“Do you remember what happened?” I ask Jack, his dark hair is tousled from a hard, drunken sleep. My boyfriend leans a hip against the marble sink counter, arms threaded loosely over his chest.
“A little bit,” he says, stiffly. “I was hoping we could talk it out and piece it together.”
I place two hands on my head, chest rising and falling heavily. “Alright, so we were at the club.”
“And then we left,” Jack says.
“Okay…I vaguely remember stopping at a jewelry store?” I shake my head. “But that doesn’t make sense because it was too late—everything would’ve been closed.”
“No, that’s right,” Jack snaps his fingers. “You stopped at the store, and you called someone…”
I groan and sink onto the edge of the tub. “Had to have been Maggie. She’s a friend from college. She works at Cobalt Diamonds.”
Jack questions, “If you asked her to let you in after-hours, you think she’d open the store for you?”
I nod strongly. “She’s done it before, mostly when I’m with Charlie.” I swipe a hand through my bed-head hair. “But maybe this is a good thing? We just bought rings. We didn’t actually get married.”
Jack reaches into his back pocket. The same pants he was wearing last night. He passes me a crumpled piece of paper.
I’m staring at my motherfucking marriage license.
We both signed it.
“No one’s talking about it on the internet,” Jack tells me. “Which means we somehow did this without paparazzi or people noticing.”
“Of course we fucking did.” I fold the piece of paper. “I’m a strategic genius, Highland. I can get married without it being on the news the next day. Apparently, I’m so fucking good, I even hid it from myself.” I start laughing, but it’s a stressed, panicked sound.
Jack points to the paper in my hands. “The name of the officiant and the two witnesses are all fraternity brothers.” He sucks in a breath. “So I’m just as much to blame. We must have run into them or something. I, honestly, don’t remember.”
I frown, the fuzzy parts starting to clear a little. “I think I do recall stumbling into some guy named Edgar. He wore an ugly plaid shirt that looked like vomit.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer.” He shakes his head. “The crazy thing, Oscar, is none of this would have happened if we both weren’t so well-connected.”
“Look at us,” I say. “So popular we accidentally got hitched.”
Silence finally seeps in, and it strains something between us.
He’s my husband.
And I didn’t even know his middle-effing name until seeing it on the marriage license. Until right now. “Your full name is Jack Arizona Highland?” I question. “Arizona?”
He makes a pained face. “I was conceived in Arizona, apparently.”
I laugh, one that dies, but damn did I need that right now. The air sobers again. We stare at one another as the reality sinks and sinks.
Do I regret this? I’m a smart guy. Even drunk, I’m not going to do something I don’t want. Deep down, I love Jack, and I can’t imagine running to the courthouse to get it annulled. The thought causes my stomach to twist in tight, unthreadable knots.
But I also can’t imagine this being okay for him. Too soon are words that ring in my head. Maybe he thinks I drunkenly married him for his money. God, I hope not.
I lick my dry lips, mouth parched. “We can get it annulled.”
Jack doesn’t blink as he asks, “Is that what you want?”
My phone rings. For a second, I worry I might’ve drunk dialed Farrow or Donnelly last night, but I see it’s just Charlie.
I click into the call. “Hey.”
“We’re going to Vienna. I’m leaving in five.” He hangs up.
And just like that, there’s no time to discuss what to do. No time to even get an annulment if we wanted. We’re headed to Austria.
35
JACK HIGHLAND
Oscar and I agree to pocket our rings and not speak about the marriage until we’re alone again. A difficult task, seeing as how we spent ten hours on a private plane with Charlie.
I think maybe we’ll get time to talk when we check into a two-bedroom suite in a five-star hotel. But we’re there for less than two minutes, just enough time to drop our bags.
Charlie’s true destination is a baroque palace, open to the public. Acres of gardens, an orangery, and fountains all landscape a historic, stunning structure.
“Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt was the architect,” Charlie tells me as we stop in an area under a ceiling mural, chandeliers, and gold molding. Five windows have breathtaking views of the gardens. Charlie’s eyes trace the painted ceiling. “It was commissioned as a summer home for Prince Eugene of Savoy.” His voice carries a reverence whenever he talks about architecture or art.
Hands on my camera, I capture Charlie and the palace in an appealing frame. “What do you like about it?” I ask, eyeing him outside of the lens.
He smiles and says something in French. I glance over my shoulder, wishing Oscar were here to translate for me.
Currently, he’s busy talking to the palace’s security by the door. A few visitors strolling through have recognized Charlie, but after a quick autograph or photo, they’ve left him alone.
I’m about to ask Charlie another question when he lies down flat on the marble tile. Legs and arms spread out like he’s creating a snow angel and stopped midway through. His eyes fasten on the mural like he’s studying each brush stroke.
My curiosity piques, and I can only imagine others would feel the same seeing Charlie Cobalt now. He loves art. For someone so raw, this is one of the few soft things about him.
I zoom in.
And as noise pitches near the doors, I take a quick, concerned glimpse at Oscar.
Palace security is angrier. He waves an annoyed hand towards Charlie on the floor. Oscar nods over and over, and I start to distinguish their voices. But I don’t know a single word of German besides nein which just means no.
Not helpful, dude.
One thing is clear: Oscar can speak fluent German.
Learned that new fact this morning when we checked into the hotel.
I should know all the languages my husband can speak before marrying him. That…did not happen. Structurally, this is off. We’re at the end without finishing the middle. Learning new things about each other. Married. My husband.
Jesus fuck, I can’t even process. The worst part is not being able to talk to Oscar about it. Having to spend the day pretending it never happened when we are very, very married.
The palace security guard leaves abruptly.
Oscar strides over with determined steps. He stops beside Charlie’s black scuffed and worn down Bolvaint shoes, and Oscar lightly kicks the sole. “Get up, Charlie.”
Charlie pats the ground. “Lie down, Oscar. Watch the clouds move.”
Oscar’s brows furrow and he squats down beside his client. I keep the camera rolling. “What’d you take?” he whispers.
“Just a couple booms.”
“When?”
“Hotel.”
“You have a bad trip, you tell me right away.”
“Always.”
Oscar stands up and meets my eyes.
“What are booms?” I whisper to him as we sidle to a middle window, leaving Charlie in the center of the room. On the floor.
“Mushrooms.” Oscar’s gaze intensely sweeps every entry into the marble-floored space. There are more doors and windows in this area than I think he’d probably prefer.
I’m not too surprised Charlie’s high on mushrooms right now, considering he’s experimented with hallucinogens before. He’s not always quiet about that fact.
What draws my curiosity is Oscar’s role in all of this. “Do you care that he does these kinds of drugs?”
Oscar’s eyes fall to the camera in my hands. I’m ready for him to tell me he’s not my subject, but then he says, �
��Not really.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I care more about when he does them. If I’m not around, he knows I’ll be pissed.”
He pauses for a second, considering something before he says, “The first time he took LSD, he tried to take off all his clothes and jump into a fountain.” He snorts into a laugh at the memory. “He got a toe in the water before I intervened.”
I smile. “Wish I was there.”
“Me too. We could have laughed all night together.” Oscar’s lips slowly rise and his brown eyes flit to me. “I like having you here, Highland.”
Softly, I brush my finger over an inside pocket of my blue bomber jacket, the one with patches sewn on the fabric. It should be here…
The ring…
Where’s my ring?
Shit. I don’t feel anything. Panic sets in and I stick my hand further inside the inner pocket.
Oscar frowns. “What’s wrong?”
My shoulders sag in relief when I feel the cold metal. I take out the ring, not even thinking, just glad I didn’t lose it. “I thought it fell out.”
Oscar studies me for a long beat. “You would’ve been upset about that?”
I lay the ring flat in my palm, staring at the silver band—which I later realized is actually white gold. Oscar has the exact same band, three tiny diamonds set vertically in the center like an expensive notch.
Hazily, I remember Oscar at the jewelry store, saying drunkenly, “Three diamonds to express three classic words from a couple classic gentlemen…” He teed up with a long pause. “I. Love. You.”
So I study the ring now. The tiny diamonds.
I. Love. You.
“Yeah, I would’ve been upset if I lost it.” Glancing up at him, I meet his overwhelmed expression. My heart thumps louder in my chest. Warm breeze from the gardens blows through the opened window.
Right here, inside the most beautiful palace, next to the most beautiful man, I come to a clear understanding.
I have zero regrets.
No lie, I’m so close to combusting with these thoughts and feelings, and then a high-pitched squeal swerves our heads, our attention.
A girl recognizes Charlie.
Oscar taps into a vigilant state. He touches my shoulder in that we’ll talk in a second way before he leaves my side. I watch him speak German again, and after a couple minutes, the girl nods, snaps a quick photo of Charlie—who’s still just lying on the ground—and then she exits through another door.
Oscar returns to my side like he silently promised.
“You can speak fluent German,” I say to him, brows raised. “Really well, I might add.” I flash a smile. “It’s impressive. So that’s English, French, German, and Portuguese. Any other secrets up your sleeve?” I actually reach for his sleeve and pretend like I’m searching for something. It’s just an excuse really to touch him.
Not that I need an excuse, I guess. He is my husband.
He’s smiling, and he clasps my hand firmly. “Don’t forget Spanish, Arizona.”
Arizona. I shake my head with a wider smile. I confess, I never loved my middle name until this second. Hearing Oscar say it.
Like the entire state belongs to me.
I process, “So you’re fluent in Spanish too.”
“Yeah. Other languages, I can get by, like Italian, but I’m most fluent in those five. But Highland”—he sweeps me over for a long beat—“it’s just as impressive that you can speak Tagalog. You and your brother grew up speaking it to each other?”
I nod and explain how our Lola doesn’t know English, so we’d always speak in Tagalog around her, and Jesse and I just naturally started playfully speaking the language more to each other. Like it was a bond between us that transcended place and time. No matter if we were separated by miles or years.
When I finish, I ask, “When did you learn to speak French, German, and Spanish?”
“Spanish, I learned in high school. French, I learned when I was twenty-four and joined security. I started out on Ben Cobalt’s detail, and all security guys on the Cobalts are recommended to know some French phrases. My try-hard ass decided I’d just learn it all.”
I let out a laugh. “And you call me the overachiever?”
He grins. “That title still belongs to you, Long Beach. I wasn’t overachieving. I just like doing my job well.” His gaze refocuses on Charlie at those words, but he’s still speaking to me. “German, I never planned to become fluent in. But when Charlie turned eighteen, he decided that he wanted to see every palace and museum in Austria.” His lips lift. “Let’s just say that year was a crash course in immersion.”
Honestly, I’m realizing it feels better having this information. Like a checkmark in the Oscar & Jack’s Marriage: Not Too Soon column. His eyes wash over me, breaking away from Charlie for a second.
I take the opportunity to hold up my camera. “Can you translate something?”
He nods, and I tap a few buttons to rewind an earlier clip.
Oscar leans into my shoulder. The weight of his body pressed up against me is this comforting relief that I can’t quite fully explain.
On the footage, Charlie’s gazing up at the ceiling, and my voice can be heard off-screen. “What do you like about it?” I ask him.
Charlie’s response is in French, and my eyes are on Oscar. He slowly smiles.
“He said ‘what’s not to love?’ And that is a prime example of a non-answer from our man Charlie Keating Cobalt.” His fondness of Charlie is clear. Maybe I’m a little bit clouded by the fact that Charlie did set me up with Oscar, but I’ve grown to feel the same.
Just as I think it, Charlie is up on his feet.
“And we’re on the move,” Oscar tells me, patting a hand to my chest. I train my camera back on Charlie. A part of me considers turning it off. He’s high.
But the producer in me keeps rolling. He has final say in what makes air, anyway.
And instead of traipsing all over Vienna, Charlie wants to return to the hotel. When I hear those words, my smile explodes. Hotel equals privacy. Which means Oscar and I can finally talk about our marriage.
Passing swiftly through a ritzy lobby, vaulted ceilings and mammoth chandeliers overhead, we reach a gold-paneled elevator.
Should I be nervous or excited that the talk is almost about to happen? My body hums in this middle-ground stage of jitters.
Elevator doors glide closed, shutting us inside.
Not even ten-seconds in and Bad Timing spits in my face yet again. The entire elevator jerks to a shaky halt, and my excitement dies with the electrical groan.
I eye the floor-number, frozen on 5.
“No,” Charlie exclaims and reaches for the buttons, smacking a few. His yellow-green eyes are wide in panic, pupils dilated.
Oh no…
The horror of being trapped in an elevator never really registered with me. Ride the swell. But I forgot that Charlie wouldn’t be as cool and collected.
“Calm down.” Oscar pushes him back lightly and presses the red emergency button. A shrill alarm blares for a second before the sound cuts off.
Charlie steeples his fingers at his lips and stares haunted at the closed elevator door. I’ve never taken mushrooms before—but I can’t imagine it helps the situation.
“We just have to wait,” Oscar says. He looks to me. “You alright?”
Bummed that we can’t talk, yeah. But on the positive side, I’m lucid and not going through a bad trip. Can’t say the same for Charlie. My concern zeroes in on him. “Fine,” I say to Oscar and then to Charlie, “Hey, maybe you should sit down.”
He touches his throat, over and over. Rubbing his fingers over his Adam’s apple. “Is it hot in here?” Charlie asks.
He’s already shedding his shirt and his fingers fly to his pants.
“No, no, no.” Oscar grabs his wrist. “You need to relax. Charlie.”
“I have a water bottle in here.” I hurriedly unzip my backpack and rifle through camera equipment. Found it.
> “Yeah, that’s good.” Oscar takes the PuraFons bottle from me. “Just sit down and have some water.”
Charlie runs two hands through his hair, not reaching for the water. Panicked eyes return to his bodyguard. “You’ve got to get me out of here, Oscar.”
“We’re working on it,” Oscar says.
Tears brim. “Please.” He chokes on a breath. “I can’t be trapped here.”
“It’s just an elevator.” Oscar stands in front of him and places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re having a bad trip. It’s amplifying your anxiety. Just take a deeper breath.”
Charlie inhales deeply but never exhales. He holds in oxygen for an agonizing long minute.
“Breathe out, bro,” Oscar says.
He gasps air. Silent tears slide down his cheek. His eyes flit from me to Oscar and back to me. “What does love feel like?”
My breath heavies, my eyes veering to Oscar. His gaze already glued to me.
Love?
All I know is my love for Oscar carries me like the water. A feeling of invincibility. The patience as the ocean laps underneath my body. The anticipation as the perfect wave rolls near. The cool excitement and power as I stand up. As I ride those impossible swells, and once I’m in the barrel, all the doubts and fears wash away. Leaving a bright burst of indescribable bliss.
That is his love to me.
But I struggle to articulate that to Charlie. “It’s…hard to describe.”
He swipes tear tracks off his cheeks. “I sometimes think that maybe it’ll stop one day. This feeling inside me…frustration…all the fucking time.” He blinks into more tears. “But it never really goes away, and…it has to be drowned out by something stronger. Either…pain or love.”
I frown. “Is that why you let people hurt you?”
He blinks again, his tears welling and eyes growing bloodshot. “I need to talk to my dad.” He rubs at his arms and shakes his limbs like he wants to crawl out of his skin. “Oscar—”
“I’ve got it.” Oscar’s dialing a number on his cell.
After filming Charlie for so long, I’ve realized he calls his dad any time he’s feeling off. Like someone would call a therapist.
It’s almost a daily phone call.
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 36