“You’re bleeding,” I tell him. “You want me to call Farrow?” He’s on the med team.
But mention of my best friend causes Charlie to roll his eyes. Farrow isn’t Charlie’s cup of tea, mostly for the fact that he’s attached to Charlie’s least favorite cousin, Maximoff Hale. But more recently, Maximoff and Charlie have put their feud to bed.
Charlie will often say things to me like, “You have a strange choice in friends.” “You sure you don’t want to reevaluate your friendship with him?” “Why are you friends with a self-righteous, arrogant asshole?”
Farrow and I go way back.
But I don’t shoot the shit with Charlie like that.
I’d give him a half-second look and say, “Worry about your own friendships, or lack thereof.” He’d take the diss with an impressed smile.
Charlie and I aren’t friends.
Let me make this clear.
We.
Are.
Not.
Friends.
I am not a buddy-guard. So when Charlie makes small remarks that edge on lethal injections, I don’t play into his hand. He can do that with his actual friends.
In the alleyway, Charlie barely glances at the bloody spot and says, “It hardly even stings.” He flicks his cigarette to the side, and I catch a faint note of disappointment in his voice.
I tense. “You at least want a Band-Aid? You’re ruining your shirt.” My phone vibrates against my ass, but I don’t retrieve my cell. It’s more likely it’s a personal text. I swivel the volume of my radio and listen. Seeing if I missed anything over comms.
The line is close to dead.
Comms have been quiet tonight. Not surprising. We all just got back from Italy yesterday, where Farrow and Maximoff had their wedding in Anacapri. Not much is going on now.
Most of the families are resting in Philly. And the ones in New York—mainly three of Charlie’s brothers—are safe and sound in their Hell’s Kitchen apartment at the moment. Charlie is the only one gallivanting across the city in the middle of the fucking night like a blood-thirsty vampire.
Hey, he is legitimately as popular as Edward Cullen could ever be.
Charlie finally glances at the red stain on his white, shredded button-down. “No Band-Aid. It’ll sell more if it has my blood on it.” He says it so casually, like that’s the most normal reaction in the world.
“CHARLIE!!”
Our heads swerve at the same time. Charlie’s adorers have found him, and they’re running toward him like he can conjure water in a drought.
I don’t ask him where he wants to go or what he wants to do. I grab his wrist and tug him towards the other end of the alleyway.
“Ohmygod OSLIE IS REAL!”
Fuck.
Every tendon in my body tightens, but I don’t drop Charlie’s wrist. Mainly because there’s a 50% chance the guy will let the stampeding pack of fans plow him down if I do. And I’ve taken his wrist before. I’ve had to physically pull him in my direction plenty of times.
Never did it elicit this reaction.
Never did it hinder my job.
Until those fucking rumors.
Charlie Cobalt and Oscar Oliveira are a couple!
Farrow and Thatcher, two Omega bodyguards, decided to not only date their clients but put a ring on them. And it’s fucked me to hell. Because now fans think SFO is some pretend security firm as a front to hide relationships with clients. So they think Charlie and I are an item, and it’s so far from the truth.
Adrenaline and annoyance make a home in my body. Charlie seems unperturbed but he keeps glancing at me and then back at the girls. We reach the curb just as the Uber Black skids to a halt in front of us. Timing isn’t always my friend, but I’m thankful it’s in my corner tonight.
Charlie doesn’t argue with me as I open the door and guide him inside.
“Where’d you set the address?” Charlie asks me as I shut the door.
“Your apartment.”
“Can I have your phone?”
I know the drill. As I pass it to Charlie, I tell the driver. “Frank, we’re about to change our destination. Is that a problem?”
The heavy-set man shakes his head. “Not at all. Just give me a second to let the GPS recalculate.”
“Done,” Charlie whispers to me and hands the phone back. “Your sister texted you.”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to distract me by bringing up my baby sister. Or if he’s pointing out that he saw her message to annoy me.
Whatever the case, I take a quick glance at the message while the Uber pulls onto the street.
I found an apartment & roommate on Craigslist. Meeting them tomorrow. Rent is affordable. Im not living at home anymore. I cant do it – Baby Sis
Fuck, Joana.
I text fast and feel Charlie’s eyes on my fingers.
Just live with me. There’s room. I hit send.
She’s quick to reply.
I like the Craigslist place – Baby Sis
My nineteen-year-old rebellious sister loves to stick it to our dad whenever she can, and I’d say eight times out of ten, he probably deserves the hard time. She’s stubbornly set on Craigslist, maybe to cause waves. Because Joana rooming with me will please our parents.
I’m the oldest by a longshot. I celebrated my thirty-second birthday a couple months ago, and my sister and brother are a whole decade younger than me.
This is a bad time to have a text war with my sister. I’m on-duty. So after I send a brief message saying, I’ll call later, I shut out the text thread.
Juggling family life among a never-sleeping job is hard. Anyone who says differently hasn’t met the Oliveira clan.
My eyes flit to the car windows. Yeah, I have no clue where we’re going, but at least we’re not being trailed or flanked by paparazzi vans.
I open up the Uber app and glance at the new address Charlie plugged in. My brows furrow.
My veins pump harder.
What the actual fuck?
I figured he’d take us to the airport.
But I’m staring at an address to The Walnut, an apartment building in Philadelphia. It can’t be a coincidence that Jack Highland lives there. I rub a hand through the thick curly strands of my hair.
“Why are we going to The Walnut?” I question outright.
Charlie leans back against the black leather seat. “I have an appointment with Jack Highland.”
I wait for him to explain further.
He doesn’t.
“In the middle of the night?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“I just did.”
I’m on a need to know basis with my client. And in his world, no one needs to know shit about his life. I get it. He doesn’t really want a bodyguard. I’m just the thorn perpetually in his side. But he’s got me, and right now I’m on high-fucking-alert.
Highland and I have history.
Okay, that’s a lie.
We have zero history.
Because the guy rejected my kiss.
Rejected me.
But hey, he still has my fucking bandana, my belt, and my sweatshirt that I lent him. So I’m taking this with stride. I’m killing two birds with one stone tonight and coming to collect.
Those clothes are mine.