Tom
"I don't need a babysitter," I grumbled into my drink.
We were seated in a booth in the back corner of a lounge owned by one of Charlie's mates. While the jazz was preferable to the deafening base typical of the nightclubs we haunted, the lack of a thronging dance floor made us all the more visible to the passing glances of fellow patrons. Still, it was better to my other alternative—drinking alone in my empty apartment.
"I'm just keeping an eye on you," Charlie shrugged as his eyes flickered between me and a group of guys seated at a nearby table. "Like you always did for me."
I hesitated before lowering my drink. "You seeing anyone?"
Charlie smirked. "Come on, Tommy, you know I'm not that kind of bloke."
"You could," I persisted as I set my glass on the table between us. "If you wanted to."
Charlie attempted a lighthearted chuckle, but the slight edge to his voice gave him away. "And what would poor Grandmama say?"
"Charlie—"
"He'd never allow it."
We held each other's gaze as the familiar-yet-unspoken understanding passed between us: While as a father Uncle Henry might learn to tolerate a gay son, as King he'd never permit such a threat to the monarchy.
Eventually, I tore my gaze from Charlie's and glared over his shoulder as I shook my head in disgust. How Charlie loving another man could be seen as threatening was beyond my comprehension.
"It may be 2018, but it's still too political," Charlie knowingly answered.
"And God forbid your father ever appear anything other than politically neutral," I muttered as I once again raised my glass to my lips.
"The fact he even lets you run the foundation is miracle enough, don't push your luck. I mean it, Tommy." He added in earnest.
I merely nodded as I lowered my now empty glass to the table. "Want another?"
Charlie lifted his own glass, still half-filled. "I'm alright."
I nodded against before pushing myself out of the booth and navigating the tables toward the bar, all the while ignoring the hushed murmurs emanating around me.
I leaned against the bar while waiting for the bartender and forced myself not to scowl as a camera flashed in my peripheral vision. I was so focused on not reacting that I nearly jumped when I felt my own phone buzz against my pant leg.
You busy?
A smile erupted across my face as I reread her text. I had barely heard from Emma in the last several days, and whenever I did it was always over text and always in response to my initiation.
Not particularly, I typed back. Why?
"Hey," breathed a husky voice in my ear. "You look like you could use a good time."
I didn't move; I hardly even breathed, though that was mostly because of the overpowering, cloying scent of her perfume. I could practically feel the woman pressing against me and knew if I turned even a millimeter it would likely cause some part of our bodies to touch. I could already imagine the horrible photos flooding Emma's news alert.
Luckily just then the bartender stepped in front of me. "What can I get for ya, love?"
"Can I close out?" I asked with a tight smile.
She nodded and turned back toward the register.
"Wanna go somewhere else, more private perhaps?" The woman cooed.
The bartender was mercifully quick and offered me a pitiful smirk as she left my check just to my left so I would have to step out of the woman's ensnaring presence to reach it.
"Have a lovely evening," I murmured as I quickly signed the paper, leaving the bartender a grateful tip.
I quickly strode back toward the booth where Charlie still lounged with his drink hardly touched. "I'm heading home."
Charlie frowned toward the bar before fixing me with a dubious scowl. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"
I laughed, imagining the rest of my evening staring at my phone hoping for Emma to call, and shook my head. "Nothing you wouldn't do," I teased.
His expression was grave, but oddly he didn't say anything more.
I glanced behind him at the table of men and smirked. "I wouldn't mind, you know."
At that Charlie blinked. "Wouldn't mind what?"
"Being your third wheel again," I winked before lightly punching him on the shoulder and turning to leave.
I heard him mutter something about me being a prat and smiled as I recognized the playful lilt return to my cousin's tone.