Page 122 of Charming Like Us
“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 loudcrack!
“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.
