shirtless six-foot-four Eliot Cobalt’s shoulders and unscrews the fire alarm from the ceiling.
“Oscar,” Eliot says with a nod. “Did Charlie tell you?”
I’m on guard, my eyes pinging to the windows. To the doors to their bedrooms. Entrances, exits.
“I was about to.” Charlie rubs his temple and cinches his eyes closed as the fire alarm continues to wail. “For the love of God, shut the thing off.”
The noise dies.
“Got it,” Tom says.
Charlie looks to me. “My brothers threw a party last night and didn’t think to tell their guests to stay out of my fucking room.” He shoots Eliot a glare.
“I did tell them,” Eliot rebuts, helping Tom off his shoulders. “Your door was locked, Charlie. How was I supposed to know he could pick locks?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie says dryly. “Because people lie, Eliot. You could’ve let your bodyguards into the party to keep an eye on the guests.”
That idea—I like. “Did your temp know there was a party?” I ask Charlie.
“No. He dropped me off here and left before it started.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t think to text me about it?”
His yellow-greens pierce me. “I did actually think about it, but you had your hands full last night.” He glances at Jack. “Congratulations. You were trending for a solid hour there. Homewrecker Highland.” His sardonic tone is noted. He skims a hand through his hair, messing the strands. “I hate people.”
“They could be calling me a lot worse, you know,” Jack says. “Homewrecker Highland has a ring to it.” His smile dims and weakens. It tanks my pulse. He’s either trying to keep positive for himself or for Charlie.
I reach out and clasp his hand in mine. His carriage lifts at the touch, and while we lace our fingers, I say, “Yeah, it has a shrill ring. I’m gonna put a mute on that one.”
Jack smiles more. “Come on, it’s catchy. Homewr—”
I cup my hand over his mouth. “Muted, meu raio de sol.” I love my dramatic-ass nickname that is too damn accurate for Jack.
He laughs against my palm, and the air lightens when we return back to the remnants of the party.
“How many people were here?” I ask, watching as Jack lets go of my hand to check his phone. He mouths, Jesse.
I nod, and he leaves to take his brother’s call in the hallway.
“Four people,” Tom answers, collapsing on the singed couch. “Barely even a party.”
Charlie snorts. “Four is the most Beckett and I would let you invite.”
I stroll around the place, inspecting nooks and crannies where a smart “guest” would’ve planted hidden cameras. “Where is Beckett?”
“He stayed at our parent’s place,” Tom explains.
“Because he knew he’d wake to this.” Charlie lights a cigarette. “And this isn’t even the problem.” He looks back to me. “Luna’s fanfic was swiped.”
I roll to a halt by the bookcase. “What?”
“It was stolen, robbed, pilfered,” he clarifies.
Thank you, not.
“I know what swiped means.”
Charlie skips over that. “I need to retrieve it, but I don’t have the last name of the guy who stole the manuscript.”
This is a major fucking problem.
“Ian or Vance should know,” I rebut. Tom and Eliot’s bodyguards aren’t completely incompetent, and even though they’re Epsilon, I’ve worked with them long enough that they’ll supply me a name.
Something’s still not adding up. I look to Charlie. “If you weren’t home last night, where were you?”
“I was on the roof.”
Of course he was. Because why not?
Eliot starts buttoning up a black button-down. “We’re coming with you.”
“No you aren’t,” Charlie says, cigarette smoke billowing from his lips with the words.
“Luna’s our best friend, if something of hers was stolen, we’re going to help retrieve it.” Eliot tucks his shirt into black slacks. “It’s our duty.”
I really need my radio.
“No,” Charlie tells him. “You both have done enough. You’re staying here and cleaning this fucking place so that Beckett doesn’t lose his shit. And I will go find the fanfic with Oscar and Jack. Understood?”
Tom and Eliot exchange a look, before Tom says, “As you were.”
Eliot nods. “We’ll concede. This time.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, then snuffs out his cigarette on the singed couch.
I’m already heading to the door. Leading the way.
Radio attached, comms on, gun holstered, and the thieving bastard’s name in my possession, I leave the Hell’s Kitchen apartment building without socking the Wreath brothers in the face.
Call me mature. An adult.
Still can’t believe they iced me out of the party, but at least they gave me the thief’s home address. Saved me time tracing it myself.
I drive a security