Cobalt brothers live there, and I used to take meetings in the Triple Shield’s security apartment right across from 2166. But ever since Akara created Kitsuwon Securities, Omega has different housing from Alpha and Epsilon.
Oscar is the only SFO bodyguard with a client living in New York, so he’s moved to a studio apartment and lives alone.
I’ve been dealing with the dynamics of security and the families long enough to know how it runs. And if I don’t know something, I ask.
But I’ve never been inside this studio apartment. Something solely belonging to Oscar. The strap of my messenger bag is across my chest, and I glance at the spiral notebook in my hand before slipping a pen behind my ear. Trying to ignore the knot in my chest.
His studio is at the end of the hall. Right next to a stairwell. And he’s already texted me about the door being unlocked. To come on in.
Still, I knock, and I take off my shoes before entering and set them next to a fake fern inside. “I’ve arrived,” I say lightly, wanting to smile but my rattled confidence flatlines my lips.
“One second,” he calls out.
He’s in the sleek kitchen, digging in a pantry. I gaze around his place. White marble counters, gray tile backsplash, and dark wood floors—I look up at industrial lights and the loft where a king-sized bed is in view of a living area (leather couch, bookcase, and TV). Yeah, this is nice.
Like a five-star bachelor pad. Updated, trendy. Double the size of my shoebox Philly apartment.
I remember Akara telling me security housing in New York costs the most. Weird to think that I’m more friends with Akara than with Oscar. There was a time where I thought Akara and I would butt heads forever, but I fixed that fast.
I don’t like having enemies.
While I wait for Oscar, I wander around and pause near the bookcase. A family photo rests in a pewter frame.
Must’ve been taken years ago. Oscar’s little sister Joana looks no older than ten, smiling a wide crooked-toothed smile. Her hands are up in fists while she’s perched on the shoulders of a twenty-something Oscar.
His fists are playfully up too, but he’s facing his younger brother Quinn, who pretends to box his big brother.
A boxing family.
I know that much. I wonder if he’s as close to his siblings as I am to Jesse. I’ve been around all three of the Oliveiras before. Like at Scotland last Christmas where Oscar, Quinn, and Joana were snowed-in with me and a lot of others.
I frown, remembering an argument between Quinn and Oscar outside a Scottish pub. Quinn punched Oscar. I don’t know why.
It’d crush my soul if Jesse even tried to swing at me.
Deep down, I wish this show were about Oscar. I have so many things I want to ask him. I have since the first time he called me Long Beach.
“Alright, Highland, let’s get this over with.” Oscar walks closer, a bag of mini powdered donuts in his hands.
I do a literal double-take. His gray gym pants hang low on his chiseled waist. He’s shirtless, and my eyes drift along the Latin script inked on his golden-brown skin, placed across his collarbone. He’s Brazilian-American, born and raised in Philly, but I know the Latin phrase has something to do with Brazil.
Oscar has the body of an athlete, like me. I’ve met many guys who are just as cut, just as toned, and I never really gave it a second thought. But I’m standing here with a notebook clenched in my hand and surveying his beauty and washboard abs like he’s the Mona Lisa.
I wonder what it’d be like to run my hand across his body, his chest, his unshaven jaw. To hold his face and kiss him. He’s masculine. Hard. Muscled.
What am I doing?
Get your head in the game, dude.
I lift my gaze back to Oscar’s.
He rips open the donut bag, the noise sounding too loud in the apartment. “You know, I’d ask you if you find something you like,” Oscar says, trying to be casual but I hear the strained endnote. “But we’ve already covered that. You’re straight, right?”
My throat swells, tongue weighed down. I hate myself for uttering those words in Italy. But I’ve never questioned myself about my sexuality. Not at ten-years-old, not as a teenager, not in college.
I’m twenty-seven. I should have this shit figured out. I should know who I am. I thought I did. I’m