Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Trent did too. I knew I wasn’t alone in this, but I was taking a break from the noise. It was time to be Baxter for a while.
9
TRENT
First class was the way to go. My ten-hour flight from LA to London Heathrow flew by in a feather-pillowed, champagne and caviar haze. I had a whole row to myself. Actually, it was more of a space pod than a row. Completely private with no one kicking my seat or begging my pardon when they woke me up from a dead sleep to use the bathroom for the fifth time. They even gave me chocolate. The good kind, too.
Unlike every other overseas trip I’d ever had, I also whizzed through customs. And get this…there was a chauffeured car waiting for me at the curb. Nice guy, too. We talked about proper football, aka soccer, new traffic rules in the city, and where to find a nice English brekkie. His words, not mine.
“Get yourself a right black pudding,” my driver enthused as we turned into the roundabout near Trafalgar Square.
“What’s black pudding again?”
“Blood sausage. Goes nicely with baked beans, fried mushroom, grilled tomatoes…”
“Mmm.”
I tuned him out. I was hungry and tired for sure, but damn, I hadn’t been to the UK in years, and I felt like a kid getting his first glimpse of places I was used to only seeing on TV. I craned my head, drinking in the sights: Nelson’s column, the fountain in front of the National Gallery. My chauffeur—Eugene, I think?—abandoned the topic of breakfast and pointed out places of interest along the way.
“That there’s Admiralty Arch. Great Scotland Yard is just down that block. And here we are on The Mall, headin’ straight toward the Queen and Buckingham Palace.” He waved a finger at the flagpole meaningfully. “Her majesty isn’t home today. You’ll know that ’cause the Royal Standard isn’t up.”
“Hmm.”
I peered at tourists flocked around the palace gates and the Victoria Memorial, barely stifling a yawn. Damn, I was exhausted. And it had just occurred to me that Charlie’s hasty instructions to pack a bag, head to the international terminal at LAX, and find my driver when I landed in London were missing one more crucial item.
“Are we close to the hotel? I’m not a hundred percent sure where I’m staying,” I admitted.
“Aye, you’re at the Four Seasons. Quite posh, you are.”
Wow. Okay. No complaints here.
Except…actually, I did have a few complaints. Complaint number one, I was pissed that Seb had gone through his son to get me to London after I’d refused his invitation. Complaint number two, I was a bodyguard again.
My assignment was to reprise my role from the party as a background bodyguard…on location. I’d been given a week at the hotel, but the duration of my stay was up to me. Seb was obviously behind this.
And Charlie was the messenger.
“Your passport is up-to-date, correct?” Charlie had asked via conference call Monday morning.
“Yes, but—”
“Great! I have you booked at the same hotel as my father. He usually meets up with a guide while he’s in town, but since you have a reputation as an expert in all things English, you’re perfect for the job.”
I’d sat up in bed with a start, my eyes darting around my room as if looking for a hidden mic. “Expert? Hang on. I never said I was an expert.”
“You did. The day Hal fired you on the Baxter set. Quite a few people heard you—or so Trish said. Anything that gets to her usually has some grain of truth. Also, Pierce Allen will be in the UK for a Baxter video-game release next week. That’s when the big media will be out for blood. It would be ideal for you to be there with Dad, but that’s up to you.”
“Huh?” I swiped my hand over my face. “I’m not following you. What do you want me to do?”
“Take a few photos,” he replied cryptically. “You can leave whenever if you want or…stay. I have a photographer on call. I’ll ask my dad to signal when it might be a good time for a photo op. You won’t have to do a thing. Just enjoy yourself and let me know when you’re ready for your return flight info. Cheerio!”
This was insane.
You know…I used to think that being an actor was fairly simple. You auditioned for a part, you got the part, you performed to the best of your ability, and when the job was done, you moved on to the next.
I thought stringing together a few choice roles would eventually lead to success, but it turned out that it was a whole other ball game behind the scenes. And while I understood that perception mattered and that no one in show business was willing to take a chance on their multimillion-dollar production attached to a hint of scandal, this seemed a bit extreme.