Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

I take another hearty swig, then grab my phone.

Mentally, I go back to security, and something isn’t adding up. Donnelly has a client in Philly, and I doubt he’d ditch his duty to Xander Hale just to hang with Farrow.

Donnelly is a lot of things, but he cares about the families like we all do.

So I shoot a text to my other best friend: You lying to Thatcher?

His response is almost instant.

Call you later. – Donnelly

That’s a yes.

I let out a breath of relief. “Looks like no one is impersonating security. It’s just Donnelly.”

No idea why he’s there, but he’ll tell me when he can. More so, I’m stunned at how easily I just informed Jack of security’s business.

Again, what in the ever-loving hell.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asks.

“Nothing,” I say rigidly and return to the contract, pretending to read the thing. I feel his confused eyes on my back.

I just hate how comfortable I am with this guy. I’m already so fucking attracted to Jack, and I don’t want to like him even more.

But I’m so used to dating people and meeting solid roadblocks, and I’m starting to realize those don’t exist with him.

No guy or woman I take out to a simple dinner can have the details of my job or know what I know about the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. It goes against the word security.

I’ve been yelled at for not “opening up” and “sharing” enough with short-term relationships that I thought would last longer.

Can I blame them? “I can’t talk about it” gets stale fast, and last thing I want is to be stale bread to the person I’m dating.

Not when I’m a motherfucking feast.

In my peripheral, I see Jack move around to his messenger bag on the floor. My phone buzzes again, and I tear my gaze off the exec-producer.

Charlie is texting. Letting me know he’ll be leaving in five minutes. It’s rare for a heads up or an ETA, which means Charlie must want this show to work.

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask Jack. “Last chance to back out.”

He stands fully, and his bottomless honey-brown eyes sink into me. “Do you want me to?” Christ. Everything out of his mouth sounds like a come-on.

“Do you always answer a question with a question, Highland?”

His lip quirks into a smile. “You just did the same thing.”

“Imagine that,” I say casually.

“You don’t want me to do the show.” It’s no longer a question.

“I never said that,” I reply. “It’s just that I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

He can’t know. Security history runs too deep.

I’ve been working in the field since I was twenty-four. First on Ben Cobalt’s detail, and I proved myself enough in just a year to land the coveted position as Winona Meadows’ bodyguard. Honestly, that caused me more problems than it should’ve. Jon Sinclair, the current Epsilon lead, was pissed that I was so new and landed with the Meadows family. The asshole still resents me to this day because of it. Then at twenty-six, I was transferred back to the Cobalt Empire to be Eliot’s bodyguard. After a successful year with that troublemaker, they decided to toss me into the lion’s den with Charlie.

Security literally threw me a funeral.

I’m not Charlie’s first bodyguard.

Not even his second or third.

He’s left behind a graveyard of qualified men. Some didn’t even last a single day on his detail.

Jack may not be filling my role, but he’s going to be beside me, and he’s in an even worse position. I don’t need to get anything from Charlie. I’m protecting him. That’s it. Jack has to actively pull out information, interviews, quotes. It’s going to be like trying to break into a steel-fortified castle.

Good fucking luck.

7

JACK HIGHLAND

My first foray into following Charlie Cobalt is taking place in The Vaulted Vestibule, a dimly lit NYC concert venue. I’m holding my Canon, the strap around my neck, but I’ve expressed to Oscar more than once that I’m not filming.

It’s the truth.

His warnings about Charlie have seeped in, and I figure I need to pack on prep work.

Week 1 & 2: test shots and assessing the…situation. That way I can determine logistics without having a crew (okay, a reduced crew) around.

Mid-afternoon, the venue only houses stage crew, musicians, and their friends or family. While Charlie stands on stage next to Tom Cobalt, his nineteen-year-old brother, I snap a couple photos.

Their discussion is heated. Tom is the lead singer of an emo-punk band called The Carraways, and he looks the part with ripped jeans, skull-and-crossbones black shirt, and a 90s haircut. And right now, he gesticulates with fervor at his brother, his brows cinched in anger.

While Charlie looks…well, Charlie looks bored.

I try not to judge what I don’t know. But his apathy is only pissing Tom off more.