Page 52 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

I ordered pizza, opened a bottle of Pinot for Lo, and uncapped a beer for me. He jumped from his barstool before I could join him and insisted on a tour while we waited for our dinner. I led him through impeccably decorated room after room. The formal dining space I’d never used, an office, a gym, guest suites, at least five bathrooms, a wine cellar—and finally, my bedroom…or what my realtor called the primary suite.

Like every other room, it had vaulted ceilings, white walls, contemporary art, and sparse modern furniture that was supposedly outrageously comfortable. I couldn’t vouch for that. I’d never sat on the sofaorlounge chair in my room. Not once.

I wondered what it all looked like to Lorenzo. I wondered if it was tacky or trying too hard. I wondered if he noticed the lack of personal touches. No photo walls of friends and family, no well-worn paperback books or half-completed puzzles on a scuffed-up coffee table. So unlike his colorful apartment.

We made our way back to the great room when the pizza arrived and sat at the island, sipping beer and wine, eating in static silence for a while. I’d never been more in need of a confidante yet less sure of how to express myself. But Lorenzo felt like the only safe harbor for miles. If I didn’t talk to someone, I might actually lose my fucking mind.

“It’s a bit much, huh? The house, I mean,” I blurted around a mouthful of pizza.

Lorenzo finished chewing and picked up his napkin. “It’s massive. It’s incredibly beautiful too, but…it must be weird living here alone. A family of six would rarely run into each other.”

“Slight exaggeration,” I huffed, nudging his calf. “But yeah, it’s big. I lived at the beach for a while, but the commute sucked and privacy became a real issue seven or eight years ago. It’s amazing that some wackos don’t think twice about using high-powered lenses to peer through windows or camp out in driveways…no shame whatsoever. Occasionally a helicopter would fly overhead, and the next day there’d be a photo of me on the deck drinking coffee. The headline would read ‘Poor Pierce, Morning After Alone,’ or ‘Single Again?’”

“Gauche.” Lo wrinkled his nose in distaste.

I nodded. “Totally gauche. Seb loved the publicity. Baxter was a hit from the start, and it escalated every year. ‘Let them talk about you. It’s good for business,’ he’d say. But it reached a frenzied state where it became unsafe. We went from ‘anything goes’ to having to manage a specific public image. I’m not great at that.”

“Au contraire.You’re very good at being a movie star. I’ve seen you on billboards and TV and heck—the Internet…you have movie-star energy. Maybe you don’t write the scripts, and maybe you have nothing in common with Baxter in real life, but Baxter wouldn’t be a hit without you.” He picked a pepperoni off, popped it into his mouth, and continued. “You’re special.”

I smiled at the compliment. “No, I’m just a schmuck from Columbus who got lucky.”

“Luck counts too.” Lorenzo eyed me thoughtfully as he twisted, resting his shoe on the rung of my barstool. “You know, Mr. Gowan is from Ohio.”

“Smooth segue,” I drawled.

He lowered his lashes and smirked. “I know. That was terrible, but I’m brimming over with curiosity. I didn’t know Mr. G was married, let alone that his husband was your cousin.”

“Alleged cousin.”

“Hmm. I believe him. I bet that means David was the one who left home for Cali, changed his name, and never looked back. I wonder if he was an engineer like Mr. G, how they met, what their lives were like. And I think it’s so romantic that his instinct was to protect his man’s memory.”

“I can’t blame him. My family sucks. They’re prejudiced assholes, bigots, and homophobes now. I’m sure it was worse seventy years ago. I don’t speak to my father or brother if I can help it, my mom is gone, and the rest of them—” I snorted derisively. “Well, if the people who boycotted your presence during the holidays when you were a teenager showed up years later with a welcoming smile and their hands out…what would you do?”

“Tell them to fuck off.”

“Amen,” I lifted my beer in a mock toast, slugged the last of it down, and stood to grab another. “Should we switch to tequila?”

“No, thanks.” He furrowed his brow. “Why would they boycott you?”

“I was a weird kid—the odd duck of the family. I didn’t like hunting or fishing. I liked video games and drawing, and I loved movies. I loved everything about them. Costume changes, lighting, accents. Picture my dad, a grizzled ornery city worker coming home to a kid dressed in a sheet, quoting Hamlet. He didn’t know what to think of me, and he wasn’t the kind of parent who tried very hard. I was tolerated, not accepted. But the year I auditioned forRentin my high school play, I becamepersona non grata.”

“That’s terrible. But yay forRent. I love that play. It’s fabulous!”

I shrugged. “My parents didn’t see it that way. Truthfully, I don’t know why I auditioned at all. I knew it would lead to trouble. And it did when I got the part of Angel.”

He gasped and covered his mouth. “Angel! Oh, my God. That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, well I didn’t want it, and I regretted auditioning in the first place. It started feeling too risky, too real. But my drama teacher told me to study the role and see if I thought I could do it justice because in her opinion, Angel was the most important cast member.”

Lorenzo clapped. “Hell yes, she is.”

“Agreed. Anyway, I took the part but didn’t tell my folks. I knew they’d freak out, and I didn’t think it was necessary. They didn’t pay attention to my schedule or seem to care what I did in my free time, so what difference did it make?”

“They found out,” he guessed.

“Yeah, my brother’s friend’s little sister ratted on me.” I uncapped the beer I’d just rescued from my fridge. “And when Phil found out, I knew Ihadto quit. Pronto.”

“What happened?”