“Filipino snacks?”
“Oh yeah, Long Beach. I need to try them. For research.” I check the time on my watch. “And we need to move faster.” I throw him the black slacks and white button-down. “Put these on.”
He frowns, but pulls his crew-neck over his head, not wasting time. “What are you wearing?”
“The suit jacket over my T-shirt, and the slacks I have on. You’re the one wearing blue jeans.” I thread my arms through the suit jacket. “Luckily, my pants might just fit your thin frame.”
Jack chokes on a laugh and extends his arms. “Is this thin, dude?” Bare-chested, his six-four height and sculpted abs tell the story of a letterman jacket jock.
I shake my head with a short motion. My muscles contract in desire that I try to thwart. Letting him change in front of me—not healthy. My cock hates me. My emotions are all over the fucking continent. Make that two continents, the one we left and the one we’re standing in.
“You’re hot, Long Beach,” I tell him bluntly, mentally checking off everything we have and need. I glance at a missed text from a contact. No Charlie spotting. “A classic athletic pretty boy.”
He steps quickly out of his jeans, tugging the fabric off his ankles. His eyes keep rising to mine. “I always thought you were the pretty boy between the two of us.”
Don’t check him out. He stands in tight blue boxer-briefs, and I run a hand across the back of my neck. “I have scars all over my face and body; I’m not a pretty boy.”
“From boxing, right?”
“Yeah, hard blows.” I request an Uber while he finishes changing.
Jack steps into the slacks, and in my peripheral, I notice how he studies Charlie’s apartment. His curiosity grazes the pale-yellow walls and the ornate crown molding.
Most people ask who bought it: Charlie or his parents. Every time Charlie brings someone here, it’s their first question.
His reply never changes. He smiles bitterly as he says, “My money is inherited. It doesn’t matter. It’s all the fucking same.”
But I was here the day Charlie walked into this place and signed the contract. His parents weren’t around. He was eighteen, and this apartment was his first big purchase as an adult. The price tag is a hundred times higher than what I spent on my first apartment after college.
But his reaction was the same as mine. Like he knew this was a monumental stepping-stone in his life.
I love this apartment for that reason alone. I know what it means to Charlie, and I’m probably the only person outside his family that he’s let use it. He’s told me multiple times, Anytime you want to stay here, Oscar, it’s yours. We don’t have a buddy-guard relationship, but there is a level of respect and kindness that exists between us.
Despite this current Houdini situation.
“You regretting this show?” I ask Jack as he finishes buttoning his slacks. “Now’s the time to back out.”
Jack smiles, but it’s a weaker one. “I’ve considered it.”
Rare surprise hits me. “Really?”
He slips his arms in the button-down. “Probably not why you think.”
“I’m thinking it’s because Charlie can be a pain in the ass.”
Jack laughs. “I’m fine with that, really. I just don’t know if I can put a crew through this. Fuck, I don’t know if a crew would want to do this.”
“Why do you?” I wonder.
He fishes buttons through his shirt. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Honestly…being a creator of a show has been a lifelong goal. I’m stoked to be where I am on the docuseries, but I’m also just one of many execs on We Are Calloway. But this…this would be mine.” He tucks the button-down in his slacks. “And like, sure, don’t attach your dreams to a sinking ship, but I’ve also never closed a door to an opportunity this big.”
I didn’t realize how much this means to him. “You were the extra-credit, straight-A high school student, weren’t you?” I sweep his frame. “And the category is, overachiever.”
He looks me up and down. “Didn’t you get straight-As? Yale, right?”
I nod heartily.
But the room deadens until I vocally answer, “But I wouldn’t call myself an overachiever.” Jack and I—we have a lot we can relate to.
Ivy League grads.
Little brothers ten-years younger.
This, though, this is where we diverge. “I don’t have lifelong goals that kick my ass up the rungs of a career ladder,” I say, our eyes locked. “There is no yearning for more when I have exactly what I want right here. I had the whole fight harder, achieve greater when I was a pro-boxer, and I landed flat on my face.”
I’ve failed too many times in my life to think sticking any type of dreams on any ship will sail me to shore.
Jack slips on his shoes and tells me, “I can’t imagine a life where I don’t pursue what I want…” His voice drifts off with his eyes.
Is it selfish to wish he was thinking about me?
I push some curls off my forehead. Jack is so driven, so optimistic, so hopeful that he can achieve the pinnacle of success—whatever that is to him, and now I know it’s this show.
I’ve felt failure, and it’s a shitty fucking thing.
Maybe I can try to make this shit show about Charlie Cobalt actually work—for him and his dreams at least. It’s a scary prospect, because for my job, burying this show into the ground would be easiest.
A notification pings my phone. “Our ride is here.”
Jack spreads out his arms, my slacks molding his ass and my button-down a little tight on his chest and biceps, accentuating his muscles. “Perfect fit?” His flirty smile causes my mouth to curve up in a grin.
If you were my boyfriend, I’d fuck you.
I nod a few times. “Yeah.” My grin fades knowing he’s nothing to me, just a guy I’m working with. “Perfect fit.”
11
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
“Maison bondée,” Gaspard tells me outside the cabaret. “Je ne sais pas s'il est à l'intérieur, mais vous êtes
