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“Sounds good.” I sling my gym bag on my shoulder. “See you there.”
We split apart, and I forget to ask Farrow about the ancient camcorder he gave Jack.
I end up at the cheesesteak restaurant alone and climb up the rickety wooden deck. Chipped, old red paint on a plank overhead reads Woody’s. The place is mostly outdoors with picnic tables along the deck, and the order-at-the-counter station is inside. The mouth-watering scent of grilled meat floods my senses.
God, I’m hungry.
The downside: Woody’s is packed tonight. People spill onto the street, and since I have to order first, then hunt down a table, I just wait on the deck for Farrow, Maximoff, and Donnelly.
I rest my arms on the wood railing, phone in my hand.
Alone.
I’m ignoring the few glances as people try to place my face. Bodyguard to the famous ones. Security Force Omega hottie.
I suddenly remember my conversation with Jack about cheesesteaks. Without much thought, I pop up his number on my phone. But I think he’s in New York right now. He was shooting some footage of Charlie this afternoon.
I hesitate.
Fuck it. I text: Wanna grab an actually good cheesesteak? Meet me here. I drop him a pin of my location. My stomach twists for a solid minute. I expect him to tell me he’s not in Philly, but my phone pings.
Cool. Be there in ten. – Highland
My smile hurts my face.
“Someone looks like they got dicked down real nice.” Donnelly appears behind me with a lopsided grin. He fists a slender can of a Lightning Bolt! energy drink. “You wanna spill?” He leans into my shoulder to try and read the text.
I press the phone-lock fast, the screen now black. “Good dick is good.”
“Poetry,” Donnelly smirks.
“I am a poet these days, bro.” I almost grin back, but our banter makes me miss him with me in New York.
He pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear. “You still into Jack?”
An image of the other night pops up. Where we fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sun rose.
Yeah.
“I’m working on it.” I pocket my phone and retie my rolled bandana. “You into anyone lately?”
He shrugs, then sips his energy drink. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
I glance past him. “Where’s the gentleman?”
Donnelly laughs. “He’s one.” He points to his dick. “And he’s in need of some nice warm love.”
“Rub harder next time.”
“My hand is nothin’ compared to a…” He mimes a blow job with his hand and tongue against the inside of his cheek.
A lady shoots Donnelly a scathing glare from a picnic table. “There are kids here,” she sneers, a hand covering her daughter’s eyes.
“Nah, really?” Donnelly lights a cigarette even with a can in his hand. “I just thought that was a mini adult.”
Her aghast noise is drowned by the click-click of cameras and screech of paparazzi. “Redford’s here,” I say.
Though, I can’t see yet. Hot sun begins to set, and I shield the shine with my hand.
But sure enough, cameramen trip over themselves as Farrow and Maximoff saunter down the sidewalk side-by-side. Donnelly and I watch as an on-duty Farrow blocks cameramen from crowding his son and husband. Ripley wiggles his legs in a tactical vest on his chest, and Maximoff is actually carrying Arkham. The puppy acts like a scared, furry baby.
At this point, their son braves the paparazzi better than their dog.
Donnelly and I laugh, and we rib Farrow while we try to hop in line. Too many motherfuckers are just clustered together waiting for their order to be called.
Thankfully, paparazzi aren’t allowed on the deck, but we’re pushed further back towards the railing while fans approach Maximoff and ask for selfies. I’m off-duty and still surveying the area.
It’s a good habit. Considering a famous one is in our company.
We stand in a jagged ass line, and we could shoulder our way further in, but doing that would piss off too many people and stoke bad press.
“Is that Jack Highland?” Donnelly asks, bouncing on his feet.
Nearly in unison, our heads turn, and we all gaze over the deck railing.
Jack’s—kid, you not—longboarding down the sidewalk like he’s back on the west coast. His biceps look even more sculpted in a blue-and-green tie-dye tank. Not in a million years did I think I’d fall for some California guy.
A smile lifts my lips. “Yeah, I invited him,” I say and leave it at that.
Farrow nods and begins to grin. “You’re hopeless.”
“I’d like a six-pack of the best beer when my heart breaks.”
“Nice try, one beer. Warm. Not even chilled.”
I laugh, and looking down to the street, I stare at my guy.
“How’s it going, beautiful people?” Jack calls up to us from the curb.
Better now that you’re here. Maybe my eyes reflect that. His smile looks more overwhelmed, and he has to shift his gaze.
“Pretty good,” Maximoff calls back. “It’s nice seeing you, man.”
