The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

“Like punk girls with messy breakups?”

“Believe it or not, yes. Breakups are like car wrecks. We can’t get enough of watching someone’s life fall apart.”

I wrinkled my brow. “That’s rather grim.”

“Schadenfreude.” He tapped his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “In action flicks, we need to sell the idea of adventure too. Canoeing through wild rapids, mountain climbing in a blizzard, skydiving from the Golden Gate Bridge…all while in pursuit of justice.”

“Sounds easy enough,” I commented sarcastically.

Seb scratched his stubbled jaw. “Sometimes, it is. But we’re about to wrap up The Last Drop and we need our marketing wow factor. Everything we have so far is boring. Who cares about car chases on LA freeways? They’re too common. Movies are supposed to suspend reality, not give us an extension of the five o’clock news. I’m not sure what my promo zinger will be, but…I’ve got this feeling I can’t shake that it’s important to tie the UK angle to both Baxter movies. Where one ends, another begins. And maybe that’s where you come in.”

I barely resisted the urge to squirm on the leather seat when Seb skewered me with an intense look.

“How?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

His casual tone and friendly smile invited me to relax and share war stories like new buddies. Theoretically, there was nothing wrong with his approach, but the reality was slightly more complicated. I wasn’t who I said I was. Not even close.

But let’s be real, the fact that he wanted to talk to me because of my “accent” was very fucking Hollywood. Too contrived, too slick, too easy. It was like we were playing each other for different reasons.

Mine was obvious…I wanted a job.

Seb wanted inspiration.

At least, that was his story. I had a feeling he wanted something else too. Don’t ask me what—I couldn’t say. But under his jovial exterior I sensed a vulnerability he was doing his best to cover with a manic rush of cinematic genius.

Maybe that was when I should have come clean.

Yeah, no.

Even if I thought this might be a good time to tell the truth, I sensed Seb didn’t want the truth tonight. He’d set a scene in motion and he wanted me to play my part. This was an audition with a Hollywood tastemaker who had a reputation for being a shark. The crafty kind that caught you unaware. But he was a shark who could singlehandedly change my career’s downward trajectory with a nod.

I’d lived here long enough to know that show biz people were a breed apart. They were users and con artists. They begged, borrowed, or stole outright in a never-ending quest to become or remain relevant in an ever-changing and fickle industry. What was popular one day was passé tomorrow.

And in the ten years I’d been trying to make it in this town, I’d never had a one-on-one audience with anyone close to Seb Rourke’s caliber. The universe had just gifted me the ultimate audition. I had to give it my all. He expected a show. It was my responsibility to deliver.

So, I sipped my martini, cleared my throat, and spoke in a lilting British accent. “I’m from a small village outside of Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“Shakespeare country.”

“Aye, that’s right. The great Bard of Avon.” I tilted my chin, smiling as Seb settled more deeply into his corner of the booth.

“What’s your town like?” he asked casually.

“Oh, um…it’s a cheeky, wee village a kilometer or three from Stratford.” Shit, I think I got the definition of cheeky wrong. I covered my faux pas with a half laugh and continued in a rush, “That is to say, it’s rather small, and the townsfolk are a funny bunch.”

“How so?”

“Well, the baker wears an eye patch and yells ‘Ahoy, matey’ to every customer who enters his shop. His tea cakes have won prizes at the local fair. They’re very delicate and beautifully decorated. Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a salty sailor.”

“He’s a sailor?”

“Oh, aye. He was in the Royal Navy some time ago. Talks about it constantly,” I said, warming up to my tale. “Anyway, the bakery is next to the butcher. That bloke is a real tosser and he’s the only game in town. If you want your meat dealt with properly, you have to go through Eddie. Nice chap, though.”

Seb’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Wait. You just said he’s a tosser. Doesn’t tosser mean jerk?”

Oops. “Yeah, I meant he used to be a jerk, but he’s mellowed with age. Everyone in the village is old. We went to the next town over to have any real fun when I was in school.”

“Where was that?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Was he really asking geography questions?

I took another long sip and scrambled through old memories of my trip to England in my early twenties with my ex-girlfriend who’d also happened to be an aspiring actress. Annie and I had spent a week in London and taken a one-day bus tour of Warwick Castle, Stratford-upon-Avon, and Oxford. The tour guide had given an hour-long spiel of the significant landmarks, including an abbey, Shakespeare’s residence, and some old buildings at the university.