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

by Krista Ritchie

  I scrolled to the comment section.

  Oscar is HOTT.

  Wow! He’s got to be “the pro” in bed, right?

  YUM. So when Oscar’s done with Charlie and Jack? Can I get a bite of that?

  And that last comment charged me up enough to almost type out the words: You can’t, I’m married to him. Okay, I did type out the words, but I restrained myself from posting. Partly because it wouldn’t change a thing.

  I know that. Producer cred and all.

  Still, I sit with these heavy feelings today. Jealousy mixed with indecision. And what am I jealous of? Some random person calling Oscar hot on the internet? Maybe I just want people to know that he’s really mine forever. To finally believe me when they keep doubting the truth because of the Oslie rumors.

  But I’m aware that yelling “Oscar Oliveira is my husband!” would be short-term bliss.

  Some people will just take the marriage as a PR ploy. Warp it into something it’s not. And that’s why I ultimately need the time to think the annulment over. Maybe if we actually wait to get married down the road, people won’t judge so harshly.

  I hate that I’m factoring in other people in my future with Oscar. When really all I want is him, but it’s been my life—my career—to understand outside perception. What it all means.

  FYI: I looked up how long I have to decide before we can no longer get an annulment. Five years. So I have five whole years to live in this unbearable limbo.

  Can’t wait that long—that’s all I know.

  And at least I know something, right?

  Finished with the WAC shoot today, I stuff my camera into its bag. Luna’s wiping her swollen eyes with tissues I handed her. Sharpie drawings decorate a neon-green cast around her arm. The golf cart crash caused a bone fracture that’s healing.

  She’s curled up on a beanbag in the loft of Superheroes & Scones. The store closed early so we could film here, and she’s spent the last hour talking about all the headlines that surround her.

  The ones that are obsessed with her nightly clubbing. How she’s been “spotted” kissing different guys on the same night, sometimes at the same place.

  I gently asked her if she wanted to discuss the other media headline. Tabloids hyper-focus on any of the famous ones’ changes: tattoos, haircuts, weight-gains. And they’ve noticed that Luna has worn pants practically all summer long.

  She didn’t want to talk about it for the show, but she told me that Donnelly tattooed her leg, up to her hip, and she’s afraid of her dad finding out.

  I promised, like always, to keep the secret.

  Hugging her another time, I tell Luna, “Remember, we don’t have to air anything, if you don’t want to.” I’m referring to our talk about the nightclubs.

  “When do I have to make a decision by?” She crumples the tissue.

  “No deadline.”

  If she wants it in the show, it’ll appear in the upcoming season. If she doesn’t, I’ll be the only person that ever sees this footage.

  “Thanks, Jack.” She tugs the string of her hoodie.

  I stand and hook the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Do you want me to call someone? Tom, Eliot, your older brother, maybe?”

  She shakes her head. “I think I’m just gonna hang out alone for a little bit.”

  “Will I see you at the carnival later?”

  H.M.C. Philanthropies is hosting a Carnival Fundraiser tonight, and I’m supposed to be filming Charlie there for Born into Fame. It already started about an hour ago, so Jesse’s at the carnival in my place.

  She nods. “I’m gonna stop by. I don’t want to miss the Gravitron.”

  That eases me a bit. It’ll be good for Luna to be around family.

  “See you then.” I take the spiral staircase to the bottom floor. Her bodyguard is the only person here. Quinn Oliveira sits in the red vinyl booth by a window, scrolling through his phone. He glances up when I’m about a foot away.

  “She ready?”

  I shake my head. “She wants to be alone.” I readjust the bag as it slips off my shoulder. “How’s the therapy going with Oscar?”

  He makes a noise that sounds a lot like a sigh and a snort crossed together. “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He’s told me some,” I admit. “You guys don’t talk during the sessions. Has that changed?”

  Quinn messes with a saltshaker. “Why would it?”

  I shrug with a warm smile. “Maybe the therapist broke through?”

  Quinn narrows his eyes at me. “I know what you’re doing, Jack. You can pretend to be nice and act like we’re friends, but it’s not working.”

  Alright then. “Quinn,” I say. “I’m generally nice to everyone, and I know we’re not friends. But if you don’t want to talk, that’s cool.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Fine,” I say into a tight nod. “I’ll see you at the carnival.”

  38

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  This is my least favorite kind of carnival: ones that resemble state fairs with Ferris wheels, carousels, funhouses, and milk bottle games for entertainment.

  Nothing really beats Carnaval in Brazil, a celebration that marks the beginning of Lent. The blocos alone are out of this world. Bouncing from one bloco to the next, each with different themes, music, and signature styles. Polka-dots, masks, ribbons. I’ve only been a couple times, but they’re still some of my favorite memories. Doused in glitter, sometimes wearing costumes, drinking and dancing the night away. There’s nothing like it.

  Maybe one day I can take Jack.

  That thought does a number on me. Because here I’m thinking about the future when we can barely scrape together what we are now.

  A gust of funnel cake wafts in my direction. The heavenly, powder-sugary smell floods my senses. Changed my mind, I don’t hate this kind of carnival because I do love their food. It’s the eat-on-the-go goodness that my body craves.

  But there’s no time to eat.

  Not when the fair grounds are jam-packed. Tickets sold out in less than an hour, and all the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are in attendance.

  Comms chatter is soft in my ear, so I’m aware of everyone’s location. How Maximoff and Farrow are on the Ferris wheel with their son, a bucket above Thatcher and Jane. Most of the Cobalts hang around the carnival game booths, and the Meadows family have been bopping around the higher adrenaline rides.

  My main focus stays on the carousel.

  For the past thirty minutes, my client has been lounging on one of the few double-bench chairs shaped like a boat. He’s smoking a cigarette, reading a book, and ignoring the girls that try to converse with him from nearby carousel horses, bobbing up and down. I’ve lost count of the rotations the carousel has made, but no one tries to kick him off.

  Normally, I’d be the one standing right next to Charlie. But these kinds of rides, even the slow-ass carousel make me want to puke. Instead, I’ve sent in Gabe to hug onto the pole next to Charlie’s bench.

  Evening approaches, but the sun hasn’t set yet, making it easier to do my job.

  Donnelly rounds the corner with a plate of funnel cake. My stomach lets out an audible groan. “Donnelly,” I say. “Please say that’s for me.”

  “Why else would I come over here?” He holds out the plate, and nods to Jesse. “Hey, little J.”

  Camera equipment weighs down Jack’s little brother as he films a wide shot of Charlie on the carousel. Ten minutes ago, I took pity on the kid and grabbed one of the bags. It’s heavy on my shoulder, but it won’t break my back like Jesse.

  “Where’s Big J?” Donnelly asks me.

  “Jack,” I emphasize, “is heading over. He just got done shooting Luna.” I rip off a chunk of the fried dough. “This smells fucking amazing, bro.”

  “The deal was dope, too. Some girl offered to give it to me. All I had to do was spit in her mouth.”

  Ugh. I drop the funnel cake piece back on the plate. “That’s disgusting.”

  He p
icks my chunk and tosses the fried dough onto his tongue. “I didn’t spit in the funnel cake, man.” He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. “I spit in her mouth.”

  “Bro, I got that part. It’s still gross. This wasn’t yours.”

  “It is now,” he says. “She only had like three bites before she gave it to me.”

  So gross. So fucking gross. I rub my hand down my pants, wishing I had some sanitizer right now. Love Donnelly, but I don’t want to touch anything from someone who’d pay to spit in his mouth.

  Jesse glances at us with a grimace. “Why did she want you to spit in her mouth?”

  Donnelly shrugs. “I dunno. Said she thought the Ass-Kicker SFO bodyguard was hot. But pretty sure her friends dared her to do it.” He smiles. “Jokes on them. I got this.” He holds up the plate of funnel cake like it’s made of gold.

  Know the feeling.

  Don’t feel it now.

  Donnelly’s attention deviates to the carousel. “Are those dragons?”

  “Yeah.” Along with horses and boats, people can ride unicorns and dragons.

  “Xander would’ve loved this.” Donnelly glances around at the amassing people, the sun beginning to drop behind the rides and food stands. “Not these crowds though. Fuck me, there are a lot people here.”

  While Xander’s at home, SFO put a temp on his detail, letting Donnelly join the carnival’s security for the night.

  Jesse nods to me. “I’m going to get a shot from the other side of the carousel.”

  He leaves, and Donnelly stares at the bag on my shoulder for a long beat.

  “Bro, just spit it out.”

  “I was just thinking,” Donnelly says, “that Kitsuwon’s giant-sized manual clearly states not to carry production equipment for We Are Calloway. You a rulebreaker now or what?”

  “Just a motherfucker in love.”

  “With Jesse?” Donnelly quips, whipping his head to where the little Highland just left. One thing people never get right when they first meet Donnelly: he’s a smart motherfucker.

  He plays dumb too well.

  His smirk lands on me.

  I let out a dry laugh. “That’d be funnier if you weren’t eating someone’s leftover funnel cake while you said it.”

  He sticks out his tongue, showing off chewed up funnel cake.

  I grin. “You are seriously disgusting, bro.”

  He closes his mouth into a smile, and swallows down the rest of the food. Both of us suddenly grow quiet. An unspoken thing hanging.

  Pinging and chiming sounds of carnival games and lively music from the nearby Tilt-A-Whirl fill the silence, but the strain isn’t dissolved. We’re dodging the unsaid topic. It sits between us like that funnel cake in his hands.

  Crowds gather nearby around a ring toss stand. Tom and Eliot Cobalt bought giant bags of plastic rings and throw fistfuls at glass soda bottles.

  When Donnelly focuses back on me, I just go ahead and ask, “How much money is Scottie taking from you?”

  Donnelly chews slowly on the funnel cake. “He’s not taking anything. I’m givin’ it to him willingly.”

  So Scottie did want money. I’m at least right on that one.

  “Semantics aside,” I say. “Bro, how much?”

  He shrugs.

  “I’m not Redford,” I remind him. “You didn’t do me a solid. I didn’t put you up at Yale. And if that doesn’t convince you, I distinctly remember Redford calling you a viral mouth sore.”

  “Yeah, but he said it so fondly. What’s not to love about being a viral mouth sore?” He laughs.

  I smile. “Donnelly…”

  “I give him my paycheck,” he finally admits with an easy nonchalance. Like that was never a big deal at all. But the weight of the statement hits me hard. Crashes against my chest.

  I almost rock back.

  “Fuck.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. I’m picking up some jobs on the side. Look.” He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a hand-drawn business card. Tattoos by Donnelly. On the back is his phone number. “Been passing these out all night.”

  I wonder how many prank calls he’ll get.

  But I also know there will be lots of people who want a tattoo from the Ass-Kicker SFO bodyguard. Still makes me nauseous that he’s essentially protecting Xander for free. Since he joined security, he’s been doing tattoos on his own time because he loved it. Not because he needed the money.

  “Boyfriend’s here.”

  It takes me a minute to realize Donnelly is talking about my boyfriend. Or I guess my husband. But that could change, so Jack’s like my short-term husband. Fuck, I hate even the sound of that.

  Ugh. Need to come up with something better.

  How about: Limited Edition Hottie Husband. Yeah, we’re going with that one. I pass the business card back to Donnelly as Jack approaches.

  Jack’s eyes fall to the camera bag on my shoulders. “You shouldn’t be carrying that. Where’s Jesse?’

  “It’s not a problem, Highland.” But I am passing him the bag anyway because the look in his eyes basically says give it to me now. “And he’s around the other side of the carousel.”

  Comms light up in my ear. “Akara to Donnelly, head over to the ring toss. Eliot and Tom need extra security.”

  “Cobalts who slay together, stay together,” Donnelly says as he leaves, throwing up a hand gesture that means love you.

  Once out of earshot, I fill Jack in on what I learned about Donnelly.

  “Shit,” Jack breathes. “All of his money?”

  “I’m more worried about what happens if Scottie starts asking for more.” I swallow hard. It might happen, and Donnelly doesn’t have more to give, but he’s found creative ways to earn cash before. Some ways worse than others.

  It’s a mess. Especially because he won’t ask for help. He’ll reject it no matter how many times it’s offered.

  Darkness blankets over the carnival, colorful lights flashing brighter and the upbeat music growing louder. I quickly study Jack’s face. He’s quieter than normal, and I wonder if it has anything to do with his shoot with Luna. He usually gets like this after an emotional exchange—like he’s working through his head what he heard.

  He carries a lot of other people’s secrets. I never pressure him for them, but there have been times he’s volunteered some up just to me. Sometimes that makes him feel better. Other times, I think it’s easier for him to keep them to himself, and seeing as how I’ve protected plenty of Charlie’s secrets, I can understand and respect that.

  “Your brother is doing a good job tonight, Highland. If you need a second before you start working—”

  “Yeah,” he says into a slow nod. “Yeah, I might need that.”

  I reach down and take his hand, squeezing tight. My attention trains back to Charlie, but my client is now on the move. I see him leave the carousel, and Gabe is about half a minute late on comms.

  “Gabe to Oscar, Charlie’s headed towards the teacups.”

  Fuck, another spin ride. I’d think Charlie was doing this on purpose, but 90% of the rides look like I’d hurl on them.

  I click my mic. “Copy. I’m on my way.” I step one foot in that direction, before I stop cold.

  Quinn—my brother—he’s charging towards me with long, determined strides. Luna is nowhere near him, and I think the worst. Something happened to her.

  Jack squeezes my hand now.

  “Quinn—” I start.

  My brother must see the concern flash across my face. Quickly, he tells me, “Before you fucking blow your shit, Luna has a temp on her detail.” He cringes in guilt when a young boy passes us, who heard him curse. His eyes fix back on me. “Akara’s letting me take tonight off.” He stuffs his hands in his pants pockets, thumbs out. “Can we talk?”

  On instinct, my vigilant eyes dart to my client. Charlie’s halfway to the teacups.

  Quinn lets out a strained noise. “Fuck, bro. I’m asking for ten minutes of your time. Spare me that.”

&n
bsp; His words, his pained voice sends a shockwave of anguish through me. Quickly, I whisper in comms that I’m taking a break for the night. Prying the earpiece from my ear, I unclip my radio, hurriedly winding the cord around the device.

  Quinn frowns. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going off-duty,” I say. “If you want to talk, I don’t want to put a time limit on it. You’ve got me for the night, Quinn.” I don’t know why he’s chosen tonight, but I don’t risk asking.

  Jack shifts a camera to his left hand, then motions towards the teacups. “I’ll let you guys catch up. I’m going to go film Char—”

  “Wait,” Quinn says swiftly. “Can you…I think…it’d just be best if you were around for this.”

  Same.

  The likelihood of Quinn and I throwing fists at some part of this conversation is too high. We need a mediator, and I’m seconding the Jack Highland nomination.

  Jack looks between us, sensing the tension. And he hikes the camera bag’s strap higher up his shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere quieter, then.”

  We end up on the plot of grass between a strongman game and the Gravitron, a domed ride where people line up and disappear inside. Our spot is out of the brighter lights, and for how busy the carnival fundraiser is tonight, this is as close to private as we’ll find.

  Quinn puts his hands on his head, elbows out like he just finished a 5K. His broken gaze drills into me. “I hate you, you know. Like I really hate you.”

  Those words slice me up worse than his fists ever have. I nod slowly. “Yeah, I’ve felt that,” I tell him.

  He grinds down on his teeth. His wavy hair blows in the wind. Jack unhooks his camera bag from his broad shoulder, dropping the thing to the grass. I meet understanding in his gaze, and he gives me a strong nod, shooting strength through my veins.