“Sure, I don’t see why not.” I gave him a brief rundown of some of the sights I’d scouted for the film and my plans for future trips. Pierce was integral to Baxter’s success, so it was important to let him in on at least part of the process.
“Cool. Cool. Wow, I’m stoked. Jumping off bridges, car chases, explosions…fuck, yeah! My stunt double just finished in Toronto and—hey, I know you.” Pierce narrowed his eyes and pointed at Trent standing a couple of feet behind me. “You’re a stuntman, right?”
“He’s a bodyguard,” I interjected.
“Oh. Yeah, that’s it. I remember. Nice to see you again.”
See, he was a little clueless. He couldn’t tell you what he ate for breakfast most days, so there was no way he’d remember that Trent was in fact the stuntman Hal had fired weeks ago.
Pierce gave my lover a head-to-toe lascivious once-over. The “I’m sexy and I think you’re sexy” look that guys like Pierce got away with…or thought they should anyway. It made my blood boil. I still felt shaky after my outburst on the ride over here. Too raw, too exposed. And for some reason, I felt possessive of Trent.
Trent shook his hand. “Thanks. Same.”
Pierce pulled his gaze from Trent and turned all of his model handsome dazzle my way.
“Did I show you the car I want to buy? It’s totally sick. Cherry red, low ride, lots of torque…not sure what that means, but it sounds good and…” Wow. He was probably someone’s idea of a big catch, but to me, too much time with Pierce was painful. I tuned him out and let him jabber about fast cars, his hotel room, and a little boy he’d met who’d asked him to sign his shoes…? “I heard operation Lover Time is on. Will a subtle adoring glance do?”
That caught my attention. “No, that’s not necessary.”
“Maybe we should kiss. They’d fucking love that.” When Pierce entwined his pinky finger around mine, I could have sworn I heard Trent grind his teeth. “Or we could—”
“Sorry to interrupt, sir. We’re set to begin. Come this way and we’ll sort your mics.” A young event coordinator motioned for us to follow her.
Long story short, the conference was a success. The crowd greeted the manufacturer enthusiastically. They were even more excited about my Baxter spiel…not because Baxter was my creation. I was just one step closer to the star. And sure enough, the second I announced Pierce’s name, the whole place came unglued.
It was awe-inspiring. The funny thing was that even though no one there realized it, they really were cheering for me. That video game, that movie, that Hollywood legend in the making…that was all mine.
I took a moment to soak in the accolades, grinning like a fool as Pierce struck a few campy poses. A woman in the front row nearly fainted when he lowered his head and tugged at the sleeves on his suit coat and flashed “that look”—a wry half smile with a knowing laser-sharp “Don’t fuck with me” piercing gaze. It was classic Baxter and it featured in every film.
“The look” as it was coined, was on par with every famous action-adventure hero’s signature catchphrase. It was the equivalent of 007’s “The name is Bond, James Bond,” the Terminator’s “Hasta la vista, baby,” or RoboCop’s “Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.” It was cinema gold.
And I’d created it.
Gray was the only person who knew that it came from a dark place. See, I’d practiced that look in the mirror as a teenager. It was the cocky “fuck you” I’d never dared give my father to counter his “I’m going to beat the shit out of you” one he leveled at me anytime I stepped out of line. Aka, acted too queer for his taste.
Baxter was the ultimate “fuck you.” I took perverse joy in knowing that he’d seen it before he died…on a billboard, no less.
Gray’s response had surprised me. He’d hugged me and said something like, “Just be sure you don’t let that hate blind you, baby. If you do, he still wins.”
I didn’t get it at the time. But it was beginning to make sense to me. I’d shared more about the ugly parts of my past with Trent than I had with anyone in years. Every time I mentioned my father to Trent, Dad lost his power over me.
In spite of what anyone tells you, ghosts are very real. Mine was an angry, ugly man who didn’t know how to accept or love the boy who skipped when he was excited and daydreamed in the outfield, picking flowers instead of watching the fucking ball. That man scared the hell out of me. But he was gone now.
Long gone.
I glanced over my shoulder at Trent and smiled…in gratitude. Maybe he saw something more in the gesture because he inched close to my side.