The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

He idled his sleek Audi next to a Lincoln Continental circa a dark period from the seventies. The stark contrast of the chain link fence and rows of beat-up cars one oil change from becoming scrap metal next to his brand-new ride was almost laughable. But Mr. Producer didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Seb,” he corrected. “Matteo’s is on Wilshire off of Santa Monica. I’m heading over there now. Join me if you’d like. I’m happy to buy you a drink and pay for your time, but I won’t be offended if you change your mind.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you out front.” Seb beamed, seemingly pumped at the prospect of buying me a drink.

Okay, that was…different.

But in a good way.

Geez, could it be that after years of striking out, my luck was finally changing?

Not so fast.

First, I got into a heated discussion-slash-near-altercation with one of Tony’s minions who tried to weasel an additional twenty-five bucks out of me. My bank account was already on life-support. I couldn’t afford to be screwed in a way I wouldn’t enjoy. After a tense standoff, I paid the two hundred I’d been quoted, then drove west toward Beverly Hills.

The irony of my situation didn’t escape me. There I was, circling the block in my piece-of-shit car in a famously exclusive part of town, spinning over money I didn’t have and tips I wasn’t making tonight while looking for a parking spot in a part of town I had no business being in. It would be the perfect kind of irony to think I might be close to catching a break only to find a ticket on my windshield. Nope. I had to be careful. I couldn’t take any chances in Beverly fucking Hills.

But I couldn’t keep Seb waiting either.

On my third trip around the same block during rush hour, I gave up and pulled up to the valet kiosk behind a Maserati. I had just enough cash in my wallet to pay the fee and reward the young hipster who managed to maintain a neutral expression when he took my keys. Not sure I could have looked at the bent fender and cracked rear window and done the same.

I checked my reflection in the window of a high-end boutique and reminded myself to commit to character and not drink too much. I had to be sharp and stay on my toes. This was Hollywood, baby.

Pep talk complete, I traversed a narrow brick passageway leading to a red door marked with the letter M in bold font. Seb stood to the left of a spiral topiary, his face buried in his phone.

He glanced up, smiling when I approached. “There you are.”

“Hey, sorry for the wait.”

“No, no, I just got here too. I had my driver pick up my car.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I nodded lamely. “I’ve lived in LA for ten years. I didn’t know this place existed.”

“It’s a hidden gem. The owner is a friend of mine. The M is for Matteo. He was going for simple yet elegant. Somehow, I think he missed the mark. See for yourself.” Seb held the door open, ushering me inside.

Oh. Wow. This was a lot.

Ornate crystal chandeliers in varying sizes hung throughout. They were dimly lit, providing an eerie illumination to the luxurious surroundings of tufted leather booths and the antique mirrored bar. The glass shelves, chockful of fine spirits and shiny tumblers, glittered in crystal prisms. Soft jazz piped through the overhead speakers added an extra touch of class.

It was elegant and sophisticated. The type of establishment that appealed to media moguls and high-tech executives…or well-dressed businessmen like the two gentlemen perched on cushy stools at the far end of the bar in the otherwise empty space. Unlike me, they looked as though they belonged here.

So did Seb.

He greeted the bartender warmly and placed our order, gesturing toward a circular booth tucked in the corner. “That’s my table. Take a seat. I’ll join you in a sec.”

I obeyed, settling into the cushy leather as Seb approached the two men at the bar. I almost laughed at their suddenly perfect posture and matching smarmy grins. It might have been pure conjecture on my part, but if there was a hierarchy at play here, my guess was that Sebastian Rourke was the big-swingin’ dick those clowns wanted or needed to impress.

Shit. Maybe we did have something in common.

Seb hadn’t invited me here for kicks and giggles. He wanted information.

About London. Right.

I pulled my cell from my pocket and continued my Google search, branching to “Interesting facts about London” and “Things to know when traveling to the UK.” I learned that London was huge, museums were free, and umbrellas were necessary. Oh, yeah, and the British slang for umbrella was “brolly,” which made me wonder how many common colloquialisms I could pepper into a few sentences to keep things real.