Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

“Did you just say how are you in Tagalog?” I ask in shock.

“Yeah?” he says in slight surprise. “How’d you know?”

“Como está?” I say in Portuguese. “They sound a lot alike.”

We share a bigger smile, and Jack explains how many words in Tagalog sound or are derived from Spanish, and I know a lot of words are similar between Spanish and Portuguese.

When I’m a few minutes from the thieving bastard’s house, Jack asks, “What if Clifford Flannagan isn’t home? What’s the plan then?”

Charlie messes a hand through his hair. “Go to his work. He’s a gaffer at the theatre where Eliot performs.” He lets out an annoyed breath. “I cancelled my trip to Prague yesterday.”

I look at him through the rearview mirror. “I heard about that.” The temp did alert me that they no longer were headed to the airport.

Jack glances over his shoulder. “Any particular reason you stayed in New York?”

“My brothers.” Charlie slouches. “I had a feeling they were going to pull something.” He’d been hoping Maximoff and Jane would move to New York to deal with his brothers, but in the end, he told them to stay in Philly.

He knew he’d have to play babysitter. And he’s sticking around New York a lot more lately. I can only assume he’s feeling a greater responsibility to protect them and clean up after their mistakes.

Jack nods, rotating back in his seat. “Intuitive.”

“No, they’re just predictable.” Charlie flips his phone in his palm. “Speaking of predictability, I see my set-up had the intended effect.”

“No,” I say, trying to shut this convo down before it starts.

“No?” Charlie bows forward more between our seats. “So you two didn’t kiss last night? Was that a deepfake then?”

“We kissed,” Jack and I say in unison. It causes both of us to smile. And I add, “But not because you set us up.” I don’t care if he put us in the right orbit together; I don’t need Charlie meddling in my life.

Ever again.

“Of course not.” Charlie leans back again. “You two would have definitely hooked up had I not orchestrated it. I’m sure you would have found a way to spend all this time together without me.”

I grit down so I don’t grin at his sarcasm. I’m not a buddy-guard. Not. A. Buddy. Guard.

Jack rakes a hand through his hair, his smile rising.

Charlie taps the window. “It didn’t fully work though, did it?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks, his face falling. Eyes darting to me. Like I told Charlie something about us and left him out. No way.

I shake my head tensely at Highland.

“It was supposed to end the Oslie rumors,” Charlie explains, “not make people loathe you because of them.” He expels a frustrated noise. “It’s all a fucking mess.”

“Story of our lives, bro.” I switch lanes and pull into a parking garage.

“Yeah.” Charlie nods slowly. “So it goes.”

I park, and we reach Clifford’s apartment complex with relative ease. No paparazzi. No screaming fans. It’s almost too easy. So it’s not a surprise when Clifford isn’t home.

Next stop, the theatre. We find another parking spot, and when we climb out and walk towards the theatre building, it’s clear this is…a shit show.

Girls and guys hoist posters and stake out the front of the old 1900s structure. Theatre security pushes them back, and a couple paparazzi vans hug the curb with parking meters.

“They’re always here early,” I explain to Jack and adjust my earpiece. “Eliot has an afternoon performance in a couple hours.” We approach from the side, not spotted yet.

“Eliot’s fans are my favorite,” Charlie says. “They’re mostly theatre nerds who send him Shakespeare love letters and dead ravens.”

“CHARLIE KEATING COBALT!” That shrill piercing scream comes from a girl holding a giant pink poster board that reads Eliot Alice, can I be your corpse bride?

Jack takes it all in with interest, and I almost clasp his hand—about five times—like I’m strolling down the street with a boyfriend.

I’m working.

I’m on-duty.

Here to protect Charlie. I playback the words in my head to stay sharp. Alert.

Charlie waves a nonchalant hand at the crowd—more like he’s brushing away a gnat than greeting them, and they all respond with an awed noise as though he just proposed.

He’s unaffected.

Don’t like that we’re exposed.

“Back door,” I instruct and step quickly in that direction. It’s too late though. Someone spots Jack.

“Homewrecker!” she screams.

Charlie stops in his tracks and turns around. I fist his shirt before he charges away from me. “I’m straight!” he yells at them. “There is no Oslie!”

“It’s okay, Charlie,” a girl pipes in. “We know you want it to be a secret. We know you’re not ready ye—”

“Fuck you,” he sneers.

“Oh my God, Charlie, can you say that to me too?!” someone jumps up and down.

“Charlie, please fuck me!” A chorus of requests pitches the air.

Charlie just turns around and meets my eyes. “Go.”