“It’s even bigger without the pants,” I say, just as casually, and then I turn around, hoping he’s burning up just as much as I am. Every step to the bathroom feels like crossing molten lava. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m still mortified or if it’s just jacked-up levels of attraction. Probably both.
Definitely both.
10
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
No earpiece. No radio. I don’t need them. I’m in Paris without anyone from SFO. Officially on my own, and it’s just another day at work.
My current office is The Louvre. I’ve lost count the number of times I’ve been here, but I try my best not to take these things for granted.
No matter how many times Charlie comes back to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace, a gorgeous eight-foot marble sculpture of a winged goddess, he still has that same awed reverence in his eyes as the first time I saw him here. It’s a gift not to become jaded by beauty.
My gaze drifts to Jack.
With a Canon in hand, he’s busy talking to Charlie, and I hang back out of earshot, only because it’s a busy day at the museum. I had hoped we’d be going to the Musée d'Orsay. It’s less crowded. Smaller. Easier to coordinate with the museum’s security, and one of Charlie’s favorite places in the city.
Landing here, and being on the same floor as the Mona Lisa, isn’t ideal.
But ideal went out the window the moment I became Charlie’s bodyguard. So here I am, quietly telling a girl in French that she can’t get an autograph from him.
She already has a marker in hand, one she dug from her purse. Her crestfallen expression is one I’ve seen a thousand times. “Cela ne prendra qu'une minute. S'il vous plaît.” It will only be a minute. Please.
I reply in fluent French, “Pas aujourd'hui.” Not today.
She can’t be older than twenty. Sighing heavily, she stuffs the marker in her purse. I watch as she uses her phone to snap photos of the back of Charlie’s head, then shuffles away. Rinse and repeat thirty more times. The only upside I have is that Charlie’s less recognized overseas. If this were Philly, he’d have a swarm of crowds already.
It makes it easier to politely bar access to him.
Truth be told, every day is different with my client. Sometimes he won’t care if they want autographs. Other times, like today, he asks me to keep everyone away from him. As if he, himself, is radioactive.
Jack leaves Charlie’s side, and I watch him disappear down a different hall. It takes all my effort to keep my feet planted and not follow him. He’s not your client, Oliveira.
He’s also not famous. Doesn’t need a bodyguard. Straight.
Doesn’t need me.
Look at me, with this sound logic. I should just duct-tape that mantra to my brain. Then maybe my dumbass can stop thinking he’s more mesmerizing than the breathtaking art in this building.
“Hi umm…” Someone taps my shoulder. I rotate to see a twenty-something woman. Hair the color of burnt leaves, American accent, a fashion fanny pack on her hourglass waist—total Instagram Influencer Realness.
She’s hot.
Am I interested…? My eyes almost dart to where Jack left.
“Aren’t you Oscar Oliveira?” She bites her bottom lip.
On one side of all this SFO fame, I don’t need to bat a single eyelash to pick up women or men.
The public knows I’m bi after catching me lip-locked with a man. I was outside a gay bar on my night off, and security isn’t supposed to give interviews to press—but the thought of the media theorizing my sexuality didn’t sit right with me. So I told the paparazzi, “I’m bisexual” and went home with my arm around a hot one-night lay.
Not that picking up people was hard pre-fame. But the new distraction on-duty just makes a complicated job more complicated. And I’m the only one from Kitsuwon Securities in Paris right now. No extra set of eyes when mine wander.
Plus, there’s a restriction about fucking the fans of SFO, written clearly in Kitsuwon’s 400-page rulebook.
The rule: do not.
I think my brother is the only one who consciously breaks it all the time. I prefer not to fuck fans. It ruins some of the chase and foreplay when it’s just…so easy to get them in bed. A waste of my best pick-up lines.
Have I done it though? Yeah.
I’m not fucking perfect. Far from it.
So I’m staring at the Influencer-styled chick, and she’s asking me if I’m Oscar. And I go for the typical response.
“I am,” I say. “But I’m busy.”
“Can I just have a quick selfie?” She smiles and wags her cellphone seductively.
I shake my head, gaze planted on Charlie, but from the corner of my eye, I notice Jack returning, his confident stride and welcoming aura like a radiant beam of light. Even when I saw his morning wood on the plane and then his embarrassment, he managed to smile and keep cool.
The guy is unreal. Who wouldn’t want that kind of luminous joy in their life? He can’t be a part of yours, Oliveira.
My stomach twists.
Maybe I need to be more proactive in building barriers around my heart. And I can’t think of a better way to get over him than to give in to her.
“You know what,” I say. “Sure.”
Her face lights up, and she lifts her phone. Her hair smells like candy apples, but it’s not my favorite scent. She snaps the pic and examines the photo. “We look hot together.” Her grin expands. “Could I have your number? Maybe we could take more hot selfies sometime?”
She’s bold.
I like bold.
“Hey.” Jack steps close, two water bottles in hand. So that’s where he went. He casts me a quick glance, then one to the girl. Back and forth.
Her brows draw together. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jack,” he says into a short nod, his smile gone. “Who are you?” That was cold for welcome-mat, red-carpet-entrance Jack Highland.
I’m staring more at him than her. He sounds jealous. I’d bet…five bucks on it.
“Everly Adams. I’m here for study abroad and ran into this handsome guy.” She winks up at me. “You know he’s Charlie Cobalt’s bodyguard?”
I look Jack over as he shifts his stance, more closed off to her. He tucks a water bottle under his armpit and uncaps the other. “I know him. Oscar is one of the best bodyguards in the entire fleet, but he’s on-duty—”
“Oh, I’ll be out of his hair in, like, a couple of seconds tops.” To me, she asks, “Think we could meet up later tonight?”
Jack chokes down water.
Now I’d bet a hundred bucks on it.
Before I can answer, Jack smoothly interjects, “We’re busy, actually. We have a shoot tonight.” He gestures to his camera and tries to fake a smile. My attraction hikes up when his fake smile comes out as a heated glare.
Christ, Highland.
She bristles and turns her back on him.
Even if I bet a grand on his jealousy, it doesn’t matter. I have a job to do, and it’s not thinking about fucking Jack.
I keep focus on Charlie. He’s still staring up at the sculpture.
“So…” Everly surveys my six-foot-two build. “About your number…?
“Yeah, sure.” I spout off my number but change the last digit. It’s a dick move, but I’m not in the mood to reject her in front of Jack.
I’ve felt what it’s like to be rejected, and I would’ve died if I had an audience when it happened.
After saving my number in her phone, she politely says, “It was nice to meet you.” Ignoring Jack, she skirts off.
Leaving me and him closer together. “A shoot tonight?” I question. “I didn’t think you were filming, Highland. It’s just prep.”
“It is,” he says more coolly. “I just thought you needed a wingman.” He hands me a water, the tension clear in his flexed biceps. “It’s not a big deal.”
Then why do you look so nervous?
I almost say that back, but instead, I go with, “I don’t know what your fri
ends taught you in California, bro, but wingmen don’t run off potential hookups.” I touch my ear, but I remember I have no radio in Paris.
“She didn’t look like your type,” Jack says with the rake of his hand through his dark hair. His eyes sink into me, and my defenses rocket through the stratosphere.
“No offense, Long Beach, but I don’t think you know what my type is.”
His lips rise in a smile synonymous with a slow stroke of a cock. “Are you sure it’s not me?” He’s searching my gaze.
I think of all the ways I could shut him down:
It’s never been you.
My type is the opposite of you, Jack.
I wouldn’t fuck you if you were my last option.
Those ideas pulverize my insides. Hurting him isn’t on my agenda. Nowhere near, and so I tip my head back to him and say, “Are you sure I’m not your type?”
Mic drop.
Too much passes through his face, and I can’t stare. My eyes snap towards a tour group. Shit.
The noisy students head towards the Winged Victory of Samothrace sculpture. I’ve memorized the entire tour schedules, and I know they’re early. The moment I step towards my client, he ducks behind a burly man wearing a University of Alabama sweatshirt.
Jack follows close behind as I weave between bodies.
“Excusez-moi,” I say, pushing past someone with a sopping wet raincoat. “Excusez-moi.” A little girl, no older than five, runs out right in front of me. Elbowing my shins. Jack grabs my arm before I trip over her like she’s a lawn gnome.
“Colette!” her mother whisper-shouts. “Viens ici maintenant!” Come here now!
Jack’s hand falls to my hip, leading me out of their way, while I root a hand between his shoulder blades—guiding him in my direction, further through the maze of the museum.
We breach the packed confines of the crowd, coming into a clear area. Both in lock-step together, we hustle down the hallway without full on sprinting.
When I reach the end, the hall splits towards Greek ceramics and a temporary exhibit hall.
I don’t see Charlie.
My pulse stays even, but I’m on high alert. Barely blinking. “We have to split up,” I tell Jack. “You take the cerami—”
“I have it, Oscar.” He understands, already exiting in that direction.
I shouldn’t…but I watch him go. Really, I’m craving to jog after him, but this isn’t the time to chase after a crush.
A crush.
That word again, and I almost careen my head back in frustration. In reality, I’m more poised for a serious hide & seek game with Charlie. Where the fuck did you go?
Carefully and urgently, I sweep the area, talk to the security guards at the exits, and then text Jack a meeting spot when I reach the ground floor beside the information desk.
I don’t know whether to be furious or concerned, so by the time I come face-to-face with Jack again, I’m full of pent-up emotion. Charlie ditching me. Fine. Charlie ditching me in the motherfucking Louvre. Not fine. Not fine at all.
Jack shakes his head, face fallen in guilt. “I couldn’t find him.”
“It’s not your fault.” I pull out my cell.
“It kind of is,” Jack tells me while his fingers glide through his hair. “Before all of this, you said not to distract you.”
I did give him that threat. Only because I like doing my job well, and that means having clear focus on my client. But I fucked that one up myself.
“You didn’t distract me, Highland. I did that to myself when I agreed to take a selfie with a random woman.” Shouldn’t have done that. Technically, I did do it because of Jack. I was trying to get over him. But that’s still not his fault.
I dial a number and press my cell to my ear.
“Oscar?” The older man’s French accent is thick. “Haven’t heard from you in months. I thought maybe Charlie fell out of love with the Louvre.”
“Hardly,” I say. “And you know I can speak French, Florent.”
“I know,” Florent replies in English still. “What do you need?”
“Charlie’s MIA. Can you see if he left the museum? Last known location was room 703, the Denon Wing.”
“It’ll take me a couple minutes. Can I call you back?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Florent.” I hang up and meet Jack’s confused gaze.
“That was the head of the museum’s security,” I explain. “He’s going to check the tapes. It’ll save us time from running around the place, if Charlie’s already hightailed it out of here.”
Jack looks impressed. “And you just had his number on speed dial?”
“If it’s a place Charlie frequents, yeah, I’ve got connections.” I check the time on my watch. “It’s the only way I can do my job well. Work smarter, not harder, Long Beach. Remember that.” I pat his chest, and we both tense.
We keep doing that.
I drop my hand, tension erecting. Thankfully other things aren’t erecting right now.
Jack smiles a little. “I’ll keep it in mind. Tucked right next to distractions become extractions.”
I did say that. Right before I told him that I’d extract his ass from a room if his production crew interfered with my job of keeping Charlie safe. But that comment was during a filming segment of We Are Calloway. Had to be at least a couple years back, and I’m honestly kind of surprised he remembered it.
I’m about to reply when my phone buzzes in my palm.
I answer on the first ring. “Florent.”
“He left the Louvre around five minutes ago,” Florent tells me. “Out the Carrousel du Louvre entrance.”
Of course he exited to the mall.
Of course.
I grip my phone tighter. “Thanks, Florent. I owe you one.”
He says a quick goodbye in French and I hang up. “We have to make up some time,” I tell Jack. “How fast can you walk?”
He smiles. “I’m an athlete.”
“You’re a swimmer,” I remind him. “But how are you on land, Long Beach?”
“You just set the pace,” Jack says. “I’ll follow.”
We scour the mall and all of Charlie’s favorite cafés and spots to no avail. Now back at Charlie’s two-bedroom apartment in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, I pace the marbled floors and make as many calls as I possibly can.
None of my contacts have seen my client, but they’ll call me if he shows up. More likely, a random stranger will spot Charlie and post a pic of him on social media.
But I’ve got that covered too.
Jack is seated on the black leather couch, gold metal trim running down the side, and with his elbows on his knees, he scrolls through Instagram and Twitter.
He said he’d scour social media before I even asked if he could.
Production. He knows better than most people how the public would fawn over Charlie and post videos to the internet.
It hits me that this is the longest span of time I’ve ever been with Jack, just one-on-one. I’ve learned small things about him. Like how he can sprint.
Fast.
Like how he’ll hold open doors for every person, and the bright smile he’ll give them is never filled with fake kindness.
Like how he didn’t prepare for a spontaneous trip to Paris, but before boarding, he grabbed a blue bomber jacket and candy from his car.
He stuffed lollipops in his jean’s pocket.
If he were a friend, I’d give him shit for it—out of every piece of candy, a sucker—but I still don’t want him to be my friend.
Right now, the stick pokes out of his mouth while he scrolls on his phone. He shrugged on the blue bomber jacket, patches sewn in the fabric that say good vibes and totally rad. Along with a VW van and palm tree patch—he stands out.
To me.
He stands out to me, and I need to focus. “Anything?” I ask him as I slip my phone in my pocket.
“No. Charlie might as well have evaporated.” He speaks with the sucker against the
inside of his mouth.
My dick between his lips. The image springs up instantly, and heat cascades down my body. It actually helps temper the boiling frustration I have towards my client.
Nope, that comes back.
I cage in an angry breath and stride to the bar. “Well, he’s got evaporation down to a science,” I say and bend down to a bottom drawer. “But unlucky for Charlie, I know how to find him.”
Jack looks up. “So you’re not worried?”
“I’m at about a ten percent.” I dig through the drawer, full of bottle openers, cork stoppers, and stirrers. It’s somewhere in the back…
I explain further, “He’s good about calling me if something’s going down. One time in Holland, he ditched me for about five hours.” I pull out a small box. Rising to my feet, I finish the story. “It was during the tulip festival, so more people were around than usual. A few drunk fucks decided to heckle him at a bar, and things turned physical. He called me from the bathroom where he barricaded himself.” I leave out the part where Charlie could have called me before they threw a punch. Could have texted before his ribs cracked.
He chose to wait until after.
That story never made the press because I showed up and started confiscating phones and getting NDAs signed. Besides the lead in security at the time, I only told Donnelly and Farrow what happened.
They both asked why my knuckles looked fucked up, and I didn’t want to lie.
Jack watches me cross the room to the front door. “How worried were you then?”
I laugh. “Close to a hundred.” I look back to Jack. “The whole drive to him, I kept thinking that if my little brother were in his position, I wouldn’t have to worry. Quinn’s the best fighter I’ve ever known. Charlie…he weighs—what, a hundred-fifty? Guy’s got some lean muscle on him but he’s still skinny for my standards.”
“Yeah, he’s about the same size as my little brother,” Jack nods. “Dude, if Jesse called me from a bathroom after a fight…” He takes the sucker out of his mouth and expels an anxious breath. “I don’t know what I’d do. Jump a guy…bulldoze everyone, probably.”
I don’t tell him how I flattened most of the guys on the ground that night.
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 9