“You’re not coming inside.”
“Why?” Jack asks, resting a hand on the doorframe above Charlie’s head. His athletic body flexes with the stance. Jack Highland, everyone. Doesn’t matter if we’re in a flirt-ationship, non-friendship, or actual relationship—he’s a distraction with a giant D.
I tear my eyes off him.
Charlie is looking right at me “Oscar knows why.”
“I get it,” I say, not missing a beat. “You don’t want me to clean your messes. You think this isn’t a part of my security duties—”
“It’s not. You shouldn’t have to sweep up glass—”
“There’s glass?” Jack frowns.
I’m so close to barging in like this destructive American god is my baby bro.
“Minimal glass,” Charlie emphasizes. “Not as much as before.”
As before.
Wasn’t allowed in for that one.
Jack reasons, “What if we just check it out and see if we can help? If we can’t, you won’t even know we’ve been here.” His tactic: trying to gain permission inside by staying friendly.
Like hell that’ll work with my client, but I commend Highland for the effort.
“No,” Charlie says like an endnote.
“Look, we’re here, Charlie,” I say more forcefully. “No one else is but me and Jack.” And we care. “So please let us in. Would you really rather deal with a fucking apartment fire on your own?”
He hesitates one more second.
“I’m offering, bro. Take it.”
With a sigh, he pushes the door wider. “Be my guest.”
Jack and I share a cautious look before we follow him inside. Vaulted ceilings, dark woods, leather, and industrial lighting—the apartment is a lot like my studio down the hall.
Just bigger.
A luxury bachelor pad that must’ve been on fire.
Smoke sputters from a couch, the armrest singed, and a single gust plumes towards the fire alarm. Knives are stuck in the walls, and someone played darts with a Van Gogh, the painting tilted and torn. Shards of glass litter the floorboards under the broken frame.
Pewter goblets scatter the kitchen counter, red liquid dried on leather barstools, the aftermath of some party last night I’m sure.
A party.
The single word slowly simmers my blood. What’s actually in my job description: vet all guests in a house party.
It’d be nice to even know about the party. But I wasn’t even given that. No one told me. Charlie had a temp on his detail yesterday, so that info should’ve been passed from his temp guard to me.
Didn’t happen.
Better yet, though, Eliot, Tom, and Beckett’s bodyguards could’ve called me up, texted, slid a motherfucking note under my door to alert me that there was a party here.
I’m literally down the hall from Epsilon’s apartment where the Wreath brothers and O’Malley live. So the further I stride into Charlie’s place, the angrier I start getting, but then I catch Jack’s dazzling eyes in a quick glance and his lip quirks.
I begin to grin back.
Can’t believe I’m fucking grinning right now. He has the power to vanquish my surly ass mood. And Jack Highland isn’t fazed by the mischief of the Cobalt Empire.
Even as we walk into the aftermath. Tom Cobalt is perched on a shirtless six-foot-four Eliot Cobalt’s shoulders and unscrews the fire alarm from the ceiling.
“Oscar,” Eliot says with a nod. “Did Charlie tell you?”
I’m on guard, my eyes pinging to the windows. To the doors to their bedrooms. Entrances, exits.
“I was about to.” Charlie rubs his temple and cinches his eyes closed as the fire alarm continues to wail. “For the love of God, shut the thing off.”
The noise dies.
“Got it,” Tom says.
Charlie looks to me. “My brothers threw a party last night and didn’t think to tell their guests to stay out of my fucking room.” He shoots Eliot a glare.
“I did tell them,” Eliot rebuts, helping Tom off his shoulders. “Your door was locked, Charlie. How was I supposed to know he could pick locks?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie says dryly. “Because people lie, Eliot. You could’ve let your bodyguards into the party to keep an eye on the guests.”
That idea—I like. “Did your temp know there was a party?” I ask Charlie.
“No. He dropped me off here and left before it started.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t think to text me about it?”
His yellow-greens pierce me. “I did actually think about it, but you had your hands full last night.” He glances at Jack. “Congratulations. You were trending for a solid hour there. Homewrecker Highland.” His sardonic tone is noted. He skims a hand through his hair, messing the strands. “I hate people.”
“They could be calling me a lot worse, you know,” Jack says. “Homewrecker Highland has a ring to it.” His smile dims and weakens. It tanks my pulse. He’s either trying to keep positive for himself or for Charlie.
I reach out and clasp his hand in mine. His carriage lifts at the touch, and while we lace our fingers, I say, “Yeah, it has a shrill ring. I’m gonna put a mute on that one.”
Jack smiles more. “Come on, it’s catchy. Homewr—”
I cup my hand over his mouth. “Muted, meu raio de sol.” I love my dramatic-ass nickname that is too damn accurate for Jack.
He laughs against my palm, and the air lightens when we return back to the remnants of the party.
“How many people were here?” I ask, watching as Jack lets go of my hand to check his phone. He mouths, Jesse.
I nod, and he leaves to take his brother’s call in the hallway.
“Four people,” Tom answers, collapsing on the singed couch. “Barely even a party.”
Charlie snorts. “Four is the most Beckett and I would let you invite.”
I stroll around the place, inspecting nooks and crannies where a smart “guest” would’ve planted hidden cameras. “Where is Beckett?”
“He stayed at our parent’s place,” Tom explains.
“Because he knew he’d wake to this.” Charlie lights a cigarette. “And this isn’t even the problem.” He looks back to me. “Luna’s fanfic was swiped.”
I roll to a halt by the bookcase. “What?”
“It was stolen, robbed, pilfered,” he clarifies.
Thank you, not.
“I know what swiped means.”
Charlie skips over that.
