The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

But we’re talkin’ fifteen years ago, folks. A lot happened in a decade and a half, for fuck’s sake. I’d moved across the country, broken up with Annie, switched apartments a few times, and had waited tables or bartended at three different restaurants since then.

I was pretty sure I’d already fucked this up, but I was in too deep now. So I gave a mash-up report of what I could remember of that trip—the shops, the pubs, and the people I’d met. I talked about the thatched-roofed homes, the colorful boats docked along the riverside, and the old theater in town.

I wished I’d thought of the theater angle sooner, ’cause my story suddenly became easier to tell and less one-sided. Like me, Seb loved theater. And he knew a lot about it.

Conversation flowed naturally as we covered influential plays, movies, and television. I sprinkled “bloody” and “brilliant” in every once in a while, but otherwise, I was just me. I could talk about my favorite aspects of entertainment and the arts all night long. I had an MFA from Boston College and a fair amount of regional theater experience under my belt. This was my happy zone, and apparently, it was Seb’s too.

We bonded over a love of musicals, westerns, and action-adventure flicks while leisurely sipping our cocktails. I nursed my second martini and asked for water when a server brought a bowl of soft pretzels and a side of spicy mustard to our table.

I almost broke character when I bit into the warm deliciousness.

“Fuck, that’s good,” I moaned under my breath in all my Philly realness.

Seb did a double take, his gaze flitting from my eyes to my mouth.

“Yes, I could make a meal out of these pretzels,” he replied. “I should probably suggest that we get something real to eat, but Matteo’s menu is limited and…I’m pretty comfortable. Good Scotch with pleasant company…this is nice.”

“Very nice,” I agreed with a smile. “Thank you. My terrible afternoon has turned around.”

“Mine too.”

“Oh, yeah? Bad day at the office?” I prodded, hoping to gently steer us toward studio business again.

Seb shook his head. “No. It’s personal.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t.” The haunted look was back, and his reassuring half smile didn’t quite chase it away this time. “I volunteered the info.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on his cocktail napkin.

I studied Seb’s faraway expression with his mouth drawn in a tight line.

He was in pain. Real pain.

Sadly, I wasn’t the guy he should confide in…at all. I was no therapist. I wasn’t known for my wisdom or empathetic nature. Hell, I was an out-of-work actor, a stuntman wannabe, a waiter, and okay…a shameless opportunist.

However, I wasn’t an asshole. I didn’t like to see anyone suffer. And though I was out of my depth and probably out of line, I wanted to help.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I tried, thickening my accent a bit more than necessary.

“There’s not much to say. I just…lost something I’m never gonna get back.”

A palpable sadness settled over our table like a dark cloud. It felt very out of place somehow. I didn’t know Seb well, but he had a reputation for being cunning and ruthless, yet relentlessly upbeat. Interesting combination for sure.

Over the past hour or so, I could tell it wasn’t an act. He was charismatic as hell and curious about everything and everyone. Including me. Sure, he wielded charm like a weapon, but he was graceful with it. Seb was the kind of guy you couldn’t help rooting for. I wanted him to succeed, I wanted him to be happy, and I barely fucking knew the guy.

But I knew his melancholy seemed out of place. I wasn’t sure how to steer around it, so I proceeded carefully instead.

Twisting the stem of my martini glass, I gently inquired, “Are we talking about a person, place, or thing?”

“Person.” He shot a wary glance my way. “Ever have that happen?”

“Uh, well, I assume you mean a breakup. Yes, I’ve had a few of those. They suck.” Oh, shit. My accent slipped.

Seb didn’t notice or didn’t care. He nodded in agreement and sighed. “They do. It’s taken me almost twenty-five years to come to the conclusion that I’m not good at relationships. I should avoid them altogether.”

“That’s pessimistic.”

“No, I’m serious. My last one was a perfect example. Giorgio was beautiful, but…he was wrong for me. I should have ended it sooner than I did.”

“And now you’re sorry you ended it?” I asked, knitting my forehead in confusion. “I mean…is he the one who got away?”

“Giorgio? Oh, hell no. He was hot for sure, but he was too young, too immature, too needy. And he was a user.” Seb waggled his brows lasciviously, adding, “However, the sex was great.”

I chuckled. “How old was he?”