I pull back, practically shoving Taio away, my gaze scanning the shadows, the rooftops, the windows of the buildings across the street.
Another flash. And another.
Camera lights. Unmistakable. Coming from somewhere I can’t pinpoint, capturing everything—me in my Tweety Bird shirt, wrapped in the arms of a strange man on my private patio, tears still wet on my cheeks.
“Charlie?” Taio asks, concerned now. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer immediately. My throat has closed up.
How? Fucking how?The paparazzi found me.
“We were just photographed,” I breathe out.
“Okay. I’m sorry, but don’t you get photographed a lot?” he asks innocently.
“You don’t understand… This is going to be all over the internet tomorrow.” I hang my head in shame. “And I have a boyfriend.”
chapter 7
Taio
“I just want it on record,” Cam announces, adjusting his mask for the fifteenth time, “that when you said ‘guys’ night,’ I pictured a bar. Maybe a steakhouse. Possibly a strip club if we were feeling inspired. Not…” He gestures at the open field around us. “Whatever the hell this is.”
“Strip club’s still open, Cam. Feel free to see yourself out.” Forrest points to the arena entrance with his pen, not looking up from the tactical map he drew on a napkin. An actual tactical map. With arrows and positions and what I think might be enemy sight lines. “A plan builds trust. Trust builds cohesion. Cohesion wins battles.”
“We’re not in a battle. We’re grown-ass men playing paintball in Jersey who had to get dressed in a gym locker that smells like old cheese and a tire fire.”
Forrest taps his temple, eyes still glued to his unimpressive map. “The battlefield is a state of mind,” he murmurs.
Cam turns to me. “He’s been like this for twenty minutes. I’m starting to worry.”
“Hawk?” I ask. Forrest actually makes eye contact with me. “Is Sora letting you out of the house enough? You know…like for fresh air?”
“Is Hawk like a cool battlefield nickname?” Cam asks, suddenly looking intrigued. “Do we all get nicknames?”
Saylor materializes beside us, crouched low behind a stack of inflatable barriers, already in full tactical mode. “His name is ForrestHawkins, you eager-ass puppy. No one is getting cool ops nicknames. We’re not taking a blood oath. Quite frankly, your presence here is optional, especially with all the bellyaching.”
“Harsh, Say,” Forrest adds.
“He did just call him a mama’s boy two days ago,” I mumble.
“Right.” Forrest turns his gaze to Cam. “Sorry. Justified.”
“Do we at least head to a bar afterward and get our drink on?” Cam asks.
“Weare.” Forrest points to me, Saylor, then himself. “Jury’s still out on if you’re invited. Let’s see if you hit your targets first. I’m going to test our radios.” He paces a few feet away.
Saylor, being a good sport, picks his walkie-talkie up in full support of Forrest’s over-the-top leadership.
“Bravo Team, this is Alpha Leader.” Forrest’s voice crackles through the cheap walkie-talkies he insisted we needed. His back is turned but he’s standing ten feet away. We can see him clear as crystal against the dusky sky. “What’s your twenty?”
“We’re right here, Hawk. Turn around and you’re looking right at us,” I gripe, my tone suddenly matching Cam’s because I’d like to be doing anything else than playing paintball today. I’m too distracted, worried about the growingly menacing headlines that have been swarming, just as Charlie predicted two days ago.
“Radio protocol—” Forrest starts. He’s interrupted by a loud grumble from Cam.
“I swear to God, if you say ‘radio protocol’ one more time, I’m defecting to the other team.”
“Great. Do it. Gives me a really interesting target,” Say gripes.
