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I begin to lead him into the theatre when I detect a projectile sailing at Jack. A shoe. An ugly rubber sandal—and I smack that shit out of his way.
What is so unlike me while on-duty—I nearly lunge and backtalk.
“Stop.” Jack curves an arm around my waist. He guides me away from the source of my frustration and rage. I hated Oslie stans before, but now that they’re physically attacking the guy who has my heart, I almost can’t even withstand them.
We’re in the theatre and Jack cups the crook of my neck. “Hey, I’m fine.”
I nod, cooling off, my chest rising and falling heavily. I almost kiss him. On-duty, Oliveira. And this is why you don’t bring your boyfriend to your dangerous-as-fuck workplace.
We pull apart.
Shit.
Charlie has already darted away.
I grind down on my molars and shoot to action. Picking up my pace, I jog out in front of Charlie. Hurriedly, we make it backstage where a white guy with a short mohawk balances on a ladder, fixing the large stage lights. Beside him, the stage is empty.
“Hey!” Charlie yells. “Clifford Flannagan!”
Clifford glances down.
My muscles strain, on edge, but I see what Charlie is about to do before he even moves. Being tactical means being five steps ahead, and even though I’m a single foot ahead of Charlie now, I don’t stop him.
I don’t want to.
It’s not really my job to.
So I skid to a complete halt, and Jack just gives me a thunderstruck look.
Charlie rams his right foot into the ladder like he’s shoving an enemy off a cliff. It careens, and the metal ladder and Clifford plummet to the stage with a loud crack!
“Fuck,” he groans, holding onto his knee. His eyes flash murderously to Charlie. “You psychopath!”
Charlie skirts around him and squats down a foot away. “And so the psychopath says to the thief,” he says coldly, “you have something of mine, and I want it back.”
Clifford’s nose flares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His gaze cuts to me and my cold glare. Fear bubbles in his eyes. “Uh…”
“You have thirty seconds,” I tell him.
Clifford shakes his head. “Fuck you both.” He looks to Charlie. “I’m selling your writing to the nearest buyer and for how weird and disgusting it is, I’m getting my money’s worth.”
Charlie blinks. “Final answer?”
Clifford breathes heavy, still clutching his knee.
“Think quickly here, Clifford,” Charlie says, lighting a cigarette. “You’re running out of time, and this psychopath is so easily bored.” He blows smoke in his direction.
Clifford lets out a breath. “It’s underneath the prop table. In the basket.”
Jack jogs there and digs through the basket of props.
Charlie’s not done. “You won’t speak to Eliot ever again. Keep away from my brother, or I will ruin you.” He flicks his cigarette at Clifford before standing up.
Jack returns with the manuscript, and I lead Charlie towards a rear backdoor. As soon as we’re out of view from Clifford, Charlie starts limping and lets out a frustrated, pained wince.
“Charlie—” I start.
“I’m fine,” he says casually. “You have it.” He looks to Jack, already knowing it’s in his possession. Their eyes meet for a beat. “Wishing you had your camera?”
Jack shakes his head. “No, not really.” We stop next to the stage’s exit. “That’s not something I’d show.”
“Why not?” Charlie asks. “It’s who I am.”
24
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
You still awake? I text Jack on a Wednesday night after a security meeting. Drinking stale-ass coffee at the Independent billiards & darts bar in Philly—typical. But I’m not single anymore.
I have such little free time, and right when I finally find myself off-duty, I’m called to a late-night security chitchat.
“Why the long face?” Farrow asks me as he pops a bubble gum bubble.
“Did Jack thumbs-down your dick pic?” Donnelly asks, half-concentrated on drawing cherries in his sketchbook.
“Only you send dick pics, bro.” I flip my phone over on the booth table.
Security meeting is officially over. With a capital O.
Yet, I’m still here at the local bar with the rest of Omega. From the booth, I can see Thatcher, Banks, Quinn, and Akara playing a round of pool and also drinking stale-ass coffees. No one wants to drink alcohol tonight since Alpha and Epsilon bodyguards are also here and not drinking. If there happens to be an emergency, whoever is drunk can’t actually go save the day.
We all want to be the heroes. And I’m all for one-upping Price’s Triple Shield.
I check the time. Late.
My ass would be high-tailing it back to New York with my client, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Wednesday with a capital W.
The weekly Cobalt Wednesday Night Dinner is something Charlie tries his absolute best not to miss. Whatever goes down on Wednesdays drives him back to Philly like an obsession. No clue what actually happens. No one but the Cobalts and Thatcher Moretti are invited. Already tried to get that lucky bastard to spill details, but he wouldn’t break.
