weird and disgusting it is, I’m getting my money’s worth.”
Charlie blinks. “Final answer?”
Clifford breathes heavy, still clutching his knee.
“Think quickly here, Clifford,” Charlie says, lighting a cigarette. “You’re running out of time, and this psychopath is so easily bored.” He blows smoke in his direction.
Clifford lets out a breath. “It’s underneath the prop table. In the basket.”
Jack jogs there and digs through the basket of props.
Charlie’s not done. “You won’t speak to Eliot ever again. Keep away from my brother, or I will ruin you.” He flicks his cigarette at Clifford before standing up.
Jack returns with the manuscript, and I lead Charlie towards a rear backdoor. As soon as we’re out of view from Clifford, Charlie starts limping and lets out a frustrated, pained wince.
“Charlie—” I start.
“I’m fine,” he says casually. “You have it.” He looks to Jack, already knowing it’s in his possession. Their eyes meet for a beat. “Wishing you had your camera?”
Jack shakes his head. “No, not really.” We stop next to the stage’s exit. “That’s not something I’d show.”
“Why not?” Charlie asks. “It’s who I am.”
24
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
You still awake? I text Jack on a Wednesday night after a security meeting. Drinking stale-ass coffee at the Independent billiards & darts bar in Philly—typical. But I’m not single anymore.
I have such little free time, and right when I finally find myself off-duty, I’m called to a late-night security chitchat.
“Why the long face?” Farrow asks me as he pops a bubble gum bubble.
“Did Jack thumbs-down your dick pic?” Donnelly asks, half-concentrated on drawing cherries in his sketchbook.
“Only you send dick pics, bro.” I flip my phone over on the booth table.
Security meeting is officially over. With a capital O.
Yet, I’m still here at the local bar with the rest of Omega. From the booth, I can see Thatcher, Banks, Quinn, and Akara playing a round of pool and also drinking stale-ass coffees. No one wants to drink alcohol tonight since Alpha and Epsilon bodyguards are also here and not drinking. If there happens to be an emergency, whoever is drunk can’t actually go save the day.
We all want to be the heroes. And I’m all for one-upping Price’s Triple Shield.
I check the time. Late.
My ass would be high-tailing it back to New York with my client, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s Wednesday with a capital W.
The weekly Cobalt Wednesday Night Dinner is something Charlie tries his absolute best not to miss. Whatever goes down on Wednesdays drives him back to Philly like an obsession. No clue what actually happens. No one but the Cobalts and Thatcher Moretti are invited. Already tried to get that lucky bastard to spill details, but he wouldn’t break.
Charlie being safe-and-sound in a gated neighborhood means that I’m off-duty and enjoying rare free time. Unless I’m called in for security meetings or temp trainings.
I look across the table.
Farrow raises his brows. “You have Jack when you didn’t think you would, so what’s with the angst?”
“I’m a solid catch,” I say with a nod, “but you know what, I’m not even sure I’d date myself right now. I have Wednesday night off and then bam! I’m called for a meeting.” I throw up a hand. “Tell me, bro, would you date me?”
“No,” Farrow says slowly, “because I’m married to Maximoff Hale.”
I clap, almost grinning.
Donnelly claps too.
Farrow rolls his eyes. “Man, if Jack had a problem with your work, I doubt he would’ve kissed you in the first place. He knew what he was getting into.”
That is true.
I ease back, sitting on the same side as Donnelly. He takes off his reading glasses. “Maybe you should send him a dick pic.”
I laugh with Farrow.
“Let him know you’re thinkin’ about him,” Donnelly finishes.
“And that’s why you don’t take dating advice from Paul Donnelly,” I say and flip over my phone. No new text.
He must be sleeping.
But damn I wish he were awake and wanted to hang out. Even if it was a five-minute, hey there, looking good, Highland, kind of convo.
“Call him,” Farrow suggests.
“I shouldn’t wake him up.” I stare at my blank phone screen. “He had a horrible time trying to film Charlie this afternoon. Couldn’t ask him a single question since every time he opened his mouth, paparazzi shouted at him.”
Farrow chews gum slowly. “About your kiss?”
“Yeah.”
Silence eats at our booth, and the sound of billiards balls clinking seems louder.
“It’s annoying as fuck,” Farrow finally says. “Paparazzi, the hate online, but some weeks are better than others.”