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“You usually like the surprise,” Charlie says in a sip of espresso. “What’s changed?” His lip rises like a little wiseass. And his eyes ping to the condom wrapper and bottle of lube on the high-table.
I’m a professional bodyguard.
I’d even dare to say I’m among the most professional in Omega. Jokes and fun times aside, I keep it well-mannered and appropriate with my client.
He wants to talk about uncouth—this is uncouth.
This morning has dinged my reputation. I’m just glad Omega isn’t here to see it. Unless I open my big mouth to my friends in a haze of vodka and bourbon, I’ll bury this.
“Nothing’s changed,” I force out. “Stay there.” I head to the door.
He calls back, “If I wait for you, then something has changed!”
I know, Charlie. I don’t acknowledge him as I enter the house. I start getting dressed. Jack is already shrugging on a winter jacket and trying to gather his camera equipment.
“I’ll meet you there,” he says. “Just text me.”
I have to catch up to Charlie. Leaving Jack behind isn’t easy. My muscles almost shriek and try to rip me back towards him. At least we’re not in Philly or New York where he’d be pelted with caustic words and projectiles. It makes Jack doing his job and me doing mine easier.
With a quick kiss on his lips and squeeze of his hand, I run out.
Charlie didn’t wait for me.
My mouth curves higher as I race after him.
27
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
Back in the States, back to a grimmer reality.
“Hey, hey, hey.” I get as close to Jack as I can as his face shatters a thousand different ways, his reddened eyes on his phone. “Don’t look at it. Disable your notifications.”
“You don’t understand.” His voice lowers, stress puncturing his features. “This isn’t the usual fuck you condemnation, Oscar.” He grips his camera at his side.
Our feet sink unevenly in hot sand. We’re on a beach in California. Seal Beach, to be exact. No cloud in the sky, the salty ocean laps against the shore.
And I shift my gaze off Jack for half-a-second. Even a fucking millisecond feels like a betrayal to him right now. He’s upset about some type of Oslie shit online, and look at me, glancing over at Charlie.
Fucking Charlie.
My duty, my job at every waking second of every waking minute of every fucking day. I’m fifteen feet away from him. He lounges under a blue umbrella, eyes shaded with green-tinted sunglasses.
Nearby, Jesse Highland uses Jack’s short pause from filming to shake out his arms. Jesse has been holding a heavy boom mic. Since we’re at the beach, the waves were apparently causing noise interference, so they popped out a boom kit.
Charlie is safe.
He’s fine.
But not too far away on his right side, four sun-bathing college girls keep ogling him from their pink Zeta Beta Zeta towels.
Please don’t be a problem.
Not right now, not when I want to be here for Jack. Attention back on him, his face is more torn up. “No, no…”
“What is it?” I ask.
He looks sick as he scrolls.
It’s tearing me up.
“Jack,” I say forcefully.
He shoves his phone in my chest. “They’re all over my Instagram comments.”
“They’ve already been all over your comments.” And he’s largely pushed past the vitriol
“Not like this.” His jaw tics. “They’re also on We Are Calloway’s Facebook Page, the docuseries’ Instagram account.”
I look at the comment section.
Stop filming the Cobalts! Quit NOW!
You should be fired!
Youre disgusting. Put ur camera down.
Homewrecker! Quit filming Charlie!
We wont watch We Are Calloway until ur gone!!!
#FireJackHighland
#FireJackHighland
#FireJackHighland
They’re trying to get him fired.
It’s a hard kick to my gut, and this has to be a hundred times more painful for Jack. This is his career. The dream he’s been chasing, the ladder he’s been climbing, his life. It’s starting to crumble around him.
Around us.
I glare at the hashtag. “I’ll post on my Instagram account again,” I tell him. I already re-downloaded the app I deleted, and I’ve been sharing cute couple photos of us. But week-old pics. I use the account tactically, and I don’t want anyone to know our location in real-time.
Jack rubs his pained eyes. He’s better versed in public perception than me, and he must know it’s a weak attempt. His hand drops with a tight breath. “They’re calling for my termination. They could be emailing the other producers, Oscar.”
“Would they really fire you over some hostile stans with hurt feelings?”
Jack shrugs tensely, then grabs his phone out of my hand. “It’s terrible publicity, and firing me could be an easy way to wipe their hands clean of the mess.” He blinks back this tortured look.
I can’t even wrap an arm around him right now. “The Hales, the Meadows, the fucking Cobalt Empire won’t let that happen to you, Highland.”
He shakes his head, his chest taut like weight is bearing on him. “You don’t know that for certain, Os.”
