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

by Krista Ritchie

  God, if I had to do this without him…I can’t think it. Don’t want to even imagine it. I realize it doesn’t matter what he’s here as—my boyfriend or some limited edition husband. It makes no difference. His support is still the same spellbinding force that carries me tonight.

  I take a breath and turn to my brother.

  Quinn drops his arms. “It used to be easier ignoring you and just letting the silence eat at us. But every time we’re in therapy it’s so fucking unbearable.” He grinds down on his teeth. “Because I have to sit there knowing that you’re the reason I still have a job. You did something good for me. You were willing to quit security for me.” His eyes redden. “But I still can’t stop hating you.”

  What did I do?

  “Just tell me why you hate me so much. I want to know, Quinn.” Desperation clings to my voice. “Please.”

  Colorful lights dance across his cheek, across the scar beneath his eye. Someone in the distance cheers as they win the strongman game.

  He waits for their celebration to end before speaking. “Telling you won’t change a damn thing,” he breathes. “Other than kill me and hurt you.”

  “This has already killed you, bro. It’s already hurt me.”

  He chokes on a sob and presses a hand to his eyes.

  I want to comfort him, but I’m afraid it’ll just incite his anger. “Whatever it is,” I end up saying, “you don’t need to carry it on your own anymore. I’m here.”

  He lets out a staggered breath, nearing a panicked laugh. “You’re here,” he repeats and stares at the grass. “You know I used to idolize you. My big brother. Oscar Oliveira. The strongest, biggest badass I knew.” His eyes meet mine, and he struggles with the next words. “I’d follow you around everywhere. You remember that? I’d tell you: “Quando eu crescer, quero ser como você.” When I grow up, I want to be like you.

  It hurts to breathe. “I remember.” He was just a little kid. Five or six.

  He twists the silver chain around his neck. Our mom gave him the necklace after his confirmation. A pendant of Saint Michael the Archangel is engraved in the middle. “What about when I was really little?” he asks me. “You remember how you’d bend down to my height and you’d put both hands on the top of my head, and you’d tell me: Eu sempre vou te proteger.” I’ll always protect you.

  We’re in an open field, but it feels like walls are closing in around me. I’m back in Vienna, trapped in an elevator. This time it’s just me and my brother and the gnarled roots we’ve kept buried for years.

  “I remember,” I whisper.

  His nose flares. “You’d say that over and over. Eu sempre vou te proteger. Eu sempre vou te proteger. Even when I was nine, and you left for Yale, I believed you.” He ruptures into tears. “You kept telling it to me when you were hundreds of miles away, and I fucking believed you!”

  I choke on my own breath. What happened? What the fuck happened?! I want to scream it. I want to protect him right now. I did something…I didn’t do something. I’m so lost, but I feel his fucking pain, and I want it to end. “Quinn, I love you—you have to know that.”

  His hand goes to his heart, and he fists the fabric of his shirt like he’s trying to stop the organ from beating. “Your love is weak, Oscar. It never protected me.”

  I blink back tears, a hand to my mouth. Jack edges close like he means to comfort me, but I just shake my head. No…no…my brother wants to hurt me. Needs to. I’m going to let him.

  “You came home eventually,” Quinn continues. “But it wasn’t long before you joined security, and then you might as well have left all over again. Eu sempre vou te proteger. Fucking bullshit.” He sucks in a harsh breath. “I was fifteen.” He chokes. “Fifteen. You were twenty-fucking-five and you couldn’t protect me!”

  He just gave me an age…a timeline.

  For the first moment in my life, I know when our relationship shattered. This news pulverizes me to the very core. “Fifteen?” I breathe, knowing this was before. Before he started training to box.

  “High school was hard. Every day, I went there knowing I’d be shoved into a locker or railed on. Stupid shit that you’d think only happens in the movies,” Quinn says, teeth clenching, “but I was the loser who landed into every fucking cliché.”

  “I don’t understand. You were popular in high school,” I say, desperate to make sense of this. “You were co-captain of the field hockey team.” Though I know that sport got dropped as soon as he took up boxing.

  “But you never saw the other co-captain slam me against the locker room walls. Never saw my teammates shove my face into the grass.” He blinks. “You just assumed that I was popular because I played sports? My team hated me. They hated me for no fucking reason other than I cried when I got knocked down. Same reason dad spit-screamed into my face the first month of training.” He shrugs but it’s stiff like his whole body is made of iron. “And maybe I deserved it. I was just counting on my big brother to come save me or something.” His eyes sink into mine. “But that never happened.”

  Eu sempre vou te proteger.

  I will always protect you.

  “If you would’ve called me—”

  “You’d what? Drop everything to run home and help me? You never came home! These guys were fucking with me every goddamn day. Over and over. You couldn’t stop what they already knew. I was weak. I had no one.”

  I’m hung up on the word guys. My stomach churns. “How many?” I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “How many guys, Quinn?!” I scream, eyes burning.

  His voice cracks into a cry. “I told you. The whole fucking team.”

  He didn’t even have a chance. My brother…my baby brother was getting beat to shit, and I never knew. Never helped him. I was too busy protecting someone else. Someone who was paying for my protection, and I’d promised it to Quinn. Because he’s my brother. He’s my blood.

  Dizziness sets in, and I squat down. Hands on my head.

  Quinn takes a large breath, chest rising. “I don’t need you anymore. I don’t need anyone, bro. I got stronger than everyone in the family, so that I could finally protect myself.” He jabs a finger at his chest.

  I slowly rise. Colorful lights spinning around us are banging in my head. “Then why’d you quit boxing?” I always assumed he quit to follow me into security. But I know I’m wrong.

  He wipes a hand across his jaw. “I couldn’t stand it.” He drops his hand, and he squeezes his fingers in a fist like he’s trying to force something back. “Oscar, I don’t just hate boxing. I fucking loathe it. People all around me cheering to hit him. Kill him. Harm another person. For what? Applause? A fucking trophy?”

  The ring is violent. More than once have I been the recipient of those cries to murder. But we’ve grown up around the combat sport, it’s just…normal to me.

  Quinn grimaces into a shake of his head. “No. I’m not doing that.”

  “Then you could have gone to college,” I tell him. “You could have made a different life for yourself.”

  “I want this!” Quinn points at the ground. “I want to defend people. Protect people. To be a force of good. You know why I go off comms like Farrow? Why I replicate his style of bodyguarding? Because he needs no one. Not any of the team. He can rely on himself, and that’s all I’ve ever fucking wanted.”

  This need for self-reliance stems deep. All the way back to being bullied in high school. Bullied. Fuck, my baby brother was bullied. I want to cry or hug him. I fucking hate myself. Because never in a million years did I think Quinn—my brother who could knock me out—was once tormented every day by his peers. And he’s right, if I’d been there for him, I would have put an end to every last fucker who laid a hand on him.

  But I was barely around.

  “Quinn—”

  He cuts me off, “I realize now that I never would’ve been this good of a fighter, if you didn’t fail at protecting me.” Just like that, heat extinguishes from his gaze. “I
guess I can thank you for that.”

  It’s a final blow.

  A knockout.

  He is all that he is because of me. All that rage. All that pain.

  “Quinn,” I breathe. I have to try to mend this, and maybe I finally can now that I know what’s broken. “I’m so fucking sorry. For the rest of my life, I’ll always be sorry.” I step closer. “I didn’t protect you then, and I know it’s too late now.” We’re near enough that I put a hand to the back of his head. He tries to shove me away, but it’s not as hard or forceful as he’s done before. I barely sway.

  And I keep my hand rooted tight onto his head.

  Tears stream down his cheeks.

  “I love you,” I tell him. “I should have never made you that promise, if I wasn’t going to keep it.” He claws at my shirt, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to push me away or hold on. “You don’t have to stop hating me, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  He splinters into a sob and collapses in my arms. His forehead on my shoulder, he full-body heaves into tears. “I want to stop hating you,” he mumbles into my shirt. “I just don’t know how.”

  I keep my hand to the top of his head, trying to take his pain. “This is a start.” That’s all that matters in the end. A start. A beginning. We’ve been resting in purgatory for so long, unable to communicate with one another, that it felt like we’d never reach this point.

  My own tears slide off my jaw, and I glance over his shoulder. I see Jack.

  He wipes at his face, and he gives me a nod. I love you, he mouths. I’m proud of you.

  That gets to me because I’ve questioned how I’ve handled my relationship with my brother for so many years. Jack has been a model big brother to Jesse. And having Jack’s support and understanding through this is a beacon of light.

  We both carry responsibility for being ten-years older than our brothers. He knows how my words back then, promising to protect Quinn, were like indelible ink in our bond.

  I hug my brother tighter.

  “Oscar!” Gabe’s voice shocks both Quinn and me apart. The temp bodyguard runs towards us, and my brother and I quickly rub at our faces. I’m not ashamed for someone to see me cry, but this feels too personal to show.

  Gabe skids to a halt beside me, out of breath with sweat running down his temple. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He huffs, hands to his knees. “I can’t find Charlie.”

  Jack picks up his camera bag in a swift frenzy.

  I try not to get worried. This has happened plenty of times before. But tonight feels different. Everything is different. I worry my brother will think this is a choice. Him or Charlie.

  Quinn turns to me. “We can split up. It’ll be faster.” Our eyes lock, and I can’t say forgiveness draws between us, but something closer to acceptance. We’re both bodyguards. He’s here to stay, and I’m finally at peace with that.

  “That’s a good idea,” I tell him and start unwinding the wire off my radio. “You take the west side.”

  “Copy.” He’s about to jog off, but he stops for a second and turns to me. “Senti sua falta.” I’ve missed you.

  When he leaves, I expect to be left with relief. But I just feel guilty. Angry, even. Furious at myself. I should have pushed harder. I should have done more. I’m full of pent-up rage, and I know this isn’t the right head space to do my job, but I still have a job to do.

  39

  JACK HIGHLAND

  “We’re going to find him,” I assure Oscar with all my confidence. He hasn’t said anything, but I know he’s worried. His shoulders have curved forward, and his eyes carry a kind of scary, intense vigilance that I’ve only seen when crowds start amassing onto Charlie.

  “I know we are,” he says. “I’m just hoping he’s in one piece.”

  We’ve split up from Gabe and Quinn, and Oscar has already radioed in to see if anyone has spotted his client. I text my brother and walk quickly. Are you around Charlie? I hit send.

  My eyes are on my phone, so it jolts me when I collide with a hard body. I stumble back.

  “Hey, watch it!” the man growls. He’s waiting in line for cotton candy, an arm around his girlfriend.

  Oscar stops two feet ahead and swerves around. “Watch yourself!”

  “It’s fine…” My voice trails off as my phone pings.

  I left him a half hour ago at the teacups to grab B-roll. – Utoy

  Fuck.

  Oscar’s not moving; he’s throwing daggers with his eyes at the cotton candy guy. “He keeps on fucking smiling at us, bro. I’m about to lose it.” His anger clearly stems from a deeper place. He just learned about Quinn’s past and his role in it, and he’s had exactly zero seconds to really sit with those feelings.

  “Come on, Os.” I pull him away from the cotton candy stand.

  He misses sight of a teenager who rips the radio off his waistband with a laugh. The force yanks the earpiece from his ear and snaps the mic cord. Oscar curses, then casts out a hand to grab it back.

  The teenager freaks. Drops the radio, and we both watch several feet stampede over the device, the crowd moving fast with shrieks as they spot the Calloway sisters together.

  “Fuck,” Oscar swears, picking up the battered radio.

  That is very, very broken. He can’t call security for back-up if we run into trouble. Truth is, he’s often on his own around the world anyway.

  Oscar tucks the pieces in his back pocket and looks off to where we were headed.

  “Let’s keep going, dude,” I say. “Jesse hasn’t seen him.”

  Oscar nods and follows my stride. Pace for pace. We stop behind every ride. Every booth. Every game. There’s only one place we haven’t looked.

  Bumper cars.

  Located in the far back of the carnival, all the lights are off. We pass an out of order sign set up a few yards from the tent. Looks like the sign has warded off people. Aluminum stairs lead up to the metal floor where brightly colored bumper cars sit motionless like a graveyard.

  Stairs let out a squeak as Oscar and I jog up them, and it dawns on me how quieter it is over here. Metal poles jut from the backs of bumper cars to the ceiling of the tent. We weave between them like we’re winding around an obstacle course.

  When I pass a neon blue car, I hear heavy breaths and shuffled feet. And I see figures. Bodies. Fuck, fuck. We launch into a sprint.

  Aimed for the back near pink and yellow bumper cars. Where Charlie is curled up on the floor. Three white guys in preppy shirts are kicking his ribs.

  “GET OFF HIM!” Oscar yells. My legs pump beneath me.

  Charlie holds his head, elbows curved in to protect his face.

  Pulse speeding, I run faster, and we reach the guys. They turn on us, and Oscar blocks and dodges blows like a pro. Mostly all self-defense.

  I just want to reach Charlie. One guy impedes my path, and his fist slams against my jaw before I even blink. Pain wells in my mouth. I spit out a wad of blood, splattering my shirt.

  Jesus, shit. I drop my gear off me like it’s not the most precious thing I have. I hear the split of my camera. Then a crack. But I can’t tell if that comes from my equipment or Charlie’s body as that same guy rotates and kicks him again.

  “JACK!” Oscar shouts.

  “I’m okay,” I say in a shocked breath.

  I’ve never been in a fistfight before. And I’m dating a boxer—no, I’m married to a boxer.

  Come on.

  I can’t let this one guy beat up Charlie. Oscar is busy prying the weight of two stocky, preppy guys off him. Both try to physically drag him to the ground like sandbags.

  And the third guy gears up to kick Charlie again.

  “HEY!” I shove him hard, but he seizes my wrist. We wrestle standing up, pulse echoing in my ears, and his fist rams into my stomach in three successive waves.

  Fuck.

  I cough and cough. Keeled over, hands on my thighs.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack,” Oscar calls quickly, pained at my pain. Two guy
s still latch to his body—he’s trying not to create a bloodbath and punch the guys to hell. He wrenches them off faster.

  I battle for breath as the same guy turns on Charlie.

  I go for him again.

  To protect Charlie. No question. I’d do it for Jesse. I’d do it for Quinn.

  “STOP!” I yell.

  He whirls around and lunges at me. I push, he shoves, and he has better hold. He thrusts me forward with too much force. And my forehead collides with a metal pole.

  Everything goes dark.

  40

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  Jack collapses on the metal floor hard. Knocked out. KO’d. My heart bangs shrilly in my chest as I slam the bastard—the one who shoved Jack at a metal pole—right into a green bumper car. His two friends took off wheezing after I elbowed them in their windpipes.

  He’s the last threat.

  Protocol: Restrain him. Zip tie him. Call authorities.

  My husband lies unmoving feet away. My client hasn’t stirred since the last kick to his ribs.

  My fingers tighten around his preppy collar as he thrashes against my stronghold. Rage makes a home in my body, and I want to redo the past. Fix the mistakes I made with Quinn and beat the living shit out of this guy. But Jack’s unconscious.

  Jack’s fucking unconscious.

  That thought runs over and over, panicking me more.

  Fuck, protocol.

  I dig into his pockets, grab his wallet, and toss him to the ground like he weighs as much as a feather pillow. He’s lighter than the other two. “Get the fuck out of here before I kill you,” I growl.

  He scrambles to his feet, stumbling as he sprints out of the tent. My chest rises and falls heavily as I reroute my attention. My eyes dart back and forth.

  Jack.

  Charlie.

  I have to choose.

  I’m sorry.

  Every step I take is weighted with guilt and worry, until I’m on my knees beside Jack. His eyes are closed shut, and a bump already starts forming on his forehead. Blood stains his shirt, his lip busted open.