Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

“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 guys 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.

“Jack,” I shake him a little. “Jack, come on.”

He doesn’t stir.

My throat swells. “Highland!” I yell, tears brimming. “Wake the fuck up!”

I should’ve protected him better.

I should’ve hit those guys harder to reach him faster.

“Oscar?” That groggy voice comes from the back of the tent. I glance over my shoulder, and see Charlie struggling to sit up.

“Charlie, stay there. Don’t move. Are you alright?”

“Yeah…yeah. I think.” He lets out a pained breath and favors an arm around his ribs. His eyes meet mine and then flit to Jack. He blinks back something. “Is he…?”

“He’s fine.”

He’s fine. Fine. F.I.N.E. Spelling it in my head is not calming me down. I don’t want to leave Jack at all, but he dropped his camera bag around here. He might have a water bottle stashed inside.

Just as I start climbing to my feet, his eyes begin to flutter.

I crouch back down. “Jack,” I whisper, panicked desperation coating my voice. I kneel next to him, sliding a hand over his head.

He blinks awake slowly. “Os?” He tries to sit up, palm bracing his weight on the floor.

“Relax,” I say. “You hit your head pretty bad there, Arizona. Do you know what day it is?”

“September 17th.” He leans back against the bumper car, and his eyes sink into mine. Concern envelop them. “Your face.”

I barely feel the pain in my cheekbone. One guy landed a single punch that my dad would have laughed at, but knuckles are knuckles and I’m sure there’s a welt.