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

by Krista Ritchie

  Jack is quiet.

  “I’m sorry this is happening,” I say, voice husky and riddled with his pain that I feel.

  “It’s not your fault—”

  “Ah, no. This isn’t Jack Highland Makes Me Feel Better hour. I’m here for you, bro.”

  His eyes well up as our gazes embrace in ways that our bodies can’t right now. “I’ve never been knocked back before. Not this hard. I’ve believed that I’m capable of anything, so I could power through to the top, and now it feels like everything I’ve ever strived for in my career is about to be ripped away.”

  “It’s not,” I say strongly. “If you can believe you’re capable of anything, then believe I won’t let everything fall apart right now. You chose me, didn’t you, Long Beach? You risked it all for a guy who’s gonna be the glue keeping the pieces together.”

  He inhales a bigger breath, then nods. His smile tries to fight through. “You give good pep talks.”

  I’m about to reply when Gabe jogs over, a trickle of sweat running down his temple. “I, uh…just had a thought, Oscar.”

  Imagine that. “Yeah?”

  Jack zooms the camera on his little brother paddling out in the ocean.

  “I thought maybe you could convince Akara to let me join the 24/7 roster.” That’d officially make Gabe an Omega bodyguard and no longer a temp. He adds fast, “I already talked to him. He said I can’t go onto the roster now because they don’t have the budget for it. Then…you know, I asked why I’m working all these long hours compared to other temps. He said that I am being paid more, but by you, so I thought maybe you could convince him to just let me join the main roster, you know.”

  Jack spins on me, his camera instantly hanging at his side. “Wait a sec, you’re paying for Gabe?”

  “You needed the security.”

  “I thought the firm would cover the cost because it’s related to Charlie…” He lets out a hurt noise. “I’m a fucking idiot—”

  “Hey—”

  “I should’ve known they don’t have the money for periphery security. Akara is squeezed tight as it is.” He rubs a hand down his face. “How much are you paying?”

  Half my paycheck. Probably the first grossly large expense I’ve made at a time when I should be saving more. What I would’ve called a bad financial decision in the past, but damn is it worth every penny.

  “I have you covered,” I tell him.

  “Oscar.”

  “I have you covered,” I emphasize.

  “I have the money,” he says under his breath. “Just let me pay—”

  “No—”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re my boyfriend,” I say with utter fucking conviction. “You’re my boyfriend, Jack, and if I can’t physically be there for you, then I’m going to hire someone who can be.” I pause. “Which I did.” I jab a thumb towards Gabe, who stands an awkward distance from our argument.

  Our first fight, I realize.

  It’s small.

  And it simmers down almost immediately. A surprised breath leaves him, his lips ascending. Until he’s smiling more heartwarmingly. “So what, we’re mag jowa now?” His eyes fall down my build.

  I begin to grin, just seeing his playful happiness make a powerful return. No clue what he said in Tagalog. So I ask, “Mag jowa?”

  “Boyfriends,” Jack translates.

  I laugh with a nod. We’ve been dating, but we haven’t outright called each other “boyfriends” yet.

  ‘Bout time, Oliveira.

  “Yeah”—I keep nodding—“you’re my frat bro, happy-go-lucky boyfriend.”

  “Maybe cross out the lucky part.” Our fingers toy with catching hold of each other’s hand.

  I shake my head. “At the very least, when all else fails, you’re lucky that you have me.”

  Jack laughs, a lighter sound, but the noise fades. “I’m grateful you hired Gabe, you know, but if you’re not willing to let me pay everything, then let’s just split the cost. It’ll make me feel better.”

  I only agree because of that last declaration.

  28

  JACK HIGHLAND

  “Walkie-check,” a PA says over the walkie-talkie.

  I click mine. “Good check.”

  Every single We Are Calloway crew member is on site tonight, plus some extra grips, and I’m hauling ass across the golf course in the dark, a Steadicam harnessed to my chest.

  A big charity event with the famous families means a big shoot. All the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are in attendance. Including their bodyguards. Add in family friends, donors, and plus-ones, and bodies are moving everywhere.

  I prefer one-on-one shoots, but I love the huge group ones too. More than anything, I’m hanging onto tonight. This could be my last shoot with We Are Calloway.

  I’m still an exec producer, but after this charity event, I’m scheduled for a serious meeting at the WAC offices. A sit-down with the other execs.

  To talk about “my future” with the docuseries.

  Anxiety is a four-thousand-pound seal on my chest. Heavier than the Steadicam. But I inhale, exhale—trying to breathe the animal off.

  The bright side is Oscar. He said he’d drive me to the meeting. I actually look forward to the car ride alone with my boyfriend.

  He’s not getting off-duty tonight, dude. That thought blows, but I’m trying to lower my expectations. Mitigate my hopes so I’m not crushed or disappointed when he says, I can’t anymore. I have to follow Charlie.

  Oscar assured me, “I’m going with you to the meeting—I’ll be there,” but he also sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  Anyway, I have more pressing matters in the present than worrying about a few hours from now. I keep jogging across Hole 5. That thought almost makes me laugh.

  Dangling twinkle lights brighten the first nine holes. The H.M.C. Philanthropies annual charity golf tournament has turned into a charity golf soiree.

  Men in suits. Women in ballgowns. Fancy tables and pop-up bars dot the course, and golf carts decorated in green garland leisurely ride from one stop to the next.

  Oscar told me Banks Moretti called it, “Bougie bar-hopping.” That was before Oscar and I split apart—not stoked about that but we’re both busy working.

  I sprint up to a golf cart, familiar faces in the front seat. Akara slows to a stop for me, and next to him, Sullivan balances her bare feet on the dash.

  “Hey,” I greet with a pant. “Have you seen Charlie anywhere? I need to get some footage of him quickly.” Before it looks like I’m favoring the Born into Fame pilot.

  I also add, “And apparently some boss of some badass security company pulled Oscar onto Hole 3 for paparazzi control. So I can’t even ask my boyfriend for Charlie’s location.”

  Oscar isn’t around Charlie right now.

  Akara smiles. “That’s because your boyfriend is one of the most senior security guys among both firms. I had to shift him and then put temps on Charlie. Paparazzi were invading the course from the bushes.”

  “It was fucking creepy,” Sulli says.

  I bump her fist, then Akara’s in more of a greeting.

  A Secret about Akara Kitsuwon: my college-friend raved about Akara for four weeks after they hooked up. He restrained her to a headboard with rope and made her come five times.

  Akara confirmed her retelling. He made me swear not to gossip to production.

  Of course I kept the secret.

  “I can find Charlie,” Akara tells me. “Hold on.”

  I wait while he switches a knob on his radio, attached to his slacks. Bodyguards are in designer suits to blend among guests, so he literally looks like a million-dollars, and I’m sweating over here in workout clothes.

  Production can’t blend with camera equipment.

  Since Sulli also wears formalwear—a green sequined romper—the two of them almost look like a couple next to each other. I’ve always thought Akara was into her, but he’s adamantly said, no.

 
; Lately, from what I’ve seen, they’re slightly awkward together. Sulli slips him a look now, then he slips her one. She whips her head away, staring up at the stars.

  He keeps his eyes on her while he speaks in comms. “Akara to Security, anyone have eyes on Charlie?” He waits for a response, his gaze back on me. He laughs at the walkie in my hand. “Is that little dinky thing not working for you, Jack?”

  Security ribbing production. One status quo still intact.

  I dangle the walkie by the antennae. “This little dinky thing is doing just fine.”

  He laughs again, the noise more in his chest.

  I smile back, but my lips downturn.

  Because I actually could ask the PAs on the walkie if they’ve seen Charlie. Thing is, I’d rather not advertise to the crew that I’m hunting for Charlie specifically. Do not need them thinking my priorities are set on this side project.

  Which is why I need to move fast. Sweat drips down my temples, and I wipe my face with my wrist.

  “Thank you. Roger that.” Akara eyes me. “He’s at Hole 2.”

  Jesus, shit.

  That’s a far run.

  “Hop on,” Sulli gestures to the backseat. “We can take you there.”

  I immediately seize the offer. “Thanks, Sulli.” I climb onto the backseat, a little stiffly with the Steadicam, and Akara presses on the gas, swerving the electric golf cart towards Hole 2.

  “Where’s your brother?” Akara wonders.

  “I told him to go grab as much footage as possible. So he’s around here somewhere.” I trust Jesse. He’s been doing excellent work. My brother is talented with a camera and landscape shots.

  We bump along the course, and Sulli starts twisting her hair in a high-bun—Akara hits the brake. “Sulli, down!”

  “What? Kits?”

  He pulls her down over his lap.

  A golf ball flies at the cart and I lean back. It dings the frame and bounces off. My pulse skids. A few inches lower and that would’ve hit Sulli in the face.

  “What the…fuck?” Sulli lifts her head slowly, cautiously. Hair falling out of a half-done bun. She’s staring at Akara’s lap.

  I mean, her face was in his crotch.

  I could laugh. I almost laugh, but her face is beet red. His chest collapses in a strange breathing pattern. He looks her over, then whips his head towards three drunk men with golf clubs.

  “Sorry!” they laugh.

  “FOUR!” one chuckles.

  Akara is fuming. “Stay here, Sul.” He hops off the cart. “Hey! No one is playing golf tonight!”

  Bougie bar-hop.

  I can’t wait around for Akara.

  “See you, Sulli.”

  “Yeah…” She’s in a daze watching Akara confront the drunks.

  I’m off running.

  And I reach Hole 2 dripping sweat and trying to catch my breath. No one wants to hear me cough up a lung on footage.

  Charlie loiters at the edge of a dark pond in the night. Temps stand off to the side, not interfering. I focus my camera on him.

  He sips champagne, the bottom of his wrinkled shirt untucked from his dress pants. His gaze turns away. “Trying to upstage me?” he asks.

  I back up about to capture the other person he’s speaking to.

  Fuck.

  It’s his twin brother. Dressed in a crisp suit, dark hair artfully styled, Beckett Cobalt saunters up to Charlie. I turn off my camera.

  Can’t record Beckett.

  Still, it took me forever to reach Charlie, so I might as well wait out this interaction.

  “Believe me, everyone I’ve run into today has asked for you,” Beckett says into a smile. “You were cursed by the fucking devil at birth, I swear.”

  Charlie smiles bitterly. “The one who wants to be alone is always wanted.” He finishes off his champagne. “Too bad I can’t be wanted by someone interesting.”

  Beckett slides over that comment and acknowledges me with a nod. “How’s it going, Jack?”

  “It’s going.” My shoulders ache under the Steadicam. “Charlie’s been a great audience. I actually prefer to socialize with him over the guests.”

  And I do mean that.

  The ladies and men who laugh in their clustered groups all appear glossed over with false bravados. Even Connor Cobalt, Charlie’s dad has put on an air of charm that has a layer of deception underneath its sincerity.

  Charlie might be “a pain in the ass” as Oscar puts it, but he’s always himself.

  “Charlie’s said the same about you,” Beckett says casually.

  That surprises me—that Charlie would talk about me in private to his twin brother. Then again, I have been following him for weeks. I guess, I’ve become a part of his life in a way that I never have before.

  A Secret about Charlie Cobalt: He told me that he’s the one who introduced Beckett to cocaine, and he’s regretted it ever since.

  Charlie plucks another champagne flute off of a passing server’s tray.

  “Jack!”

  I turn at the sound of Oscar’s nineteen-year-old sister Joana.

  Oh no.

  I shoot Beckett a quick look that Oscar would nail-gun in his brain. Leave Joana Oliveira alone.

  She jogs over, her silver dress hiked up with one hand, and her curls bounce with each footfall to the pond. She’s wearing a pair of Vans instead of heels, and she makes a concerted effort to avoid Charlie and Beckett as she stops in front of me. “Have you seen my brother?”

  I shift to block Beckett. “Which one?” I ask.

  “The one you’re dating,” she says. “Obviously.”

  “Hole three.”

  She’s about to leave, when Beckett glides around me and says, “Hi to you, too.”

  Joana stiffens and then turns her gaze on him.

  I tense.

  FYI: I have never been in this position. This is my boyfriend’s baby sister. Yes, baby sister. I have seen her name in Oscar’s phone and heard him call her “baby sis” way too many times. I know he considers her almost like a daughter, and the fact that he hates—no, he loathes—the idea of Beckett and Joana together has my pulse on an adrenaline rush.

  When it comes to these families, I’m used to not intervening on anyone’s behalf. I let security take sides.

  I’m a filmmaker. I watch. I record. I stay back and let things play out. Oscar’s the one who’d fling himself between them.

  My camera is off, and ethically, I have to keep it off for Beckett.

  Instead of being Oscar’s fill-in, I decide to do what I’d do if his sister were my brother. I observe like an adult chaperone at a high school dance. Threatening.

  And ready to intervene when necessary.

  Joana starts looking around Beckett, stepping close like she’s trying to find something. She pretends to search behind him.

  Beckett frowns and gracefully one-eighties to face her. “What are you doing?” He has that iconic what the fuck face that has been meme’d to death on Reddit.

  “Oh sorry,” Joana says like she’s not sorry at all. “I was looking for the mattress that’s always attached to your back.”

  Charlie chokes on his champagne.

  I stop breathing.

  Beckett’s brows rise at Joana. He looks her up and down. “I’d say the same for you, but you seem like the kind of girl who loves getting pounded from behind.”

  She snorts. “Classy.”

  What the fuck am I watching?

  He raises his glass. “Toujours.” Always.

  She lifts the edge of her dress, so she can jog again. “With that”—she looks to me—“I’m going to go find my brother.”

  “Good idea,” I agree.

  I probably shouldn’t be a chaperone at a high school dance ever. Oscar is going to flip. I turn to Beckett. “Don’t go there again,” I say. “All of SFO have warned you. So now I’m warning you.”

  “She instigated that one.” Beckett grabs a pastry off a server’s tray, a smile toying at his lips. “Plu
s, she basically called me a slut.”

  Charlie says something in quick French to Beckett, and my walkie crackles, “Ethan for Jack.”

  I hit the button. “What’s up?”

  “We need you on Jane in the clubhouse.”

  Come on.

  I hesitate to comply and leave my subject. But I say, “On it.” And then a large crash echoes from up the green. Near hole three.

  Oscar.

  Clubhouse or Oscar?

  We Are Calloway or my boyfriend? He has a lot of people on his side, a lot of bodyguards there to help whatever just happened, but the crash was loud. Fear and worry propel me in his direction.

  I take off running to hole three. With adrenaline pumping, the Steadicam suddenly feels lighter than air.

  29

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  “Oscar to Security, I need a medic. I need a medic.” I repeat twice and add my location so everyone knows, despite my controlled voice, that shit is bad.

  A golf cart just capsized and rolled.

  My vigilant ass is set on hot coals. I’m running with all I have over to the slope that the golf cart just tumbled down. Twinkle lights barely illuminate the area. It’s dim, and I’m only nearest the crash-site having just dealt with paparazzi.

  A couple Alpha guards are still restraining cameramen who snuck in the event.

  “Is anyone hurt?!” I yell, racing in a quick descent to the flipped cart. “Luna?! Tom?! Eliot!?” I saw all three on the golf cart before they crashed.

  Just what I never wanted to see happen again. I don’t care if it’s in fucking golf-cart-sized form. I never wanted to come up on another crash.

  That was one of the worst days of my life.

  And I’d bet a solid grand most in Alpha, Epsilon, and Omega would say the same.

  An extreme amount of adrenaline keeps me focused as I squat down to the cart. “Can you hear me?!” Motherfuck, someone answer me. I need to lift the golf cart off them in case they’re being crushed.

  “Uh…” Tom suddenly rolls woozily out from underneath the frame. Grass stains his white shirt, and a trickle of blood runs from a forehead cut.