Oscar nods. “Someone can pretend to bang on the drums. No one will know the difference.”
“I already suggested that,” Charlie says.
“Ethically, I can’t play a drums track,” Tom tells us. “I’d rather cancel the show.”
Charlie smiles, “And that’s the other good option.”
Tom scoffs. “It’s also failure.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, and then we all turn as a white guy with dyed jet-black hair, styled into spikes, strolls in from backstage, a bass strapped across his chest. Warner, the other member of his band.
“Tom, you figure this shit out yet?” Irritation layers his green eyes. “Cuz this is your fault, you know. Daniel was doing fine on the drums, and I don’t blame him for quitting after what you put him through.”
“He never practiced,” Tom refutes.
“To your standards,” Warner argues. “Dude, no one can meet them. We’re going to go through drummers like fucking M&M’s at this point.”
“I’m not apologizing for wanting the members of the band to care as much as I do,” Tom replies. “You live up to my standards.”
“Barely.”
Cobalts place the bar so high for themselves, they can’t see the ground anymore.
Spending so much time with these famous families, I’ve seen them beyond their fame and money, and I’ve found pieces of each of them that I relate to.
My job has always been to showcase the human sides of them, and I only hope that when viewers watch We Are Calloway they find relatable pieces, too.
So hearing Tom, my heart clenches a little. I was twelve-years-old when I made a binder full of Ivy League colleges that I wanted to apply to. Didn’t matter that I still had middle school and high school left to go.
I mapped out my future. Placed the bar for myself in the sky. It’s how I’ve always operated.
Plan and achieve.
Rinse and repeat.
Charlie steps in, his gaze softening a fraction on Tom. “I’m going to take care of it,” he tells Tom. “Give me ten minutes.”
“How?” Tom asks.
“Eliot’s idea but modified.” He jumps off the stage and saunters to the abandoned bar in the back of the venue. Oscar and I follow him silently, but I count each heavy step that Oscar takes. Like his presence alone fills up the vacant sound.
Charlie hops up on the counter, his ass right next to a green bottle of absinthe, and he pulls out his phone.
I go for a question I’d ask if we were filming. “What made you change your mind and help Tom?”
Charlie doesn’t look up from his cell as he replies, “I was always going to help him.”
“You gave him a hard time,” I say, urging harder. It’s what I do. Push a little. And a little more. I know when to pull back and when to go deeper.
Charlie’s eyes flit to me. “You’re not filming. So why the questions?”
I wave my camera. “Testing out how this is going to go.”
Charlie smiles, but it’s a bitter one. “I’m an open book.”
“Then tell me something honest about you and your brothers. Something you wouldn’t care if the world knew.”
Charlie looks from me to Oscar and then back to me. “Ever since Eliot and Tom moved in with me and Beckett, I’ve been cleaning up their messes. If I’m going to be their janitor, they better know how dumb I think the shit they get themselves into is.” He pulls out a cigarette and types on his phone. “So fuck no, I’m not helping them without giving them a hard time.”
Oscar cuts in, focus drilled to Charlie’s cell. “What’s the plan?”
Charlie clicks his phone and jumps off the bar. “It’s the best plan I have, but also my last option.” He lets out an annoyed breath. “I know this girl who’s a big fan of The Carraways. She’s also a drummer. She’ll fill in for the night, no problem.” He turns to Oscar. “Just sent you her info. You’ve already done a background check on her, but you’ll need to do it again. I haven’t spoken to her in like three years.”
I’m confused, so I prod. “If you knew someone who could fill in so easily, why is she your last choice?”
“Because I don’t like calling in favors with girls I’ve fucked.” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and mumbles out. “It’s uncouth.” He lights the cigarette and walks towards the stage, probably to let his brother know the crisis has been averted.
Oscar hangs back, simultaneously texting and whispering into his mic. Can’t believe he named The Carraways. Bodyguards threw out suggestions for Tom’s band, and Tom ended up picking Oscar’s. It’s obvious that the bodyguards care about the famous families, but it’s just as clear to me that the families care and appreciate them too.
I stay behind with Oscar and take a few more long shots of Charlie near the stage. Doing my best to resist turning the camera on Oscar and snapping a couple photos of him.
He’s been in background shots before, but I’d love to see how he’d look filling the frame right now.
Gorgeous, I’m sure.
Because of course he’s gorgeous. Magazines have packed their columns with pics of the now infamous Security Force Omega bodyguards, and those spreads detail how Oscar Oliveira is genetically blessed. They also say that about Quinn, his brother—but I’m not interested in Quinn like that.
Like what, dude?
I fiddle with my camera’s aperture, and I look up and zone in on Oscar’s nose ring, just a silver hoop. It’s hot.
Because of course, nose rings are hot. On anyone. Girls. Guys. People. It doesn’t mean I’m not straight. Right?
Like he can feel the heat of my stare, Oscar glances up at me.
I don’t look away. “The nose ring was a dare?”
He cocks his head with a look. “You were there for the dare.”
I was. Shit.
I was literally at the bachelor party where Oscar was dared. Though, I was invited to go back to the house in Key West, I didn’t take the offer and see him get pierced. I had an early call time for work, but the whole night in bed I wished I was there.
I’m usually better with facts, and I can’t help but laugh at myself, my smile widening. “I’m an idiot, sorry.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Oscar says in a way that warms my entire body. “But you do ask too many questions.”
I smile more. “You want me to stop?” I sound like I’m flirting. Because I’m flirty by nature. Fuck, I just want to flirt with this guy. The one with an unshaven jaw, eyes that grin as much as his lips, and curly brown hair that’s perfectly messy—the guy that keeps pushing me away.
For good reasons.
He exhales and mutters something like, “Don’t ask me that.” He scratches the back of his head, then tells me, “You can shoot your shot, Highland. Dunk your questions.”
“What if I air-ball?” I quip.
“Dunk,” he emphasizes.
I like how Oscar always brings me up, even when we’re joking around. “Okay, here it is. Why are you still wearing the nose piercing if it was just a dare?”
He could’ve taken it out.
“Because I look hot,” he grins.
My neck heats. It was like Oscar took a personal trip inside my head and captured that answer.
He slides the phone in his pocket. “You have anything pierced?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted a dydoe piercing.”
Oscar’s eyes go wide.
I laugh. “That was a joke, dude.”
“Let me resuscitate myself for a second.” He has a hand on his chest, the other is digging in his pocket. “I had no clue you’re an expert on penis piercings.” He pulls out a granola bar and rips the wrapper.
My smile hurts. “Not an expert, but I watched a shit ton of porn when I was sixteen—”
“Finally, something in common,” Oscar banters. “I was getting a little worried there.”
My cheeks flame. We have a lot more in common. Like how our brothers are both exactly ten-years younger than us
. But I don’t voice this because I’m positive Oscar is just playing around.
“Anyway,” I say. “My favorite porn star, Benji Strong, had one.” I regret the words as soon as they escape. “So yeah…” I clear my throat. “That’s how I know about dydoe piercings. I’m not an expert.” My endnote clearly relays a closing of this conversation.
I examine my camera.
But I feel Oscar frowning. Confused at my change in tone.
That’s a good thing. It means he’s not aware that Benji Strong has mostly been in gay porn.
During my cool-vibes teenage years in sunny SoCal, I used to watch gay porn all the time. Never once did I question my sexuality.
Maybe it was because two of my guy friends told me they also watch gay porn and they were straight, too. Maybe it was because my parents have always been so inclusive and open, and there wasn’t a moment in my life that I thought I could be gay just because I liked gay porn.
It just wasn’t a big deal, and I hate that I’m making it a big deal in my head now. Because it shouldn’t be. I’m just confused about everything.
Am I straight?
Being honest with myself, I don’t even know anymore.
I want someone to just appear out of thin air and tell me what I am. Gay. Straight. Bi. Pan. Somewhere in between. I’d be happy with any of them.
But no, I have to figure this answer out on my own, and it sucks knowing that even when I come to a decision, I still may not be a hundred percent certain.
For fuck’s sake, I planned out my whole life when I was twelve.
I want my binder back. I want to be twelve again and look into the future and rewrite this part of my life out, so I wouldn’t have to face these questions. I’d already know the answers.
Smoothly, I excuse myself from Oscar and go grab a water from the bar’s mini-fridge. His eyes are on me, then on the double-doors that swing open.
“Fuck,” Oscar curses, charging for the door but he slows as he recognizes the nineteen-year-old girl in a Thrashers sweatshirt.
Luna Hale.
I smile in greeting. “Hey, Luna.” She must be here for Tom, her best friend. I’ve filmed segments with Luna and her brother Maximoff before, and I know things about Luna that she’s wanted to keep off air.
A Secret about Luna Hale: at 13, a boy left a note in her locker that said, close your legs, slut.
Sometimes I feel like I’m their therapist listening to their darkest days and thoughts, but I’m not even close to being a licensed professional. It’d be a lie to say that it’s not hard on me. I’m a filmmaker, a producer, a guy with a dream, but I don’t want to profit off their pain.
What makes it okay for me is knowing I can be a friendly, familiar safe place when they need one.
Luna waves at me. “Hey. Hi. Heidi. Ho. Howdy.” Purple feathers poke from her light-brown hair. And glitter is painted on her arms like a kindergarten class played arts and crafts on her body.
“Like the hair. Looking cool as ever.”
She smiles, about to reply.
“Luna from Planet Thebula,” Tom calls, using the microphone on stage. “Get up here. Gotta fill you in.”
She waves a second time. “Nice to make contact again.” And then she slinks to the stage.
I conclude fast that Luna Hale’s entrance wasn’t on Oscar’s radar. He stares down her 24/7 bodyguard, who happens to be his twenty-two-year-old brother Quinn.
Quinn is busy shutting the double-doors. Tall and muscled, his floral shirt is tucked in olive-green pants, making him look like he stepped out of a PacSun catalogue. It’s a stark difference from the casual east coast look of his older brother.
But they both have tiny scars on their faces from boxing blows.
“What?” Quinn asks him.
“A heads up would’ve been nice, little bro,” Oscar says lightly. He mimes picking up a phone. “Hey, big bro, I’m on my way with Luna to the same venue you’re at. Thanks, Oscar, bye. Click.” He hangs up the imaginary phone.
I smile and immediately want to film Oscar—for no one but me. Quinn isn’t as amused by him.
He fixes his earpiece. “Bro, you’re not the lead. I don’t need to inform you where I’m going.”
“So you told Thatcher you’d be here?” Oscar wonders.
“God, stop nagging me.” He watches Luna while he speaks. “That’s all you do lately.”
Oscar holds up his hands. “I’m legitimately just trying to talk to you.”
Quinn scratches his jaw. “It doesn’t feel like you are.”
“I’m telling you I am.”
Quinn shakes his head, his eyes downcast. “I’m on-duty, so…” He mutters something in Portuguese and then walks away. Leaving a motionless Oscar in his wake.
I come closer. “You okay?”
He nods, and then a second later shakes his head. “I swear he’s the nicest person to everyone but me. He plays with kittens and puppies like he’s a gold-hearted boy next door, won’t utter a curse word in front of a child, and paradoxically, he can punch a motherfucker in a ring like no one I’ve ever seen.” He shakes his head again in thought. “But somehow, I’m the only gum on his shoe he’s trying to scrape off. For…I don’t know how long. I thought we were fine when he first joined security.” He glances at me. “You know we requested to be separated to avoid in-fighting, and he was put on Jane’s detail in Philly while I was in New York. It was going fine too. We put the past to bed.”
The past? “Did you two duke it out over a girl or something?” I don’t know why that knots my chest.
His shoulders rise. “If we did, he can have the girl. I’d rather just have my brother.” He laughs at something.
“What?”
His eyes hit mine. “I just remembered, he slept with the girl I was sleeping with during the FanCon tour. I think it was a shot at me.”
“But that’s not the past beef?”
“I don’t know what is.”
I frown more. “So you have no idea what the core of the problem is between you two? Like, what you’re actually arguing about?”
“No idea,” he admits like he knows it’s insane. “Your guess is as good as mine, Highland. So when you figure it out, come talk to me.”
Damn, I want to make him feel better, but I don’t want to pump him up with niceties just to bolster his spirit. I do that all the time to people, and he’s one of the rare ones to call me out on it.
Hard truths, I go with it. “It might be the ten-year age gap between you two. It complicates sibling relationships. Makes it harder. We’re big brothers but also mentors and sometimes even father figures.”
Oscar lets out a soft laugh. “I don’t think Quinn has ever seen me as a father figure. Joana, maybe. Not Quinn.” He looks me over. “You good with your brother? He’s ten years younger, right?”
“Jesse,” I say into a nod. “And yeah, we’re good.”
“That’s good,” Oscar says, watching Charlie. “Don’t lose that. It hurts when it’s gone.” He sucks in a heavy breath and almost rolls his eyes. “You’re scarily easy to talk to, you know that?”
“Yeah, it’s a gift and a curse. Getting stuck talking to old ladies on Passyunk while I wait for a cheesesteak is my typical Saturday.”
He laughs. “And then I suddenly remember you’re from Long Beach, Long Beach.”
I smile back. “What gave me away?”
“For one, it’s pronounced pash-yunk not pass-ee-unk. And South Philly guys might yell at me for this one, but cheesesteaks on Passyunk are garbage.”
I face him more. “I’ve lived in Philly for years, and they’re good there.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “Noooo.”
“Come on.” Smiling, I smack his chest with the back of my hand, and the collision of my hand to his body causes both of us to tense like I shot magma in our veins. I don’t move though. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”
“Show you…what?” Oscar asks.
I run a hand thr
ough my hair. Do you still want to kiss me? “The best place to—” I cut myself off as Charlie bounds over.
We pull apart and return to a professional stasis. Working, both of us.
“I just called an Uber,” Charlie tells Oscar, but I zero in on the thick bound manuscript in his hand.
“What’s that?” I ask him and follow his footsteps as he pushes into the concert venue’s lobby, ticket windows and food concessions in view.
His pace is quick like he wants to GTFO now. But the energy that he emits feels more like he’s running from something rather than towards something.
Oscar is quick to bypass Charlie so he can lead.
“Luna’s fanfic,” Charlie answers me. “She says people online are giving her shit for some minor grammar mistakes, and she needs someone to edit it.”
“You agreed?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Jack,” Charlie says. His heeled boots clap against the hallway floor.
Oscar looks back with a smile. “That’s what I said.”
I’m more amused than offended. “It’s literally my job to ask questions.”
“Touché,” Charlie breathes. “She asked. I said yes. And it’d be easier to edit it on my phone, but we live in a world where little shitheads would love to hack my computer.” Luna’s fanfic username is only known to her family and security.
I actually don’t have access to it.
The world would tear her apart for what she writes. Criticize every microscopic word. Everyone knows it, and I bet that’s a reason why security is so highly protective of Luna.
“Why do you think she asked you to edit it?” I wonder.
Charlie laughs and blows out smoke. “Because I’m me.” We reach the front doors that lead out into the bustling city. New York is always moving, but he stops a foot short and glances at his phone.
“What does ‘because I’m me’ mean?” I ask further.
He shrugs with one shoulder. “I’m a genius who doesn’t give a shit.” His yellow-green eyes flash to me. “I’ll edit her tentacle smut without batting an eye, and I don’t think the same thing can be said for her older brother.”
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 7