Call me a poet.
D-rated, probably, but hell, I’m a poet after kissing this guy.
Books in my grasp, I stand beside Jack. His gorgeous honey-brown eyes pool against mine, and then he smiles, still catching breath.
I grin. “Guess I don’t need to ask if you’re alright, Highland.”
He drops his hands off his head with a soft laugh. “I’m better than alright. That was…” He zones into the elevator number. Ground floor.
Our stop.
I want to hear what he has to say, but I’m on-duty, and protecting Charlie has to take priority. “This conversation isn’t over,” I tell him with a wider grin while we exit the elevator. “Just on ice for a second.”
“Good, because I need to cool off before we see Charlie.” He adjusts his package and walks with me to the parking deck.
Charlie. That little bastard hooked me up with Highland, and somehow, it worked.
I unlock my Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment as the time closes in on 4 a.m. And that’s exactly what happens when you have to chase after Charlie’s shadow all day.
Say hello to the never-ending job. Home to sleep-deprived, hungry motherfuckers, which is why I remember to bring snacks. Or else I’d accidentally drop twenty pounds.
I complain a lot, but I love it. Being a bodyguard.
My life didn’t make sense before security, and it doesn’t make sense without it.
Today was typical, but not with Jack in tow. What started as a trip to the Morgan Library, ended up being another visit to NYPL, a pitstop at the hospital to donate blood, drinks and dinner at The Purple Room, and a handoff of cash for entrance into a private garden after-hours.
Somewhere between the beginning and end, we also dropped off his bloody button-down to his assistant. Parker’s going to package and ship the shirt off to the eBay winner tomorrow.
Stranger than that, I’m not coming home alone. Or with a one-night stand. Or with a bad night’s worth of baggage.
But I don’t know how to classify what Jack and I are, and I don’t need a definition.
As long as he’s not messing with me.
Jack is so alluring, he could sell me the heart already in my chest, and I know he said I can trust him—but I’m a bodyguard. Being cautious is second nature.
And right now, I am actually carrying baggage. In the form of a black camera bag. “What the hell do you have in here?” I ask. “A small child?”
It weighs at least forty-five pounds. Nothing I can’t carry, but when I’m on-duty, I can’t carry shit for him. He has to tote all his equipment himself, and honestly, I’m concerned for Highland. Prep is over; this was the first time he’s actually tried to film Charlie all day. And not to bruise his ego too much, it went…less than stellar.
Jack shuts the apartment door, yawning out, “No small children. Just a boom kit, lighting kit, batteries, clamps, quick releases, a gimbal and slider…” He pats the blue backpack he slips off his shoulder. “This has three lenses and two cameras.” I watch him rub the corner of his eye tiredly as he says, “I’m banking on it being easier with a two-man crew.”
“With your brother, you mean?” He told me Jesse is in Philly.
Jack nods. “Being a solo shooter is harder when the subject keeps changing locations.” He yawns again. “I have to fix that quick release plate. The screw came loose a dozen times, and I kept having to stop shooting and retighten it.”
My concern is on him as I place his camera bag on a barstool.
For years, I’ve been around We Are Calloway crew as they did their thing, but I never realized how much went into it. Equipment malfunctions, not having the right accessories, sound issues, lighting issues, all while they’re trying to make art.
I study his sinking posture. “Is there any way to leave behind an extra lens or something to keep the weight down?”
He shakes his head, smearing a hand down his face a few times. Exhaustion drags his limbs. He’s six-four and hunching. He’s the “make-the-best-first-and-last-impression” guy. He doesn’t hunch.
Christ. “You won’t have a subject to film, if you can’t keep up with his pace, Highland. I almost left you in the dust after The Purple Room, and you’re not that slow.”
His smile tries to fight fatigue. “I appreciate the compliment. Taking a page from my handbook?”
“No,” I say with a small grin. “I always compliment guys I like.”
Jack shifts, his breath shallow before he lets out a larger yawn.
Fuck. Now I’m yawning.
I flip on the dim lights over a bookcase, and a warm glow casts on the dark wood of the luxury apartment.
We haven’t mentioned the kiss in the elevator yet. His first kiss with a guy. Our first kiss together. Hell, as far as Charlie knows, we’re still just co-workers. We’re both serious about our work, so we fell into keeping it professional.
Work is now done, and I want to take the conversation off ice. But he’s clearly spent.
“Thanks for letting me keep my equipment here,” Jack says while fumbling dazedly in his pockets. “It’ll save me time to pick-up and go.”
Because Charlie lives in New York. And I’m in New York.
“Yeah, no problem,” I say, but my light tone is hijacked by seriousness. Good Lord, he looks like he’s about to pass out.
Elbow on the edge of my kitchen bar, Jack digs in his back pocket again. Finally, he finds…a set of car keys.
I frown. No fucking way. “You’re not driving.”
Wrinkles crease his forehead. “It’s only a couple hours.”
“Only a couple hours,” I say. “Bro, you look like you’re two minutes away from collapsing on the floor.”
Jack laughs exhaustedly into a wide smile. “Some of my best work is done on the floor.”
Instantly, I picture fucking him on the floor.
Fuck me, flirting while fatigued should be a crime. Someone needs to come restrain Highland.
