again, and I tear my gaze off the exec-producer.
Charlie is texting. Letting me know he’ll be leaving in five minutes. It’s rare for a heads up or an ETA, which means Charlie must want this show to work.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask Jack. “Last chance to back out.”
He stands fully, and his bottomless honey-brown eyes sink into me. “Do you want me to?” Christ. Everything out of his mouth sounds like a come-on.
“Do you always answer a question with a question, Highland?”
His lip quirks into a smile. “You just did the same thing.”
“Imagine that,” I say casually.
“You don’t want me to do the show.” It’s no longer a question.
“I never said that,” I reply. “It’s just that I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
He can’t know. Security history runs too deep.
I’ve been working in the field since I was twenty-four. First on Ben Cobalt’s detail, and I proved myself enough in just a year to land the coveted position as Winona Meadows’ bodyguard. Honestly, that caused me more problems than it should’ve. Jon Sinclair, the current Epsilon lead, was pissed that I was so new and landed with the Meadows family. The asshole still resents me to this day because of it. Then at twenty-six, I was transferred back to the Cobalt Empire to be Eliot’s bodyguard. After a successful year with that troublemaker, they decided to toss me into the lion’s den with Charlie.
Security literally threw me a funeral.
I’m not Charlie’s first bodyguard.
Not even his second or third.
He’s left behind a graveyard of qualified men. Some didn’t even last a single day on his detail.
Jack may not be filling my role, but he’s going to be beside me, and he’s in an even worse position. I don’t need to get anything from Charlie. I’m protecting him. That’s it. Jack has to actively pull out information, interviews, quotes. It’s going to be like trying to break into a steel-fortified castle.
Good fucking luck.
7
JACK HIGHLAND
My first foray into following Charlie Cobalt is taking place in The Vaulted Vestibule, a dimly lit NYC concert venue. I’m holding my Canon, the strap around my neck, but I’ve expressed to Oscar more than once that I’m not filming.
It’s the truth.
His warnings about Charlie have seeped in, and I figure I need to pack on prep work.
Week 1 & 2: test shots and assessing the…situation. That way I can determine logistics without having a crew (okay, a reduced crew) around.
Mid-afternoon, the venue only houses stage crew, musicians, and their friends or family. While Charlie stands on stage next to Tom Cobalt, his nineteen-year-old brother, I snap a couple photos.
Their discussion is heated. Tom is the lead singer of an emo-punk band called The Carraways, and he looks the part with ripped jeans, skull-and-crossbones black shirt, and a 90s haircut. And right now, he gesticulates with fervor at his brother, his brows cinched in anger.
While Charlie looks…well, Charlie looks bored.
I try not to judge what I don’t know. But his apathy is only pissing Tom off more.
Oscar leans back comfortably in a theatre chair. First row. Right next to me.
We both have front row seats to a Cobalt family blow-up. Even if we’re too far away to hear what’s said on-stage.
I should be stoked to even have this opportunity, but it’s hard to pay attention to Charlie when Oscar is right here.
We haven’t spoken.
Not since we arrived at The Vaulted Vestibule. I think we’re both giving each other space to do our jobs, but now it feels different.
Like we’re consciously deciding not to talk.
I’m neck-deep in awkward silence. And I can’t take it anymore.
I shift my shoulders a little and pretend to change the settings on my camera. “Does being a bodyguard mean you have to be silent all the time. Or is that just a choice?”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and he’s looking over. Heat ascends my neck. Fuck, dude, you should’ve shut up. It’s easier than treading over my feelings for him…
Whatever those are, I’m not even sure.
“Again, Highland, I’m not your subject,” Oscar says casually.
Got it.
Ouch.
My face drops a fraction. He’s been forthcoming with me and then sometimes, not at all. Like he’s raising and lowering his guards, and every time they raise, I feel like a fresh pile of cow shit.
Like I’m not worthy inside his head. Like I’m not giving enough of me to earn him, and then I just want to talk more.
To do something to earn Oscar Oliveira.