The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

She aimed her laser pointer and launched into a detailed explanation about trends, audience preferences, and the latest algorithms. I understood that all great marketing ideas were anchored with data, but I sensed she was stalling. The thought of this turning into a three-hour meeting did not appeal to me. I was about to stop her when she finally dropped the bomb on The Last Drop promo zinger. All puns intended.

“…and we’ve determined that what the public wants is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, they want a piece of you. Our polling showed that Baxter’s Snake Ink video game sold like hotcakes after your London appearance.”

I knit my brow in confusion. “That was Pierce.”

Kathy shook her head. “And you. But mostly, your boyfriend-slash-bodyguard.”

“Trent?”

“You’re a bit of a genius when it comes to tying together loose ends. I’m guessing you planted that idea from the start.”

“Uh…keep talking.”

“In The Last Drop Baxter goes up against a criminal who plays a fake bodyguard to get close enough to hack international banking codes. We paid attention to the press and social media whirl from London as you suggested and used the storyline to come up with an idea…a sixty-second campaign featuring Trent Mackay.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Trent,” I repeated dumbfounded.

“Yes! We obviously know that Charlie hired him, so we took the liberty of contacting Charlie to buy out his contract with Trent. I’m sure he’ll be interested. This will be a nice payday for Mr. Mackay. And Charlie. We buy out the contract, pay Trent for his campaign appearance, and credit him for his stunt-double scenes in The Last Drop.”

“I thought those scenes didn’t make the cut.”

“They will with your okay,” she replied with a proud grin, clearly expecting me to applaud her innovative and intuitive marketing prowess.

And I should have.

She’d picked up every clue I’d dropped and weaved a parallel narrative to promote Baxter. She’d taken that spark of an idea I’d had months ago and fleshed it out into a soundbite that would net the studio millions…and would make Trent Mackay a wealthy man.

It was a great idea.

But it was also a fucking disaster in the making. For me.

My stomach twisted in a tight knot and sweat beaded on my upper lip. Fuck. I did this. I made this mess. I’d known I’d end up doing something shitty, but I surprised myself.

“Right.” I cleared my throat as I pushed my chair away. “Um…you contacted Charlie?”

Kathy’s smile dimmed slightly. “Yes. Was that okay, or—”

“Yeah, that’s fine. It’s a good plan. Well done.”

“Thank you.” She beamed. “I know you appreciate great back stories too and it turns out that Trent has dealt with loss and mental health issues. Those play well in the media.”

Oh, my fucking God. “What do you mean?”

“We have a lead on his ex-girlfriend who named her child after him and—”

“You didn’t contact her, did you?”

“No, of course not. Yet. We just did our usual due diligence and brainstormed selling points for a human-interest story. That worked exceedingly well for Snake Ink and according to our numbers, this is exactly the soundbite our audience wants.”

“I see. You didn’t discuss this with anyone else, correct?”

“Correct. We need your approval to proceed,” Kathy replied in a businesslike tone.

Because that’s what this is…business.

An eerie silence fell over the conference room. I had one of those out-of-body cinematic moments where Baxter was running after a would-be assassin, through a busy street and into an empty alley, only to lose sight of his mark when he turned the corner. Onscreen his beating heart would be amplified by a pounding drum, the camera would zoom in on his flaring nostrils and heaving chest through his Cavalli suit. Danger lurked in the shadows. One wrong move and he was done. Should he go left or right or—

“Seb?”

I lifted one brow and crossed my arms. “Hold for now.”

“But we need to act soon if—”

“Hold,” I barked. “I’ll handle it from here.”

I noted a few furtive glances. No doubt these highly paid professionals were wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. But they wouldn’t question me. They trusted me. They knew I always did whatever was necessary to sell my brand.

What they didn’t know was that I was in the midst of a crisis of conscience. It was such a foreign feeling that I couldn’t make sense of it at first. I pushed it aside and tilted my chin slightly.

Ed tapped his pen on the table and cleared his throat. “Next item. You wanted to go over the distribution chart for…”

No, Ed. I don’t want to go over anything. I wanted to run out of this room, drive to the fucking Valley, and meet my boyfriend at some honky-tonk bar to drink subpar beer and chat above the strains of an old Dolly Parton song. Trent would razz me for showing up in a suit while I slipped my fingers under the frayed holes of his jeans under the table. We’d talk about Shakespeare and Voltaire and the acting class he loved. I’d tell him about the pitch I’d received for a new comedy or something funny Oliver had said over breakfast.