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.”
I’m about to offer greater reassurance—all that I have—when movement catches my eye.
Fuck my job.
I don’t know how to live with it. Definitely don’t know how to live without it. I slip Jack an apologetic look before I run towards a sorority girl in a striped bikini.
She’s left her friend group to approach Charlie.
I glance back at Jack.
He’s lifted up his camera to film my client—returning to work too—but so much tension lines his muscles. He keeps shifting his weight like he can’t get comfortable.
Rip out your earpiece, Oliveira.
Go off-duty, go comfort him.
I can’t.
Like everyone on SFO, I made an oath the day I signed up to be a bodyguard. To put someone else above Charlie’s safety breaks that soul-bound promise.
So I keep my pace and roll to a stop in front of the sorority girl. “Sorry,” I say cordially. “You can’t approach him.”
Her face falls. “He knows me.”
I’ve heard that one a thousand times, but she’s right. Charlie does sort of know this sorority girl. Her face is familiar from one night in the past, but her name isn’t hitting me. “You still can’t approach.”
She lifts her sunglasses up to her blonde hair. “What if I wanted to give him something?” She plucks an envelope out of her straw beach bag.
Charlie Keating Cobalt is written neatly in black ink.
“He needs to read this.” She waves the envelope in my face. I follow her gaze that darts to another bodyguard.
More security in California is why I have a radio.
Gabe Montgomery, the short stocky blond-haired temp I trained, loiters around Jack Highland. Arms crossed, permanent scowl, his intimidation is on point, so the sorority girl isn’t considering negotiating with him over me.
Eliminates that potential headache.
I explain, “I can give Charlie the envelope if nothing hazardous is in there, but you can’t approach him or talk to him.” Truth: Charlie doesn’t open his fan mail. He throws it away.
Her friends start packing their towels, books, and beach bags.
They better be leaving and not coming over here.
“Can’t you just ask him?” she snaps.
“I already have.”
I did the second we reached the beach. I reestablished his wishes, and he said, no one talks to me.
She bristles. “Really?”
“Really.” I have no creative retort.
The #FireJackHighland tidal wave that just pummeled Jack—it’s still crashing against me and ramping up my impatience, and I’m proud of myself for not raising my voice. For keeping my fucking cool.
De-escalation is the name of the best bodyguard game.
“Give this to him then.” She hands me the envelope. “Make sure he