“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
