The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

I snorted, nodding in sarcastic agreement when he scowled playfully into the camera. “Ask ’em for a job, Dad. They’d be crazy not to hire you.”

“Hmph. Speaking of jobs…”

Oh, great. My favorite topic. And such perfect timing, I thought, glancing at the contract I’d been studying on my computer for the past two days.

“Dad, I’m fine.”

His glasses slid down his nose as he refocused. I had a fleeting thought that I might be looking at a mirror of future me in my early seventies. I’d always been told I resembled my father. I had my mom’s coloring but my dad’s everything else—his height, his bone structure, his every mannerism. That was probably from copying the way he sat, ate, spoke, and gestured at the television when I was a kid.

Al Mackay was my hero. The best man I knew. I wished I had any passion whatsoever for plumbing, ’cause it would have been an honor to carry on his name in a way that was meaningful to him. But I’d felt a different calling, and he’d supported me even though he didn’t understand. I appreciated that more than I could communicate sometimes. I just underestimated the worry component. Like now.

Dad was eyeing me over the rim of his glasses with a paternal concern that made me feel itchy as fuck. At thirty-seven, I’d hoped to be over the phase of making my folks needlessly anxious about my welfare.

“I know, I know. But I saw this movie advertisement…one of those space-odyssey things, and it got me thinkin’ about you and acting and stuff. You’d look good in a space suit.”

I tried not to laugh, ’cause he looked so damn sincere. I knew this was his way of telling me to keep my chin up and not to worry about the part I’d lost in The Last Drop. Trust me, I hadn’t wanted to share that info, but my parents were the type to pause film credits so they could gaze at my name in teeny tiny letters on the closing reel like it was blazing in neon lights in Times Square.

So…here’s what I did. I laughed. ’Cause seriously…me in a space suit? That was funny as fuck.

“Dad. Really?”

“You’d be great at anything you tried,” he said gruffly. “And there’s no shame in trying somethin’ different. If you wanted to come home and regroup, maybe that would be good for you too.”

Okay, that killed me. And this FaceTime business was pretty damn smart of him. It didn’t leave me room to hide. I had to put my so-called acting skills to use. Stat.

“Thank you. But I already have something new lined up,” I stated with a reassuring smile.

“Oh, yeah?”

“A bodyguard part.”

“A bodyguard,” he repeated. “Oh, that sounds important.”

“I don’t know about that, but um…I’m reading through the contract now.”

Dad clapped, his grin filling the screen. “Yeah? That’s great. Congratulations. Good money?”

I swallowed hard. “I think so.”

“You should take it. I mean, what do I know? But work is work, and it can’t be too tough to pretend to be a bodyguard, right?”

“Right,” I agreed, arranging my smile into something less plastic.

Fuck me. If the path to hell was paved with good intentions and lies of omission, I’d secured my spot for sure. To my parents, happiness was the ultimate sign of success. Not money. It wouldn’t occur to my dad that I’d sell out.

Or maybe I was looking at this the wrong way.

Playing a pretend bodyguard was a role too. And it paid good money. I was still acting…but not in a traditional sense. Right?

So when my dad switched topics to my mom’s prized tomato plants and the weeding he’d promised to do before she got home, I leaned toward my laptop, hovered the cursor over my signature for a beat…and pressed Send.

6

SEB

“Wine or beer?”

“Is that Pinot?” I lifted the pizza box lid, pausing to squint at the bottle in Gray’s hand.

“Yep, it’s your fave.”

“Then wine, please.”

“You got it.” Gray skirted the island in bare feet, chuckling softly when his French bulldog, Chester, dutifully followed him. “Go get Seb, buddy. He’s the one with the food.”

“Better hurry, Chester. I’m starving.” I slipped a slice of pepperoni onto two plates and did an inner happy jig that there wasn’t a third plate on the island. However, because I was a mature adult determined to put old angst and resentment behind me, I schooled my expression into something neutral and asked, “Where’s Justin?”

Gray returned with two wineglasses. He poured Pinot into each and slid one in front of me before easing onto the barstool next to me. “He’s at practice. The band is working on some new material, but he should be home soon.”

Oh, joy.

“Hmm.”

Gray furrowed his brow and peeked under the box. “I thought I put napkins out.”

“You did.”

I set one on his knee the way I had practically every week since we’d started this dinner tradition twelve years ago. And because I was a creature of habit, I noticed the contrast between Gray’s faded blue board shorts and my Armani suit pants.