Maximoff wears hardened concern. “Do you need a water? I can get you something.”
“Yeah…sure.” Her face is bright red, realizing how many men are actually helping and surrounding her right now. Temps have converged, and Donnelly, Quinn, and more Epsilon bodyguards hover close by.
Banks unscrews a water and puts the bottle in her good hand.
Akara is on comms, trying to coordinate a car in case they need to leave early. Once I finish bandaging the wound, I step back to give her air.
I snap off my gloves, and I spot Oscar and his client breaching the VIP area for a split-second. And then they disappear back into the crowds. Moving towards the bar.
I need to talk to him.
I hate leaving Maximoff, but this is a secure area. He’ll be fine for a few minutes. And he’s intensely concentrated on Sulli right now, not wanting to leave her with a barricade of bodyguards and no family.
I touch his waist and whisper, “I’ll be back in ten.”
He nods, and he does a double-take, just to add, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
My mouth curves up. I want to say that Maximoff wouldn’t do one-fourth of the shit I’d do. But he’s the one always chasing after me. To keep up with me. To be stronger. Faster. Smarter.
Yet, I know he wouldn’t do what I’m about to, but that’s exactly why I want to run this extra mile. For him.
I trail far behind Oscar and Charlie, but I don’t lose sight. And I follow them in the men’s bathroom. Shutting the door behind me.
Oscar is careened back against one of three empty stalls and watches me silently. He’s back on unofficial duty like the rest of SFO. Even guys who drank more than me feel like they can do a better job than the temps.
But I’m not here for my friend.
I need to talk to Charlie.
He’s leaning over a sink and scrubbing lipstick off his forearm. Someone’s phone number.
“Give us a minute?” I ask Oscar.
“Charlie?” Oscar has to ask.
Charlie glances from me to his bodyguard. “It’s fine.”
Oscar kicks off the stall and passes me, but I still register the look he sends. The one that says, watch yourself. Like I’m willfully standing alone with an unpredictable lion, but also, he’s warning me not to hurt him.
Noted.
“You okay?” I ask Charlie and unpocket a pack of cigarettes.
“Peachy,” he deadpans. “But I doubt you asked Oscar to leave just to discuss my feelings.” He tugs a couple paper towels from the dispenser and faces me, wiping his hands. “So? Is this about Scotland?”
I put a cigarette between my lips. “I wasn’t going to start there, but sure, if that’s where you want to go first, we can talk about Scotland.”
Charlie balls up the damp paper towels and scrutinizes my tattoos and black clothing: my boots, belt, and black button-down tucked into black slacks. “You realize I threw a book at Moffy in Scotland. I didn’t put a gun to his head.”
I hold a lighter to the cigarette. “You keep pulling a metaphorical trigger, man. It is like a gun.” I take a drag and blow smoke to the side. “You can act like you don’t understand, but we both know you’re smarter than that.”
Charlie glances down, dirtied toilet paper stuck to wet tile, then back up at me. “I do understand.” He lets out a bitter breath. “If I hadn’t been stuck in that house, he wouldn’t have been in my line of sight.”
“He wasn’t just in your line of sight; he was with me.” Embers eat paper, cigarette burning between my fingers. “He was asleep against my shoulder, and that bothered you.”
A laugh dies in his chest. He shakes his head, then pins his eyes to the mirror. To himself.
“You’re jealous of his relationship.” My voice is matter-of-fact. I’ve guessed this about Charlie more than once.
Charlie cringes. “Moffy, of all people, is the one who grew up never wanting a relationship. So is it aggravating seeing him in love? Yes.” He pulls at his sandy-brown hair. “If you want my permission to intervene, you can save him all you want.”
“I don’t need your permission to save my husband.”
Technically, we’re not married yet, but I don’t give a flying fuck right now.
And I also tell Charlie, “He would let you murder him if it made you feel better. You understand that, right?” My muscles are on fire.
Charlie sighs out a knotted breath. “Sounds like Maximoff is too self-sacrificing to me. You should probably talk to him about that.”
“How about you don’t beat him down anymore?” Territorial heat simmers my blood, but I stay relatively at ease and suck on a cigarette.
His eyes redden. “I’m trying. It’s not as easy as counting one, two, three.” He snaps his fingers, then tosses the wadded paper towels in a trashcan.