he can.

  “Sure. How will he know which car?”

  “SFO calls this one the Black Widow.”

  He smiles while he types.

  My phone lets out a ping. It’s already docked on the dashboard, but I can see a notification for a few missed texts from Farrow and Donnelly. I reach over and click into them, and I’m careful to keep my eyes on the road as I read quickly.

  You and Highland. Cute. Didn’t expect it, but super happy for you, Oliveira. Don’t listen to the negativity. We’ve got your back. – Farrow

  Get that ass! And fuck the haters. You’re fire. Jack is fire. Together, you’re a big ball of fire – Donnelly

  I can’t help but smile at my friends’ reactions. Their steady, loyal friendship is the best I’ve ever had, and I’m glad they’re here for me.

  I glance over as Jack says, “Kumusta ka?” He’s on the phone. After a couple minutes, he hangs up.

  “Did you just say how are you in Tagalog?” I ask in shock.

  “Yeah?” he says in slight surprise. “How’d you know?”

  “Como está?” I say in Portuguese. “They sound a lot alike.”

  We share a bigger smile, and Jack explains how many words in Tagalog sound or are derived from Spanish, and I know a lot of words are similar between Spanish and Portuguese.

  When I’m a few minutes from the thieving bastard’s house, Jack asks, “What if Clifford Flannagan isn’t home? What’s the plan then?”

  Charlie messes a hand through his hair. “Go to his work. He’s a gaffer at the theatre where Eliot performs.” He lets out an annoyed breath. “I cancelled my trip to Prague yesterday.”

  I look at him through the rearview mirror. “I heard about that.” The temp did alert me that they no longer were headed to the airport.

  Jack glances over his shoulder. “Any particular reason you stayed in New York?”

  “My brothers.” Charlie slouches. “I had a feeling they were going to pull something.” He’d been hoping Maximoff and Jane would move to New York to deal with his brothers, but in the end, he told them to stay in Philly.

  He knew he’d have to play babysitter. And he’s sticking around New York a lot more lately. I can only assume he’s feeling a greater responsibility to protect them and clean up after their mistakes.

  Jack nods, rotating back in his seat. “Intuitive.”

  “No, they’re just predictable.” Charlie flips his phone in his palm. “Speaking of predictability, I see my set-up had the intended effect.”

  “No,” I say, trying to shut this convo down before it starts.

  “No?” Charlie bows forward more between our seats. “So you two didn’t kiss last night? Was that a deepfake then?”

  “We kissed,” Jack and I say in unison. It causes both of us to smile. And I add, “But not because you set us up.” I don’t care if he put us in the right orbit together; I don’t need Charlie meddling in my life.

  Ever again.

  “Of course not.” Charlie leans back again. “You two would have definitely hooked up had I not orchestrated it. I’m sure you would have found a way to spend all this time together without me.”

  I grit down so I don’t grin at his sarcasm. I’m not a buddy-guard. Not. A. Buddy. Guard.

  Jack rakes a hand through his hair, his smile rising.

  Charlie taps the window. “It didn’t fully work though, did it?”

  “What do you mean?” Jack asks, his face falling. Eyes darting to me. Like I told Charlie something about us and left him out. No way.

  I shake my head tensely at Highland.

  “It was supposed to end the Oslie rumors,” Charlie explains, “not make people loathe you because of them.” He expels a frustrated noise. “It’s all a fucking mess.”

  “Story of our lives, bro.” I switch lanes and pull into a parking garage.

  “Yeah.” Charlie nods slowly. “So it goes.”

  I park, and we reach Clifford’s apartment complex with relative ease. No paparazzi. No screaming fans. It’s almost too easy. So it’s not a surprise when Clifford isn’t home.

  Next stop, the theatre. We find another parking spot, and when we climb out and walk towards the theatre building, it’s clear this is…a shit show.

  Girls and guys hoist posters and stake out the front of the old 1900s structure. Theatre security pushes them back, and a couple paparazzi vans hug the curb with parking meters.

  “They’re always here early,” I explain to Jack and adjust my earpiece. “Eliot has an afternoon performance in a couple hours.” We approach from the side, not spotted yet.

  “Eliot’s fans are my favorite,” Charlie says. “They’re mostly theatre nerds who send him Shakespeare love letters and dead ravens.”

  “CHARLIE KEATING COBALT!” That shrill piercing scream comes from a girl holding a giant pink poster board that reads Eliot Alice, can I be your corpse bride?

  Jack takes it all in with interest, and I almost clasp his hand—about five times—like I’m strolling down the street with a boyfriend.

  I’m working.

  I’m on-duty.

  Here to protect Charlie. I playback the words in my head to stay sharp. Alert.

  Charlie waves a nonchalant hand at the crowd—more like he’s brushing away a gnat than greeting them, and they all respond with an awed noise as though he just proposed.

  He’s unaffected.

  Don’t like that we’re exposed.

  “Back door,” I instruct and step quickly in that direction. It’s too late though. Someone spots Jack.

  “Homewrecker!” she screams.

  Charlie stops in his tracks and turns around. I fist his shirt before he charges away from me. “I’m straight!” he yells at them. “There is no Oslie!”

  “It’s okay, Charlie,” a girl pipes in. “We know you want it to be a secret. We know you’re not ready ye—”

  “Fuck you,” he sneers.

  “Oh my God, Charlie, can you say that to me too?!” someone jumps up and down.

  “Charlie, please fuck me!” A chorus of requests pitches the air.

  Charlie just turns around and meets my eyes. “Go.”

  I begin to lead him into the theatre when I detect a projectile sailing at Jack. A shoe. An ugly rubber sandal—and I smack that shit out of his way.

  What is so unlike me while on-duty—I nearly lunge and backtalk.

  “Stop.” Jack curves an arm around my waist. He guides me away from the source of my frustration and rage. I hated Oslie stans before, but now that they’re physically attacking the guy who has my heart, I almost can’t even withstand them.

  We’re in the theatre and Jack cups the crook of my neck. “Hey, I’m fine.”

  I nod, cooling off, my chest rising and falling heavily. I almost kiss him. On-duty, Oliveira. And this is why you don’t bring your boyfriend to your dangerous-as-fuck workplace.

  We pull apart.

  Shit.

  Charlie has already darted away.

  I grind down on my molars and shoot to action. Picking up my pace, I jog out in front of Charlie. Hurriedly, we make it backstage where a white guy with a short mohawk balances on a ladder, fixing the large stage lights. Beside him, the stage is empty.

  “Hey!” Charlie yells. “Clifford Flannagan!”

  Clifford glances down.

  My muscles strain, on edge, but I see what Charlie is about to do before he even moves. Being tactical means being five steps ahead, and even though I’m a single foot ahead of Charlie now, I don’t stop him.

  I don’t want to.

  It’s not really my job to.

  So I skid to a complete halt, and Jack just gives me a thunderstruck look.

  Charlie rams his right foot into the ladde
r like he’s shoving an enemy off a cliff. It careens, and the metal ladder and Clifford plummet to the stage with a loud crack!

  “Fuck,” he groans, holding onto his knee. His eyes flash murderously to Charlie. “You psychopath!”

  Charlie skirts around him and squats down a foot away. “And so the psychopath says to the thief,” he says coldly, “you have something of mine, and I want it back.”

  Clifford’s nose flares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His gaze cuts to me and my cold glare. Fear bubbles in his eyes. “Uh…”

  “You have thirty seconds,” I tell him.

  Clifford shakes his head. “Fuck you both.” He looks to Charlie. “I’m selling your writing to the nearest buyer and for how weird and disgusting it is, I’m getting my money’s worth.”

  Charlie blinks. “Final answer?”

  Clifford breathes heavy, still clutching his knee.

  “Think quickly here, Clifford,” Charlie says, lighting a cigarette. “You’re running out of time, and this psychopath is so easily bored.” He blows smoke in his direction.

  Clifford lets out a breath. “It’s underneath the prop table. In the basket.”

  Jack jogs there and digs through the basket of props.

  Charlie’s not done. “You won’t speak to Eliot ever again. Keep away from my brother, or I will ruin you.” He flicks his cigarette at Clifford before standing up.

  Jack returns with the manuscript, and I lead Charlie towards a rear backdoor. As soon as we’re out of view from Clifford, Charlie starts limping and lets out a frustrated, pained wince.

  “Charlie—” I start.

  “I’m fine,” he says casually. “You have it.” He looks to Jack, already knowing it’s in his possession. Their eyes meet for a beat. “Wishing you had your camera?”

  Jack shakes his head. “No, not really.” We stop next to the stage’s exit. “That’s not something I’d show.”

  “Why not?” Charlie asks. “It’s who I am.”

  24

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  You still awake? I text Jack on a Wednesday night after a security meeting. Drinking stale-ass coffee at the Independent billiards & darts bar in Philly—typical. But I’m not single anymore.

  I have such little free time, and right when I finally find myself off-duty, I’m called to a late-night security chitchat.

  “Why the long face?” Farrow asks me as he pops a bubble gum bubble.

  “Did Jack thumbs-down your dick pic?” Donnelly asks, half-concentrated on drawing cherries in his sketchbook.

  “Only you send dick pics, bro.” I flip my phone over on the booth table.

  Security meeting is officially over. With a capital O.

  Yet, I’m still here at the local bar with the rest of Omega. From the booth, I can see Thatcher, Banks, Quinn, and Akara playing a round of pool and also drinking stale-ass coffees. No one wants to drink alcohol tonight since Alpha and Epsilon bodyguards are also here and not drinking. If there happens to be an emergency, whoever is drunk can’t actually go save the day.

  We all want to be the heroes. And I’m all for one-upping Price’s Triple Shield.

  I check the time. Late.

  My ass would be high-tailing it back to New York with my client, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Wednesday with a capital W.

  The weekly Cobalt Wednesday Night Dinner is something Charlie tries his absolute best not to miss. Whatever goes down on Wednesdays drives him back to Philly like an obsession. No clue what actually happens. No one but the Cobalts and Thatcher Moretti are invited. Already tried to get that lucky bastard to spill details, but he wouldn’t break.

  Charlie being safe-and-sound in a gated neighborhood means that I’m off-duty and enjoying rare free time. Unless I’m called in for security meetings or temp trainings.

  I look across the table.

  Farrow raises his brows. “You have Jack when you didn’t think you would, so what’s with the angst?”

  “I’m a solid catch,” I say with a nod, “but you know what, I’m not even sure I’d date myself right now. I have Wednesday night off and then bam! I’m called for a meeting.” I throw up a hand. “Tell me, bro, would you date me?”

  “No,” Farrow says slowly, “because I’m married to Maximoff Hale.”

  I clap, almost grinning.

  Donnelly claps too.

  Farrow rolls his eyes. “Man, if Jack had a problem with your work, I doubt he would’ve kissed you in the first place. He knew what he was getting into.”

  That is true.

  I ease back, sitting on the same side as Donnelly. He takes off his reading glasses. “Maybe you should send him a dick pic.”

  I laugh with Farrow.

  “Let him know you’re thinkin’ about him,” Donnelly finishes.

  “And that’s why you don’t take dating advice from Paul Donnelly,” I say and flip over my phone. No new text.

  He must be sleeping.

  But damn I wish he were awake and wanted to hang out. Even if it was a five-minute, hey there, looking good, Highland, kind of convo.

  “Call him,” Farrow suggests.

  “I shouldn’t wake him up.” I stare at my blank phone screen. “He had a horrible time trying to film Charlie this afternoon. Couldn’t ask him a single question since every time he opened his mouth, paparazzi shouted at him.”

  Farrow chews gum slowly. “About your kiss?”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence eats at our booth, and the sound of billiards balls clinking seems louder.

  “It’s annoying as fuck,” Farrow finally says. “Paparazzi, the hate online, but some weeks are better than others.”

  I flip my phone again, realizing how much frustration I’ve been feeling. “The hate towards Jack is nuts, bro. These fans of mine, who are obsessed with the imaginary mother-effing romance between me and Charlie, will not stop. One told him to go choke and die the other day.” I’ve heard this kind of fandom language before and hardly blinked, but now that it’s directed at someone I have feelings for…

  It stings.

  I’d rather be the one they’re playing target practice with.

  “They’re not fans,” Donnelly says. “They’re stans, but most likely antis.”

  “An anti?” Farrow arches his brows.

  “I’m with Redford. What the hell is that?” I know what a stan is—in short, an overly passionate fan. But I’m not as deeply involved in fandom culture like Donnelly. Though, I do keep up with it better than Farrow.

  “Anti-fans, anti-shippers,” Donnelly explains. “They root hardcore against a couple. Like hate-watching a TV show, but real life, man. It’s my least favorite part of a fandom. No love, all hate.”

  Fuck. “Now we’re dealing with anti-shippers? It’s my fault,” I continue, “what’s happening to Jack is on me. You date me, I come with baggage.”

  Farrow leans forward. “See, that’s not what we’re doing here is blaming yourself. You didn’t create Oslie, and you can’t get rid of online bullshit and anti-fuckers. But you’re going to find a way to protect Jack because you’re Oscar Oliveira.”

  I nod slowly.

  Yeah.

  I have to find a way. Because that’s the only avenue where I come out feeling like I’m worthy of being in a relationship.

  “How much are you charging me for that advice, Redford?” I ask lightly, the mood lifting with my words.

  “Eh, it’s free. I’m writing it up under, I couldn’t look at your face anymore.”

  Donnelly laughs.

  “Aw, fuck you.” I flip Farrow off, and we’re all grinning. For a moment, I start forgetting that Jack hasn’t texted me back.

  SFO finishes their pool game, and Thatcher, Akara, Banks, and my little brother slide into our booth. We shoot the shit about the Phillies, Thatcher’s upcoming wedding, and Epsilon who keeps eyeing us to death.

  Jealous motherfuckers.

  “Get outta Philly!” a couple drunk guys yell from the
bar.

  I clamp a hand on Donnelly’s shoulder as he pops up. He shuts his mouth as his ass hits the seat. I’m sure he was about to yell, “We’re from Philly!”

  Heard it before.

  Inciting jeers happen at this bar too regularly now, ever since SFO gained some fame. Locals can’t stand us even if this has always been our local spot.

  We refuse to be kicked out.

  Akara gives him a friendly look. “Hey, don’t give Epsilon a reason to say they’re better than us.”

  Donnelly nods, but Thatcher is glaring at the bar.

  South Philly guys pop off so easily when their city pride is at stake. Love Philly to death, it’s been my home, but I’m not feeding into local hecklers.

  We go back to our conversation, everyone grimacing at the cold coffees, and after another fifteen minutes, Farrow stands up on his seat—he’s wedged against the wall because everyone filled the booth. And instead of asking Thatcher, Akara, and Banks to move their asses, he literally walks across the table and jumps off.

  Donnelly and I applaud mockingly.

  Farrow just lifts a couple fingers in goodbye. “I’m out. See you boys later.” He walks casually to the exit.

  “And there he goes,” I quip.

  “Gone so soon. RIP,” Donnelly says.

  We all laugh, but my smile fades as I glance at my phone. Knowing, for sure, that he has to be asleep. I’ll see him tomorrow.

  I hang onto that, at least.

  25

  JACK HIGHLAND

  Greenland.

  Colorful houses in bright reds, yellows, greens, and blues landscape steep mossy mountains that plunge down into a fjord, a deep inlet of water between cliffs. Icebergs jut out of the teal water, and while whales breach the sea, the sound of playful seals fills the chilly air.

  The location is so stunning that it seems fabricated. Like some pitch I’ve embellished as a location scout seeking to shoot in the Arctic Circle.

  It’s real, though.

  On the deck of a bright blue house, I fix my camera on a tripod. Aches and pains flare up as I move around my equipment. Underneath my winter jacket, bruises decorate my body. All over my elbows. Down my hips. I have a big welt on my thigh and knee.