Page 101 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

I kept it short and sweet. “Hey, asshole, back the fuck off. If you feel like coming for someone or something, you come through me. Got it?”

“Pierce?”

“Yeah, it’s me, you fucking ass,” I spat. “Drop your bullshit lawyer and let it go.”

Phil laughed, low and ugly. “Are you giving me permission to sue you instead?”

I smiled. It was too bad he couldn’t see me through the phone line. I was peak Baxter badass.

“Bring it, bro. Bring it.”

And you know, I hoped he’d take me up on it. I was done playing defense. It was time to take control of my life.

* * *

Next stop…notso easy.

I wasn’t prepared. I had no speech and I had no plan. All I had was a bunch of meaningless promises I wasn’t sure I could make good on.

I peered at the red light on Melrose through my helmet, nervously drumming my thumbs against my jeans as I read the sign affixed to the window at BGoods.

We open at 10 a.m.

I blew out a frustrated breath and stuffed my hands into my pockets—and frowned. I hadn’t worn this jacket since Carmel. I’d forgotten about—

I revved my bike at the green light and made a U-turn.

Enid looked a little shell-shocked when she opened the door ten minutes later. “He’s in his room now. He hasn’t left his bed in forty-eight hours.”

“I’m sorry. I should have called, but—”

“No, he’ll be happy to see you,” she intercepted kindly. “This way.”

She rambled on using words like catheter, morphine, and respiratory failure. I nodded, but I didn’t ask her for details. I was nervous.

I followed her down a wide corridor to Jasper’s bedroom. It was a thousand times more formal than the room he’d shared with David in Carmel. The high-vaulted ceiling was painted white, making the already large space look gigantic. Beautiful landscape paintings hung on tastefully papered walls, and silver-gray silk curtains framed the view of the rose garden beyond the French doors.

But all that luxury couldn’t disguise that this was basically a makeshift hospital room.

Oxygen and respiratory monitors were stacked on one of the nightstands next to the special-issue hospital bed where Jasper lay dressed in his silk paisley pajamas with his husband’s red sweater draped over the thin blue blanket covering his legs.

His eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Is that Mr. Hollywood?” he wheezed, adjusting his oxygen tube as he sat up.

“Hi, Jasper. How are you?”

“I’m still here, dah-ling.” He shrugged and pointed at the blanket and sweater. “The red, the blue…I look like a flag, don’t I?”

“Nah, you look good,” I said, perching on the chair beside his bed.

It was a lie. He looked like death.

“What can I do for you?” His voice was paper thin and so weak, I had to lean close to hear him.

“I have something of yours I wanted to return.” I pulled the book of poems I’d taken from the bedside table in Carmel from my pocket on a whim and held it up. “I snooped in your drawers and—”

“Well, I never,” he huffed like a campy old queen.