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.