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

by Krista Ritchie

  “Eliot! Luna!” I call out.

  “I’m pinned,” Eliot grunts.

  “Ow, ow,” Luna winces.

  It’s hard to see them in the dark.

  Quickly, I widen my stance and grip the golf cart. Quinn appears at my side before I lift. He’s out of breath like he jogged over, and he grabs the other end.

  “One, two, three,” I count, and we heave the golf cart up together. We hold it steady.

  Eliot elbow-crawls out, but not before ensuring Luna can follow. She pushes herself with her legs, cradling her arm against her glittery jumpsuit.

  My muscles burn while I keep a firm grip.

  Eliot looks okay, but Luna’s bone is one-hundred-percent fucked. Radius, ulna—her forearm is painfully bent. Once they’re clear of the golf cart, my baby bro and I right it on its wheels.

  “Luna!” Maximoff is running towards his little sister in a full-on sprint down the slope. The Hale prince is out-running Farrow, who’s a few feet behind, a med bag strapped to his shoulder. Ripley’s not with them, so I assume someone in Maximoff’s family must be holding the baby.

  “Her arm, Redford.”

  His focused eyes ping to me as he passes by, a small, serious acknowledgement that this was too close to what we both experienced together. Thank God it’s not nearly as bad.

  While Farrow does a medical assessment and Maximoff checks on his family, I do a quick sweep of our surroundings. My pulse still at a peak.

  Onlookers exist, watching from the clubhouse’s deck, but not many guests are around Hole 3. Besides paparazzi, it’s been vacant since the non-alcoholic bar is posted here.

  Maximoff’s concern is replaced quickly by anger. “What the fuck?” he growls at them. “Who was driving? Why were you doing donuts?”

  Did not see the troublemakers doing donuts.

  Comms blow up in my ear. Epsilon and Omega. I pick apart Akara’s voice. “Akara to Quinn, did you see Luna, Tom, and Eliot steal a golf cart and a case of champagne earlier?”

  Quinn isn’t responding.

  “Hey.” I nudge his arm. “Akara just radioed you, little bro.”

  Quinn rolls his eyes at me, then clicks his mic. “Yeah.”

  I hate narking on a client, but my brother should’ve called that one in. Akara wouldn’t have ratted them out to the parents. They’re all adults.

  And at least we’d all know they were drinking and taking a joy-ride.

  Quinn glares at me. “What?”

  I’m disappointed in him, and I can’t hide that from my face.

  “Oh—fuck,” Eliot curses, causing us to look back. His gaze is latched to the clubhouse’s deck where their parents are descending in a fury.

  “Is that Mom?” Tom squints and holds a hand above his eyes.

  “Brother, see you in the afterlife,” Eliot says. He taps knuckles with Tom, but they don’t leave Luna. They stay while Farrow speaks softly to her and helps her to her feet.

  She needs X-rays.

  “Can you talk to Dad?” Luna pleads with a pained wince to Maximoff.

  He caves. “Yeah.”

  “Akara to Quinn, why am I just now hearing about your client on a golf cart when it’s already flipped?”

  Quinn clicks his mic. “It wasn’t important.”

  The line dies, and I can feel Akara halfway across the golf course cursing the night sky with frustration and anger. Our mistakes are his mistakes.

  My brother drops his mic cord. “What?” he growls at me again.

  “I didn’t say anything.” I catch the sight of Jack—my Jack—running towards us, a heavy Steadicam strapped to his chest.

  I read his lips from a distance. He mouths, are you okay?

  His concern shouldn’t surprise me. Hell, his appearance shouldn’t either, but both do. Probably because I just thought…he’s filming.

  He’s working. How is he making time for me? Especially when my ass struggles to make more for him.

  My chest rises, longing for Highland to keep his pace towards me. And I nod to him. I’m okay. But I could use a Jack Highland hug.

  A kiss. Three kisses. Endless amounts.

  Fuck, I’m greedy.

  “You didn’t have to say anything, Oscar—you had that look,” Quinn snaps.

  My gaze tears back to my little brother. I hold up my hands. “I’m just standing here, bro.”

  He scratches his jaw, his gaze pierced with venom. The scar under his eye—I wasn’t there when he was KO’d in the ring. A hard punch split the skin on his cheekbone.

  “You need to say something to me?” I ask very gently, not trying to set him off.

  I am genuinely confused on why he’s so heated off so little. And I want to know.

  “You’re the one who’s not talking,” Quinn retorts. “You’re just staring at me like I flushed your Doritos down the drain.”

  I crack a grin. “Good analogy, bro.”

  He glowers. “Fuck you.”

  What the hell? “Quinn—”

  “Just say it!” He gets in my face. “You think I should’ve called it in. You think I should update Akara on every little movement I make because I can’t do my job—”

  “I never said that you can’t do your job.” My eyes narrow in confusion, hurt. “Do I think you should’ve called this one in? Yeah. Do I wish you did? Yeah.”

  He groans into a frustrated growl.

  “I never said you’re a bad bodyguard.”

  “You didn’t have to!”

  “Is that what this is about?” I question.

  “Fuck off,” he growls, shoving me back with two hands to my chest.

  I rock from the force and step back on my own accord. Giving us space. “Just talk to me, bro.” Please.

  He’s stewing. Glaring.

  I snap. “This feud is in your fucking head, Quinn!” I point an angry finger at my temple.

  “In my head?!” He rams his hands at my chest, and I stumble back against the golf cart we up-righted together. We draw attention, but if I even look away from Quinn, it feels like the whole golf course will explode.

  “Quinn.” I come forward.

  He grabs the collar of my shirt like he’s trying to shake me. There’s so much fucking pain in his face that I don’t understand.

  Voices pitch all around us, but the cacophony bleeds away.

  It’s just me and my twenty-two-year-old brother.

  Talk to me.

  He takes a swing.

  I duck—he knew I’d duck.

  His right hook slams into my ribcage. Wind knocks out of me. I heave for breath. We honestly don’t physically fight like this a lot. I’ve been hit plenty of times in my life, but the worst ones always come from my brother.

  He comes back, and we grip each other. Wrestling upright, trying to get a strong hold, and we draw each other further away from the golf cart.

  His fist connects with my gut again.

  Fuck.

  He rams me into a sand pit. Little spotlights illuminate the pit, and I see better. I sock him in the jaw—just to keep Quinn from landing a harder blow.

  His lip is split—I split his lip.

  What the fuck am I doing? I feel sick, and I grapple trying to stand up in the sand. But we’re both taught to fight, not flee.

  We grew up learning to solve issues with our fists.

  Fight it out.

  I’ve never wanted to fight my brother.

  He socks my face, the blow so hard that I land on my ass. Blood fills my mouth; I wipe it with my hand while a groan rips through me. Another blow.

  And I hold my throbbing cheek. Stars in my eyes. I feel his anger seep into me, and he’s barely using force anymore.

  He’s kneeling and pounding a light fist into my arm. Breathing like he’s on the verge of crying.

  So raw and painful that I can’t for a second believe I didn’t do something to cause it.

  I’m sorry.

  I don’t know what the fuck I did, but I’m so sorry.

 
Arms pull at my shoulders and then drop to my waist, tugging me, and the voices around me suddenly come into focus. Like someone finally turned up the volume to the television.

  “STOP IT!” Jo is shrieking the loudest. She’s pulling at Quinn while I realize Farrow and Jack are dragging me away from the fight.

  “Oscar.” Jack’s voice draws my focus. He’s the one directly behind me. He’s the one who’s holding me around the waist and trying to tug me backwards. I realize, he has no Steadicam on anymore. He must’ve snapped it off his chest.

  My blood-stained palm slides on top of his hand that’s pressed against my abs.

  We’re still in the sand pit. My head is whirling. I turn more to Jack, my arm slipping around him.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks, wincing at my swollen cheek.

  “No.” I glance over at my brother who slowly rises to his feet. That hurts.

  Jack laces our fingers. It almost brings tears to my fucking eyes. Thank God he’s here right now. I suck in a sharp breath.

  “What’s wrong with you two?!” Jo screams at us as she holds onto Quinn’s bicep. He doesn’t dare try and fight against her. He spits a wad of blood into the sand.

  Thatcher and Akara jog towards us, and I sweep the green. Shit. Fuck me. We’re the center of attention. Guests have crowded the clubhouse’s deck in the distance. Watching us. And it has nothing to do with the golf cart crash.

  I can barely think straight right now. It barely registers when Akara says, “Get the fuck out of the sand pit.”

  Over comms I hear the Alpha lead say, “Kitsuwon, get a fucking lid on your men.”

  The air tenses.

  Heat expels from Akara like an inferno of anger. This is a bad look. Kitsuwon Securities is a new company with a low margin for error, and there’s always an undercurrent of acknowledgement that we’re competing in reputation with Price’s Triple Shield.

  All of us shuffle onto the green, leaving the bloody sand behind. We head towards the stolen golf cart and smashed bottles of champagne. “Akara—” I start.

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t fire both of you right now,” he spits, glancing between me and my brother. “One fucking reason!”

  Quinn and I are both quiet.

  He should really fire us.

  There’s no excuse for brawling at a charity event. But what is my life without security? It’s been a perfect fit from the start like nothing else.

  Jack disentangles our hands. “Akara.” He steps closer to my boss. “You can’t fire him.” He sounds like he’s negotiating a contract. Which would probably work for Highland, but this is security.

  This is SFO.

  He’s an interloper.

  Still, I have to applaud my boyfriend, he has some guts.

  Akara’s glare detours to Jack. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare use our friendship right here.”

  Jack looks hurt. “I can’t ask you for a favor, Akara? Really?”

  “Really,” Akara forces. “Not about this. You dating Oscar is great—I approve. Wonderful. But the second it interferes with my men and security, that’s where I have a fucking problem, Jack. I can’t do you a solid by giving partial treatment to Oscar. If he fucks up, there are repercussions.”

  Jack nods. “I understand and respect that, so throw out us talking friend-to-friend. How about just rational person to rational person? You can’t fire Oscar. Because you won’t find someone else who can be Charlie’s bodyguard. Not like him.”

  Mic drop.

  My mouth curves upward.

  Highland is good. He knows as long as I’m Charlie’s bodyguard, I might as well be tenured in the position.

  Akara cools off somewhat, not disagreeing with Jack.

  I nod to my boyfriend in appreciation, and he nods back with a rising forty-watt smile—but we celebrate too soon.

  “Mandatory Omega security meeting right after the charity event ends, for all of SFO,” Akara decrees. “Meet up in security’s bus. Temps will escort your clients home.”

  Right after the event?

  No, no, no.

  I’m supposed to drive Jack to his meeting with the docuseries execs. The make-or-break meeting—the one where he might come out with zero job. His whole world blown to smithereens, and I need to be there for my boyfriend. I need to be his shoulder to cry on. His pick-me-up. His pep talk and biggest fan.

  I can’t be stuck in a security meeting.

  My mind is a Tilt-A-Whirl, barely registering Akara’s next words.

  “Oscar and Quinn, you’re off-duty immediately. The SFO meeting is still mandatory, so you’ll have to stick around the event until it’s over.”

  I’m in no position to move the meeting to another day, but I try anyway. For Jack.

  Because he did so much more for me tonight.

  And what the hell am I even doing for him? “I have to be in Center City right after this,” I tell Akara.

  “I don’t care,” he snaps. “You fought in front of the fucking families. In front of guests. In front of Alpha and Epsilon. You’re so lucky I haven’t already fired you.”

  I know.

  Jack shrugs his shoulders in a way that punctures my heart. “It’s okay, Os.”

  It’s not. I shake my head.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Right after,” I make him promise.

  “Yeah. Right after.”

  The extra-wide security van has an aisle and four rows of black leather seats. We’re parked outside the golf course’s clubhouse. Six of seven SFO bodyguards are present. Everyone except Farrow. Not shocked. Just annoyed.

  Adjusting the icepack to my cheek, I check the time on my phone.

  I’m going to kill Redford. This shit can’t start without him.

  “Pringle?” Donnelly offers the slender can of BBQ Pringles to me. He’s in the row in front of mine, and we sit sideways, our heads against the tinted window, and I see a sliver of his face, the rest obstructed by the seat.

  “No thanks.” I can’t even stress eat right now.

  My baby bro is in the very first row near the driver’s seat. He’s had his earbuds in, staring out the window. The Moretti brothers and Akara are in a convo at the very back, so hushed that I can’t distinguish anything. Bet they’re discussing my brother’s fate in security.

  I’m irreplaceable, but Quinn can be let go.

  It weighs on me.

  Feeling choked, I pop a couple more buttons on my button-down. Most of the guys have shed the tailored suit jackets and undone ties. We look like a sober bachelor party that ended in a fistfight.

  It did end in a fistfight, Oliveira.

  I blow out a coarser breath.

  “How many times did it roll?” Donnelly asks more quietly. He means the golf cart.

  “I couldn’t tell.” Alright, I do steal a Pringle.

  Sweet, heavenly food.

  Donnelly crunches on a chip. “Been sayin’ all along Cobalts are invincible. Eliot and Tom have what—a cut? And Luna’s arm is probably broken.”

  “It is broken,” I whisper. “No fucking doubt about that, bro.”

  Donnelly sighs. He hates seeing the families hurt. We all do, but I’m gonna take solace in the fact that no one was gravely injured tonight.

  He stacks five Pringles together. “Bad luck crew.” He stuffs his mouth full, and I know he’s referring to the Hale family. He mumbles something about “Cobalts never die” with reverence.

  If Jack weren’t alone right now when I should be with him—I’d be grinning. I lick the barbeque seasoning off my thumb.

  And if Farrow were on time, he’d butt in with, “Technically, Charlie got hurt in the car crash last year. So did Ben. They’re not invincible.”

  But he’s not here to knock the Cobalt Empire down a few pegs. And we delight in the armored romanticism of our favorite famous family.

  I check the time again.

  Come on, Redford.

  “You’ll make it, man,” Donnelly reassures. “J
ack might be in the production meeting for a whole two hours.”

  True. I could catch him right as he leaves.

  If Farrow would hurry the fuck up.

  Three minutes pass.

  Then five more. “Kitsuwon,” I call to the back.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we just say Farrow is med team tonight and not SFO and start without him?”

  “I’ll catch him up,” Donnelly pipes in. “I can take notes.” He’s about to put on reading glasses.

  “We’re waiting for Farrow,” Akara decrees, his no-nonsense, strict perimeters part of my punishment, I think. “He’s SFO as much as he’s med team.”

  Fucking, ugh.

  The clock keeps moving.

  Ten more minutes, then another twenty. Three more Pringles cans dusted off. And finally, Farrow dips into the van. He barely reaches the first row, and I can’t bite my tongue.

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  He stops in the aisle, meeting my harsh glare with confusion. “At the hospital.” He throws his med bag on a vacant seat.

  Yeah…I feel like a dick.

  “Is Luna alright?” Quinn asks about his client.

  Salt meet wound. Biggest jackass award goes to me.

  “She needed X-rays,” Farrow explains. “She’ll be okay.” That’s all he can really reveal under doctor-patient confidentiality. He takes a seat across the aisle from mine and shakes his head at me like what the fuck is wrong?

  I haven’t had time to talk to him about Jack’s meeting. So Farrow didn’t know the importance of getting the fuck out of here ASAP.

  “Tell you later,” I mutter, our eyes veering as Akara heads to the front. Standing, our boss starts the meeting.

  Let’s go.

  I’m ready to end this thing.

  Akara snaps his fingers to his palm. “We all know what happened tonight is grounds for termination. I want to make this absolutely clear, if we were all still employed by Triple Shield, I wouldn’t have the power to keep you two around.” He looks from Quinn to me. “You’d be fired.” He addresses everyone now. “We don’t all have to be best friends, but if we’re going at it—the families should never know. We should appear like an unbreakable fortress, and if we show our asses, we’ve failed. They need to have unwavering faith in our ability to protect them at all fucking times.”