"So," Charlie said, "who's coming with me?"
Lisa let out a small sigh and leaned back on her palms. She looked at him with genuine warmth but also a hint of regret.
"I wish I could," she said. "Really. But I've already taken a few days off, and I just started this job. Taking more time right now would be risky, especially with that board meeting coming up on the first."
Charlie nodded slowly, not surprised but still disappointed. "Right. The big meeting. The one with the superintendent and those two old guys who think cheerleader team is a disease."
Lisa gave a half-smile. "Exactly those guys."
Before Charlie could say anything else, Laura pointed at herself with both thumbs, grinning like she'd just won a prize on a game show.
"Well, I can go," she said. "It's only a thirty-five-minute drive to L.A., and I've got two girls at the parlor to take care of the schedule. I could even scout a new tattoo studio while we're there. Maybe get some fresh inspiration."
Lisa raised an eyebrow, then looked at Charlie with a shrug. "Honestly, that could be perfect. I mean, if I can't be there, maybe Laura can enjoy a little getaway with you. Celebrate after you sign the deal."
Charlie looked between them, a slow smile forming. "You'd really be okay with that?"
Lisa leaned in, kissed his cheek, and said, "I want you to enjoy this. I want you to focus and feel supported. And let's be honest, she's got enough energy to drag you around town and still have stamina for round three."
Laura smirked. "Try round five. Minimum."
Charlie laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Alright then. Looks like I've got myself a road buddy."
Laura raised her hand like she was sealing a pact. "You drive, I DJ."
Lisa stood and stretched, grabbing the empty kombucha bottle as she walked toward the door. "And while you two are off making music and mayhem, I'll be here dealing with entitled parents and budget cuts. But hey, someone's gotta keep the real world spinning."
Charlie looked up at her. "I'll bring back something cool."
...
[Next Day]
Charlie stepped out onto the balcony, coffee in hand, hair still damp from the shower. The breeze carried the scent of ocean salt and sunscreen, and down on the beach, the first wave of Malibu's finest was already laying claim to the sand. He watched for a few quiet moments, taking in the steady thump of bass-heavy music from a speaker, the laughter of bikini-clad women tossing around a beachball, and the occasional shout from a surfer catching a good wave.
Life wasn't bad.
He took a long sip of his coffee and let out a satisfied sigh. Then he turned back inside. It was time to get ready.
Charlie's Mission Checklist: [3 days to go]
First, he pulled his best tux from the closet. Midnight black, tailored just enough to scream elegance without trying too hard. He gave it a long look, then shook his head.
"You, my friend, are going on a date with steam."
He carefully packed it into a dry-cleaning bag and headed down the stairs. Within thirty minutes, he had dropped it off at the high-end dry cleaner across town with strict instructions to press it, breathe on it gently, and return it without a single wrinkle.
Next, he focused on the boots. A pair of boots that hadn't seen daylight for a couple of months now. He grabbed the brush, a rag, and a bottle of polish, sat on the back porch, and went to work. Twenty minutes later, they were gleaming like they were auditioning for a shoe commercial. He gave them a satisfied nod and set them beside the door.
The Mercedes came next.
He rolled it out of the garage, plugged in his favorite playlist, and got to work. He washed, dried, waxed, and buffed until the paint looked like black glass. He cleaned the rims, scrubbed the tires, and wiped the windows until they were invisible. He even vacuumed the inside, which was usually a forbidden land of fast-food wrappers and beach sand.
...
[Noon]
Around late noon, just as Charlie was finishing the last bite of his grilled chicken sandwich with avocado and far too much aioli, Berta walked through the front door. She had a plastic grocery bag in one hand, her purse in the other, and a look that said she was not here for small talk.
She dropped the bag on the kitchen counter without ceremony and looked at Charlie, who was leaning back in his chair with a paper napkin tucked into his shirt like a smug toddler.
"You're glowing," Berta said, pointing at him with her chin. "That a side effect of success or just all the sex finally liquefying your bones?"
Charlie grinned and gave a small, satisfied shrug. "Little bit of column A, little bit of column B."
Berta raised an eyebrow, reached into the grocery bag, and pulled out a half-gallon of orange juice, a bag of jerky, and a tabloid magazine with a headline about aliens stealing celebrities' skin. She ignored Charlie's smug aura and opened the fridge.
"I saw your car. Shiny enough to blind a pilot," she said, placing the juice on the shelf. "You joining the Fast and the Furious now or just trying to impress the valet?"
"Hey, appearances matter," Charlie replied, wiping his hands. "I'm heading to L.A. in a couple of days. Big studio session. Possibly music videos. They're handing me the full creative reins."
Berta turned and stared at him for a moment. Then she gave a single, skeptical nod.
"Huh. Look at you. Finally pulling your weight in the world. I was betting you'd peak at jingles and mild herpes."
"Still might," Charlie said, unfazed. "But at least I'll be peaking with a view."
Berta pulled out the magazine, glanced at the alien headline, and tossed it on the counter like trash. "So, who's your lucky support animal for this trip? That tattooed banshee or the school principal with a spine of steel?"
"Laura's coming. Lisa's got work," Charlie said, standing and stretching. "It's a short trip. Just long enough to shake some hands, lay some tracks, and hopefully not die of dehydration on day one."
Berta narrowed her eyes. "You know that girl still looks at you like you're dessert, right? She's sweet, yeah, but sweet things tend to rot your teeth if you're not careful."
Charlie leaned on the counter, arms folded. "She's good company. She makes me feel... sharp. Like I'm not just some washed-up bachelor with good hair."
"You're still a washed-up bachelor," Berta said. "Just don't do anything stupid out there."
Charlie nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth without fighting it. "She also gives great massages. And listens when I talk about lyrics."
"Mm-hmm," Berta muttered. She picked up the jerky, opened the bag, and bit off a piece like it owed her rent. "Just don't go getting soft. This opportunity? It's not a vacation. It's the first real shot you've had in years. Make the music. And for the love of whiskey, don't let your dick do the negotiating."
Charlie laughed and grabbed his plate to rinse it in the sink. "Noted. Keep my pants on. Focus on the art. Win a Grammy. Got it."
Berta stared at him for a beat, chewing her jerky thoughtfully.
"One step at a time, Romeo. First, don't crash the car. Second, don't screw up the sessions. Third, don't accidentally get matching tattoos with your road buddy after three margaritas. Although you don't drink anymore, just be careful because anything can happen out there in the heat."
Charlie was about to thank her for caring, but then narrowed his eyes and looked at her.
"Wait a minute!" He caught on to her. "This ain't you. What are you up to, Berta?"
Berta didn't flinch. She just stood there, chewing her jerky like it was made of gold-plated secrets. Then she tossed the bag onto the counter, dusted off her hands, and gave Charlie the kind of look you usually reserve for toddlers covered in chocolate pretending they didn't touch the cake.
"What? A woman can't give heartfelt advice to the man-child she's been cleaning up after for the last decade?" she said innocently, her tone just a little too smooth to be trusted.
Charlie folded his arms, leaned against the fridge, and cocked his head. "You gave me actual life advice. Unsolicited. In full sentences. Something's up."
Berta shrugged. "Fine. If you must know, I've been watching a lot of Oprah lately. Got me in a 'support your local disaster' kind of mood."
He didn't buy it for a second. "Try again."
She sighed like she was in agony, then finally threw her hands up in exasperation. "Alright, you want the truth? Here it is. If this deal with Firelight goes well and they feature your face in videos and promote this whole 'Charlie Harper: emotional jingle wizard turned legitimate artist' story, you're going to start making serious money. We're talking about real career income, not just the hush-money jingle earnings."
Charlie nodded slowly. "So, you're saying your sudden interest in my emotional development has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I might soon be cutting checks with commas."
"Absolutely not," Berta said, completely deadpan. "It has nothing to do with my daughter crashing at my place because her genius of a husband decided he wasn't ready for a baby and bailed. And it definitely has nothing to do with me suddenly footing the grocery bill for three people instead of one, plus formula, plus prenatal vitamins, plus the nightly emotional breakdowns over diaper brands."
Charlie blinked. "Oh. Wow."
"Yeah," She said, tossing the empty jerky bag in the trash. "So no, this isn't about me needing more cash. And it's definitely not about me realizing that if you make it big, you might start offering salary packages instead of just free beer and last-minute bonuses in gas money."
He raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And I'm guessing her financial plan involves you, which in turn involves me."
"Oh please," Berta said, waving her hand. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not some gold-digger. I'm more like... gold adjacent. Besides, you still owe me for that time I didn't call TMZ when I found that cheerleader passed out in your hot tub with a sock on her head."
"That was a misunderstanding. And it was a swim cap," Charlie muttered.
She ignored him. "Look, I'm just saying, if this studio gig takes off, you're gonna need help. Real help. Someone to keep your house from turning into a zoo. Someone to screen your calls, manage your schedule, maybe even handle your fan mail. Which, let's be honest, will probably include at least three stalkers and one deeply emotionally unstable Rose, who will kill the other three stalkers and then might try to climb back into your bed. I can keep an eye out for her."
Charlie chuckled. "So now you're applying for a promotion?"
"I'm just laying the groundwork," she said casually. "When the tour buses start showing up and your inbox is full of influencer thirst traps, don't come crying to me because you didn't hire someone who already knows where you hide your emergency condoms and your shame."
Charlie gave her a long look, then grinned. "So all of this 'focus on the music' talk was just a long con for a raise?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Berta said. "I'm asking for a raise, a bonus, and gas money. I'm not greedy."
He laughed, walked over, and patted her on the shoulder. "You're unbelievable."
"And you're about to be rich. So who's really the problem here?"
Charlie nodded. "Alright, you want a promotion? Fine. If this Firelight thing lands the way I think it might, we'll talk salary upgrades and job titles. Till then..." He took out two hundred dollars from his pocket and gave it to her. "Hope this helps with your situation."
Berta stared at the two crisp hundreds in her hand, then looked up at Charlie with something dangerously close to emotion in her eyes. For a second, it looked like she might actually say thank you.
Then she sniffed and slipped the money into her bra like she was just tucking away a receipt.
"Better than a raise," she said. "This doesn't get taxed."
Charlie shook his head, smiling as he grabbed a flavored beer bottle from the fridge. "You're welcome, by the way."
"I didn't say thank you," Berta replied, but her tone was softer now, like a sandblaster on the lowest setting.
He twisted the cap off the bottle and leaned back against the counter, watching her collect her things. There was a slight shift in her step now, a little less burdened, like she'd finally taken a backpack full of bricks off her shoulders.
"Hey," he said, catching her attention as she reached for the laundry basket. "For real. If things get rough, and you need something, don't wait until you're cornered. Just say the word. Remember, we are family and family takes care of each other."
Berta paused for a beat. She turned back toward him, one eyebrow raised. "And what if I need a yacht?"
"I'll draw you one," Charlie replied with a grin. "In crayon. With a little flag that says 'Berta's Boat of Sass.'"
She snorted. "Alright, rockstar. You go polish your Grammy speech. I've got laundry to take care of and then diapers to buy and a daughter to remind that magicians are, in fact, not always the answer."
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[7 advance chs] [All chs available for all tiers] [No double billing.]
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