Page 73 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man
Not just any movie star either—the biggest and brightest one on the planet. Yeah, life was weird. If anyone had told me that all-day intermittent texting with Pierce Allen would be my new norm, I would have asked what they were smoking. And if I’d told them, they wouldn’t have believed me anyway. So, I kept our relationship to myself for the sake of privacy—his and mine.
Bran and my BGoods coworkers suspected I was seeing someone and was being cagey about it.
Bran would occasionally ask, but he never pressed for details. He’d been around when Tony and I cratered and he knew how wrecked I was in the months afterward. He probably figured I’d let him in on my secret when I was ready to share.
Of course, that was never going to happen. I had to be extra cautious. I didn’t want to draw any excess attention our way. I wanted Pierce for myself for as long as possible.
Who knew what would happen when he headed off to Canada and Europe to film Baxter this spring? We were too new at this to discuss our “future.” This was a here-and-now thing. I knew I had Pierce for at least six more weeks, and I wasn’t going to waste a single minute weaving some alternate fantasy, dreaming this could be something more. It couldn’t.
Pierce didn’t live in the real world, and he didn’t play by the same rules the rest of us did. His life came with incredible perks. Doors opened automatically. There was always a seat for him at the theater or a concert, and Michelin-starred restaurants found private tables for him at a moment’s notice. If he wanted to go to a museum, they closed wings for him to enjoy so he wouldn’t be mobbed.
Sure, that was all nice, but the downside was a radical loss of privacy and autonomy. He couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, which made bodyguards and security a necessity. The only time he was free was with me.
It wasn’t easy to stay under the radar, but Pierce went out of his way to protect our bubble. He traveled by motorcycle in the dark to my place, switching his point of origin in case he was followed. Sometimes, we’d meet at a parking lot, where he’d hand over a helmet and make room for me to hop on behind him.
Yeah, me on a freaking motorcycle. Again, who would believe it?
He’d zip along quiet passes and canyons, taking the long way to Malibu. Tonight we ended up at Zuma Beach in the pitch dark—miles of cool sand, white waves breaking at the shore, and not a soul around. I thought he’d take one look and move on. Instead, he parked, hiked the strap over his shoulder, took my hand, and led me to the beach.
“What’s all this?” I asked as he pulled two blankets and a thermos from his backpack.
“I brought hot chocolate,” Pierce replied, his gaze fixed on the inky horizon. He patted the space next to him. “Come sit.”
I sat. But I couldn’t let it go. I mean, this felt like a real date. “Why do you have hot chocolate?”
“To keep us warm.”
“You planned this?”
“Yeah.”
I grinned, inordinately pleased by the romantic gesture. “You know, there are closer beaches, and none of them are crowded at this hour in March.”
Pierce rolled his eyes as he looped his arm over my shoulder. “I like this one. I didn’t know my way around Southern California at first and this was the first beach I was introduced to. I lived in the Valley on Devonshire in a crappy old apartment with two roommates. I lucked out. They were nice guys—waiters and wannabe actors who spent their free time surfing and getting stoned. We’d ride motorcycles through the canyon and hang out here. I loved it. There’s nothing like this where I’m from. If the weather’s nicer, it’s always crowded. You can smell coconut sunscreen, hear five types of music, and the sun is…scorching hot.”
“How old were you when you moved to California?”
“Eighteen. I’d never felt more free in my life. I’d escaped and I was never going back. No fucking way. Look at this place. It’s amazing.” He swept his left arm open wide.
I thanked him for the thermos and took a small sip of hot chocolate. “I’m from the Valley. Reseda. My family would come here or to Leo Carrillo and stay for the day. We’d bring huge coolers, umbrellas, a tent for my grandmother, and a boombox. I’m pretty sure it was the one my dad had in high school.”
“What kind of music did he play?”
“Music from his youth. Run-DMC, Public Enemy, Prince…good tunes, and they were always loud.” I laughed. “We werethatfamily—the one everyone glared at.”
“Those people,” he mock groaned.
“Yep. The beach wasn’t my favorite destination. I have an aversion to sand, crawly critters, salt water, and sunscreen. But I loved being with them back then. I could sit with my grandmother in the shade, lay on my stomach and color, and just…listen. Life was so simple. It got harder when it became obvious that I didn’t fit in. I went from being a precocious kid to being my father’s worst nightmare.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“All the reasons we’ve talked about. I wasn’t athletic, I liked fashion and dance, and my best friends were girls. I was the token gay pal and a nonthreatening plus one to proms and weddings. It took me a couple of years to realize I was playing to a stereotype. It was a safety thing. I didn’t want to be alone and…I would’ve been very much alone.”
“Do you feel alone now?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“What about your family? Do you see them at all?”