The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

He yelped as he hopped out of bed, stripping the duvet and the top sheet off. I hissed at the cool breeze and raced after him, pinching his ass as I sidled by him to jump in the shower first. Trent grumbled without heat and teased me for being a terrible host. I laughed and splashed him…to prove him right. It was a quick save, too. I’d almost told him he wasn’t a guest. Guests were temporary, and he belonged here.

I think I’d said something like that to Gray twenty years ago. I’d been impetuous and probably wildly sleep-deprived at the time. In retrospect, I was lucky Gray and I had worked out for as long as we had. We were so young and naïve. Only fools invited new lovers to move in and share a life.

I wasn’t young anymore. And I liked to think I wasn’t foolish. But here I was again…wishing for something I was old enough to know I couldn’t have and certainly didn’t deserve.

When I was a kid, birthdays weren’t a big deal. We’d have cake, unwrap a present or two, and my mom would sing to us. I’d had a couple of friend birthday parties before we moved to California, but nothing to commemorate my teen years. Thank fuck.

I’d gone to a few parties and I remembered thinking it would have been nice to have friends over, but my family wasn’t the kind who welcomed a houseful of teenagers. I stopped inviting friends over when my dad yelled at me in front of Nick Holland for leaving my bike in the driveway. Of course, it wasn’t my bike in the driveway—it was Nick’s. But that was par for the course.

I’d vowed to never be anything like my parents, so you’d better fucking believe I hosted gigantic, raging birthday bashes for my sons. Charlie’s were modest in the beginning, due to a lack of funds and a very small circle of friends. But they steadily grew as Gray and I enjoyed some success. It was common for us to host famous musicians’, actors’, and directors’ kids at elaborate parties with bounce houses, pony rides, and petting zoos. We hired deejays, chefs, and even a drag queen…’cause Charlie was Charlie.

But Oliver didn’t like attention. And birthday attention made him especially squirmy. That had to be awkward for a kid who was forced to celebrate at least twice each year. Once with Rita and her family, and once with me…and my rather large family of friends.

I cast my gaze over Gray and Justin’s backyard and homed in on the action in the pool. Oliver floated on a huge blowup unicorn with two of his camp buddies while Justin manned the grill with his best friend and bandmate, Tegan. Ky and Zero’s guitarist, Johnny, did tricks on skateboards around the pool’s perimeter, chuckling as Chester chased after them, barking at the wheels. I spotted Charlie dangling his feet in the water, chatting with Tegan’s husband, Dec, and a couple of other familiar-looking faces.

I couldn’t help smiling. All of these people—and quite a few more—had been at my house for the engagement party, but the vibe was different today. This was easy…hot dogs, hamburgers, and swimming. Charlie had made sure the cake was Oliver’s favorite and that he and his friends were well entertained. I didn’t have a big role here. I could just enjoy a beautiful summer day with some of my favorite people in the world.

Including Trent.

Oliver had insisted on inviting him, much to Charlie’s chagrin. Not that Charlie had a problem with Trent. I think he was wary of Ollie getting attached to someone who probably wouldn’t be around for long. He didn’t say anything to Ollie, though, which was good. Trent was hard to explain. He was my lover…with an expiration date. Maybe?

I wasn’t entirely sure how to define him anymore. Friend, lover, guy who turned me inside out with his lopsided smile and his cocky swagger…I was crazy about him. And I loved how easily he fit into this part of my world, drinking beer with my ex and fielding random questions from my thirteen-year-old son in the pool.

He’d admitted he was nervous about coming today, but he seemed like he was having fun. He stood next to Gray, facing the pool, talking about fuck knows what. I noted their similarities, unthinking. Their height, their build, their broad shoulders, and muscular biceps. But they didn’t look alike at all. Gray was ruggedly handsome and Trent was—

“He seems nice,” Rita commented, bumping my elbow playfully.

I peered at her over my sunglasses. “He is.”

She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and grinned. “Ollie likes him. He talks about Trent a lot. It usually has something to do with clay, though. Christ, I wonder if our son really wants to do Claymation for a living. I had high hopes that he’d find a passion outside of entertainment, and I’m not ready to let that go.”