When the silence took on a life of its own, I braved a glance his way and rolled my eyes at his goofy grin.
“You have a crush on me, Rourke?” he teased.
I snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I won’t. I’m too pissed off to enjoy it.”
“Now why are you mad?”
“ ’Cause I was set up,” He huffed derisively. “This was all orchestrated. I’m being used. I knew it all along, but it kinda sucks to hear that I’m part of your business model.”
I furrowed my brow so hard my forehead hurt. “That’s not true.”
“C’mon, Seb. Gimme some credit. I’m not a moron. Even your sex life is business to you.”
“You are not business to me,” I assured him somewhat frantically. “I like you. A lot. And I’m very fucking grateful Charlie sent you. This past week has been…amazing.”
The vein at his temple pulsed as he worked his jaw. After a tense moment, he let out a ragged breath.
“I thought so too. Now what am I supposed to do? What’s my role? I like to think I’m a decent actor, but I suck at these games and I’m shit at faking feelings.”
“Well, you have two choices. You can either go back to the hotel and go home. Or…you can pretend to be my bodyguard. Look at it like an acting job. But you have control here. You can get off the merry-go-round at any time. I’ll understand.”
We were silent until we arrived at the conference center. Trent put his hand up as I reached for the door handle.
He fixed me with an intense look I had a hard time reading. “I’m not going anywhere. If this is how we do it, I’ll figure out how to play my part. I’m not ready to give you up, Seb.”
Call me crazy, but in a rough and unpolished way, that sounded very fucking romantic.
We were greeted at the side entrance by an event coordinator who directed us to a “backstage” area that led us away from the enormous crowd gathered in the lobby. Life-sized action posters from various Baxter films were interspersed with booths selling T-shirts, cell phone cases, keychains, stickers, tote bags, etcetera. I’d been told there were specific kiosks selling video games too.
The itinerary was short and sweet. The emcee would introduce the manufacturer, who’d spend a few minutes talking about the game’s features before introducing me. I’d introduce Pierce Allen and a couple of his costars, and mayhem would ensue. Once order was restored, there’d be a Q and A, followed by a signing. Boom, done.
I had no doubt this would be a huge success. The fans loved this shit. And they adored Pierce.
The odd part was that he was interested in doing it at all. These pop-up events happened all the time…and much closer to home. We must have offered him a boatload of money to attend. And though my presence wasn’t necessary, Pierce’s participation warranted an “official” looking nod. I could talk about the “real” Baxter and then give the public the fake one they’d come to adore. Everyone would be happy.
Pierce jumped from his chair when I entered the back room. “There he is! Cheerio, tally-ho, my good sir. Or as we say in SoCal…yo, dude. What’s up?”
“Hello, Pierce. How are you?”
I greeted him with a bro handshake, unsurprised when he didn’t let go right away. Pierce Allen, international movie star and box-office sensation, the face of Baxter, the enigmatic, kickass secret-agent-slash-man-of-mystery was an overgrown child. Or Labrador retriever. He had boundless energy and the attention span of a gnat.
In short, he was the exact opposite of the character he played. It was mind-numbingly difficult to hold a conversation with him sometimes, but when the director called for quiet on the set, he transformed into a level-headed, cold, yet charming killer. A complex hero or antihero.
Go figure. Thankfully, my memory of our intimate exchange was a foggy one. I didn’t regret fucking him. As terrible as it sounded, it really was good for business. Pierce was the one-night stand that kept giving.
I know, I know…I’m an asshole. But like I told Trent, it wasn’t personally significant. I couldn’t remember what Pierce looked like naked or if we’d even taken our clothes off. It was just something that happened. Like getting your teeth cleaned or picking up your dry cleaning.
Does that sound bad?
“I’m good. I got in two days ago and I’m still jet-lagged. I think my Ambien cocktail is messed up.” Pierce fussed with the lapels on his designer navy suit coat. “But I memorized the speech Trish sent me. I’m supposed to talk about the franchise, my James Bond street cred—in a professional and non-braggy way, and tell the good folks of London town that I can’t wait to start filming here next year. Can I say that last part?”