I shake my head tensely at Highland.
“It was supposed to end the Oslie rumors,” Charlie explains, “not make people loathe you because of them.” He expels a frustrated noise. “It’s all a fucking mess.”
“Story of our lives, bro.” I switch lanes and pull into a parking garage.
“Yeah.” Charlie nods slowly. “So it goes.”
I park, and we reach Clifford’s apartment complex with relative ease. No paparazzi. No screaming fans. It’s almost too easy. So it’s not a surprise when Clifford isn’t home.
Next stop, the theatre. We find another parking spot, and when we climb out and walk towards the theatre building, it’s clear this is…a shit show.
Girls and guys hoist posters and stake out the front of the old 1900s structure. Theatre security pushes them back, and a couple paparazzi vans hug the curb with parking meters.
“They’re always here early,” I explain to Jack and adjust my earpiece. “Eliot has an afternoon performance in a couple hours.” We approach from the side, not spotted yet.
“Eliot’s fans are my favorite,” Charlie says. “They’re mostly theatre nerds who send him Shakespeare love letters and dead ravens.”
“CHARLIE KEATING COBALT!” That shrill piercing scream comes from a girl holding a giant pink poster board that reads Eliot Alice, can I be your corpse bride?
Jack takes it all in with interest, and I almost clasp his hand—about five times—like I’m strolling down the street with a boyfriend.
I’m working.
I’m on-duty.
Here to protect Charlie. I playback the words in my head to stay sharp. Alert.
Charlie waves a nonchalant hand at the crowd—more like he’s brushing away a gnat than greeting them, and they all respond with an awed noise as though he just proposed.
He’s unaffected.
Don’t like that we’re exposed.
“Back door,” I instruct and step quickly in that direction. It’s too late though. Someone spots Jack.
“Homewrecker!” she screams.
Charlie stops in his tracks and turns around. I fist his shirt before he charges away from me. “I’m straight!” he yells at them. “There is no Oslie!”
“It’s okay, Charlie,” a girl pipes in. “We know you want it to be a secret. We know you’re not ready ye—”
“Fuck you,” he sneers.
“Oh my God, Charlie, can you say that to me too?!” someone jumps up and down.
“Charlie, please fuck me!” A chorus of requests pitches the air.
Charlie just turns around and meets my eyes. “Go.”
I begin to lead him into the theatre when I detect a projectile sailing at Jack. A shoe. An ugly rubber sandal—and I smack that shit out of his way.
What is so unlike me while on-duty—I nearly lunge and backtalk.
“Stop.” Jack curves an arm around my waist. He guides me away from the source of my frustration and rage. I hated Oslie stans before, but now that they’re physically attacking the guy who has my heart, I almost can’t even withstand them.
We’re in the theatre and Jack cups the crook of my neck. “Hey, I’m fine.”
I nod, cooling off, my chest rising and falling heavily. I almost kiss him. On-duty, Oliveira. And this is why you don’t bring your boyfriend to your dangerous-as-fuck workplace.
We pull apart.
Shit.
Charlie has already darted away.
I grind down on my molars and shoot to action. Picking up my pace, I jog out in front of Charlie. Hurriedly, we make it backstage where a white guy with a short mohawk balances on a ladder, fixing the large stage lights. Beside him, the stage is empty.
“Hey!” Charlie yells. “Clifford Flannagan!”
Clifford glances down.
My muscles strain, on edge, but I see what Charlie is about to do before he even moves. Being tactical means being five steps ahead, and even though I’m a single foot ahead of Charlie now, I don’t stop him.
I don’t want to.
It’s not really my job to.
So I skid to a complete halt, and Jack just gives me a thunderstruck look.
Charlie rams his right foot into the ladder like he’s shoving an enemy off a cliff. It careens, and the metal ladder and Clifford plummet to the stage with a loud crack!
“Fuck,” he groans, holding onto his knee. His eyes flash murderously to Charlie. “You psychopath!”
Charlie skirts around him and squats down a foot away. “And so the psychopath says to the thief,” he says coldly, “you have something of mine, and I want it back.”
Clifford’s nose flares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His gaze cuts to me and my cold glare. Fear bubbles in his eyes. “Uh…”
“You have thirty seconds,” I tell him.
Clifford shakes his head. “Fuck you both.” He looks to Charlie. “I’m selling your writing to the nearest buyer and for how weird and disgusting it is, I’m getting my money’s worth.”
Charlie blinks. “Final answer?”
Clifford breathes heavy, still clutching his knee.
“Think quickly here, Clifford,” Charlie says, lighting a cigarette. “You’re running out of time, and this psychopath is so easily bored.” He blows smoke in his direction.
Clifford lets out a breath. “It’s underneath the prop table. In the basket.”
Jack jogs there and digs through the basket of props.
Charlie’s not done. “You won’t speak to Eliot ever again. Keep away from my brother, or I will ruin you.” He flicks his cigarette at Clifford before standing up.
Jack returns with the manuscript, and I lead Charlie towards a rear backdoor. As soon as we’re out of view from Clifford, Charlie starts limping and lets out a frustrated, pained wince.
“Charlie—” I start.
“I’m fine,” he says casually. “You have it.” He looks to Jack, already knowing it’s in his possession. Their eyes meet for a beat. “Wishing you had your camera?”
Jack shakes his head. “No, not really.” We stop next to the stage’s exit. “That’s not something I’d show.”
“Why not?” Charlie asks. “It’s who I am.”
24
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
You still awake? I text Jack on a Wednesday night after a security meeting. Drinking stale-ass coffee at the Independent billiards & darts bar in Philly—typical. But I’m not single anymore.
I have such little free time, and right when I finally find myself off-duty, I’m called to a late-night security chitchat.
“Why the
