Silver Fox (Bridge to Abingdon Book 4)

by Tatum West

  “Miss Bethesda is going home,” I announce, taking Natalie by her elbow and leading her out.

  She jerks away, her face screwed up, hissing like a cat. “Fuck you!” she shrieks, the drugs amplifying her rage. “High-handed fuck! I’m going nowhere with you!”

  “Miss Bethesda,” I say calmly, “You’re either going home, right now, or I’m calling the police and having you arrested. They’ll find drugs on you and your friend Eddy here.”

  Eddy sighs again, putting his hand to his head like he’s got a killer headache, while the two muscled bouncers stand sturdy between him and the door.

  “You’ll all get arrested,” I continue, “and the club will probably get shut down for a week or two while the LAPD harasses the owners for pay-offs. Your name will be shit in this town for at least a year, and it’ll be expensive as hell to insure you for your next film, if it’s possible at all. So, which is it? You staying for the cops? Or are you going home?”

  She squints, glaring at me. “You’re a shitbird,” she spits. “You can’t do all that.”

  I smile at her. “You want to take that chance?”

  With Eddy and Donna imploring her, Miss Natalie Bethesda makes the right decision. I put all three of them into a limo, assuring them my partner Stephan will follow up. I get Miss Bethesda’s parents contact info from her PA before they leave—Donna has told me twice already that they’re the people to contact if I want any movement with Natalie.

  “She’s got to go into rehab,” I tell Donna. “Once she’s sober, we can start fixing the rest of her problems, but not until. See if you can keep a lid on her until my partner gets back from San Francisco, okay?”

  Donna nods, grateful.. “Her mom and dad are great. I’ll call them too, after you’ve spoken to them.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “As soon as you get her home, give her lots of water, feed her something healthy even if she doesn’t want to eat, and don’t let her use anymore. Not even a drink. Lock her in her room if you need to. She’ll crash in a few hours and sleep. By then, her folks will be on their way and Stephan will be back. Can you handle all that?”

  She nods again, thanking me. When the limo pulls off, I’m relieved, though not entirely convinced Miss Bethesda is going to make it home. I’ve done my best. Stephan will have to take it from here. With any luck, if I ever see her again, it’ll be in a conference room to go over paperwork once she’s clean and, hopefully, rational.

  It never ceases to amaze me just how badly most celebrities manage their personal and business lives. The only positive thing I can say about it is that their endless sense of entitlement, their casual neglect and outright self-abuse, allows me to make a lucrative living cleaning up their messes.

  With my work concluded, I hand my valet stub to the parking attendant so they can bring my car around. I’m long past ready to leave this place.

  Despite the late hour, there’s still a long line of people at the club door—people hoping to get inside before the place closes down, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nikki Rippon. Nikki might be the only thing worth seeing in this overcrowded, over-glitzed and over-glammed part of town.

  This part of the city never sleeps. I peer up into the night sky, looking for stars. There are none. There’s nothing other than the carbon haze and the lights of private jets and passenger planes flying overhead.

  While I wait for my car, I watch the kids rubbernecking for a peek inside the club. I watch lurking paparazzi, their eyes fixed like raptors’ on the door, hoping for a glimpse of some drunken celebrity whose image they can snatch, then sell for tomorrow’s tabloid cover.

  I put my hands in my pockets and let out a deep breath.

  I wonder what it would be like, sometimes, to get away from all of this—maybe a place to settle down, somewhere in a small town where no one knows the name of my firm.

  I laugh at the absurd thought and start mentally preparing for yet another day of this insanity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NIKKI

  How do you come up with your songs?” the drunk blonde on my left asks me for the third time. She’s flushed pink and glassy-eyed, her pupils blown wide from more than just the watered-down drinks the bartender is serving.

  These people are annoying. The music is awful. It’s too damn loud. And I didn’t even want to come here. I got hijacked into this shit by Sal and Derek. They like being seen with Nikki Rippon. I’m starting to think neither of them actually give a shit about me.

  Sal’s circling the room, his phone pressed to his ear, a finger jammed in the other. He’s talking to his bookie and sweating bullets. The Lakers are on a losing streak and it’s stressing him out.

  “I mean, how? You’re so creative. The ideas rolling around in your head,” the girl continues, slurring her words.

  Where’s Derek? Where’s everyone? [SEE NOTES]

  I scan the room, looking for familiar faces. No one. My security crew is nowhere to be found.

  Panic rises, but I shove it back down. No one can get at me in here. Everyone in this room is known to the club staff. Everyone’s either famous, almost famous, or attached to someone famous. The crazy fans with their demands, their cameras, and Sharpies are waiting outside behind the ropes. My stalkers, hopefully, are nowhere near.

  I get up, sloughing off the drunk blonde, and wade across the room toward Sal.

  “Where’s Derek?” I shout over the too-loud music. “Where’s the crew?”

  Sal shakes his head, shrugging, still on his call. “Bathroom I think,” he says. “With some girl who’s in movies.”

  He turns away from me, returning to his call, telling his bookie to put ten grand on Philadelphia.

  That’s my money he’s gambling with. I pay him to keep my business in order, and he gambles. What does that say about me?

  Maybe it says that I’m self-destructive or that I don’t particularly care what happens to my career at this point. Or perhaps that I’m simply too tired to find someone new. Perhaps all of the above.

  I cut through the crowd, heading into a corridor packed with people. Down toward the end, near the bathrooms, I see a circle of burly, yellow-shirted bouncers surrounding Derek, with the rest of my security detail mixed up in some kind of melee. They’re all shouting, pointing, pumping fists at each other.

  “I want you, your people, and your drugs out of here,” one of the bouncers shouts at Derek. “You’ve got twenty minutes to collect your shit and go, or I’m detaining you and your whole party and calling the cops.”

  More shouting and threats. I hear one of the bouncers say something about Derek and his guys snorting blow with Natalie fucking Bethesda.

  Fuck. My life is a train wreck.

  Something needs to change. Somehow, I need to get a handle on all this. I need to breathe clean air and get this deafening noise out of my head. I need to be free of the sycophants and the parasites.

  Before I think it through, I’m heading toward the front of the club, moving fast toward the door. I’m fleeing Derek and his thugs; fleeing Sal and his mind games; fleeing the crowd closing in around me; fleeing hands grabbing my clothes, trying to claim pieces of me.

  I step onto the sidewalk, feeling the fresh chill of night air kiss my face, my ears relieved of the thumping, hypnotic bass of the house music blaring behind me.

  “Nikki!” someone shouts.

  Instinctively, without thinking, I turn and am instantly blinded by flash bulbs strobing in my eyes. I raise my arm to shield my vision, but it’s no use.

  “Nikki, what’s up tonight? Who are you partying with?” another voice asks as lights relentlessly flood my vision.. The shutter sounds of multiple cameras envelop me.

  “Nikki! Can I have your autograph,” another voice – high and shrill – demands.

  A hand grabs my arm, pulling me even closer to the cameras.

  “Nikki, how’s the new album coming?”

  My eyes burn, yellow and blue orbs floating in my vision. I’m completely blind, my heart
racing, panic rising, seizing my throat.

  “Nikki, my sweet, lovely…”

  That voice is soft, male, and chilling. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

  An unseen hand touches my face, caressing. I instantly recoil. I stumble hard when my feet slip off an unseen curb. The rough concrete tears through the knees of my jeans. More flashes, more shutters opening and closing.

  “Are you high, Nikki? You having trouble standing up?” someone jeers.

  “You guys back the fuck up!” a voice shouts in front of me. I hear scuffles and grumbling “fuck offs!” from the paparazzi. The flashbulbs in my eyes slow, but don’t stop.

  “Who are you?” that chilling voice asks.

  “Fuck off,” the other one says. “Back off.”

  I feel a firm hand circle behind my elbow, lifting me.

  “C’mon Mr. Rippon. I’ve got you.”

  That voice is calm, authoritative, confident. It’s reassuring. I reach for his hand like a lifeline; a port in the storm. He lifts me to my feet, hanging onto me with a steady, solid grip.

  “Get your hands off my husband!” the other, creepy voice spits. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  What?

  “Mr. Rippon, do you know this person?” the man asks, concerned. I can barely see anything. The man looks tall, older, but I can’t make out more than that.

  I can’t see who he’s talking about, but I don’t know that other voice. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have a boyfriend. Hell, I don’t even have a friend.

  “No!” I say, hearing the panic in my own voice. “Help me. Get me out of here!”

  “I told you to…”

  I hear a thud, like the sound of a mallet smacking meat. A hush falls over the crowd, punctuated by gasps and halting “ohs!” Shutters pop, rapid-fire. The blinding glare of flashes accelerates as I’m pulled forward by the strong hands, unable to see where I’m going

  A moment later, I’m pressed down into a car seat, the door slammed shut beside me. Someone hops in the driver’s seat, shifts the car into gear, and we’re off at speed, burning rubber down Sunset.

  For a long, frightening moment, the only sound I hear is the haunting strains of chanting. Dominican monks, or perhaps it’s a Thomas Tallis chorale playing low on the car’s sound system. The car accelerates, but there’s no engine noise, not even the sound of tires on pavement. The cockpit space I share with this stranger is as tight and soundproof as a recording booth and feels just as safe.

  “Are you okay?” the voice asks.

  I still can’t see anything beyond the darkened strips of peripheral vision. Despite my temporary blindness, I can feel the driver staring at me

  Is he friend or foe? How do I know?

  “I think so,” I say, becoming aware of a stinging sensation on my right kneecap. I reach down to investigate and instantly feel warm liquid coat my fingertips.

  “Skinned knees,” the voice says, soothing. “You’ll heal. I think the jeans are done for though.”

  I can feel that they’re ripped badly, exposing bruised, shredded skin against boney knees. I never liked my knees. My calves are the best part of my legs. My thighs aren’t bad, but my knees look like knotty tree limbs.

  “You know, when I came out tonight, I had no idea I was going to get in a fight over a pop star. Or that I might get arrested”

  “Arrested?” I ask. “Did you get arrested?”

  He huffs a chuckle into the muffled air between us. “Probably,” he says. “I’m either going to get arrested for assault or for kidnapping. Maybe both.”

  My panic rises again.

  “Who are you?” I ask, my tone sharpening “Why did you help me?”

  “Relax,” the man says. “I’m just a guy who was in the right place at the right time. I’m your good Samaritan. Where can I take you?”

  Should I tell him my address, or should I have him take me somewhere else? Somewhere public. Somewhere safe.

  Hell, I’m already in his car, alone with him. If he’s going to kill me, I’m already dead.

  “I promise I’m harmless,” he says, humor in his honey-dipped voice. “I’m a lawyer. My name’s Fox Lee. I’m with Lee, Jackson and Bragg. I don’t generally go to clubs like that. I sure as hell don’t fight creepy fans on the sidewalk or take on the paparazzi. I certainly don’t kidnap pop stars. I try to stay away from you Hollywood types as much as possible.”

  “Then what were you doing there?” I ask.

  “Trying to save a prospective client from herself,” he quips. “Probably failing, but I played the boy scout and did my best. She’s a wreck. She’s past tense. What about you? Why did you come out all alone? Where was your security? Where were your friends?”

  We’re traveling west down Sunset, buzzing past all the high end shops and salons I used to frequent in my early years as a star.

  “You need to turn around,” I say. “If you’re taking me home.”

  “Okay.”

  He does a polite U-turn at the light at Hillcrest, driving like a guy who’s been a law-abiding citizen his entire life. Derek, my security chief, drives like a bat out of hell. He says it keeps the paps off our tails. I don’t drive much. I need to drive more. I need to get a little more fearless, like I used to be.

  “Why did you come out alone?” Fox Lee asks again, his tone softer now, as if I am a skittish animal.

  We’re in a Tesla. I see the logo on the steering wheel. That explains why it’s so quiet.

  I shrug. “I dunno,” I start to say, then think better of it. I don’t know this guy, but he seems steady. He doesn’t seem like the type to spread gossip to the papers. “My security guys were doing drugs with some actress in the men’s room. They left me alone with a room full of drunk, stoned, pseudo-fans. The type of people who just hang out with celebrities as a life goal. Sal is into his bookie for God only knows how much money, and I can’t get the bank to return my calls about my accounts.”

  “Sal?” Fox asks.

  “My manager,” I reply, relaxing into the deep leather seats, tension slipping away with each sliver of fear and suspicion I reveal. “Salvatore Domenico. He’s been with me almost since I landed in LA; from the first demo to the last Grammy. After all these years, I think he’s doing something… sketchy.”

  “That’s not good,” Fox says. “Maybe you should hire someone to audit your whole organization. I’ve seen that done. It makes everyone feel better. If there’s nothing going on, it clears the air. If there’s sketchy stuff going on, you catch it.”

  “You sound just like my Mom,” I say, smiling. “She’s a CPA. My dad’s a lawyer. They won’t let it rest. They tell me I need to hire some accounting firm to do that. I should probably just hire my mom’s firm. But if I did that, Sal would freak. He’s really adamant about keeping business and family separate. He says when you mix them, it gets weird, and people get greedy and resentful and shit goes south fast. Look at the Jackson’s,” I tell him. “Look what happened when Prince died and his family…”

  “You’re not dead,” Fox interrupts. He turns to me, and I can see him clearly now. He’s handsome: well-built with broad, muscular shoulders; and short, salt-and-pepper hair. His jawline is long and chiseled, his nose ever so slightly crooked. “Do you honestly think your mother and father are going to try to steal from you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I think you should follow your mother’s advice,” Fox states. “Sounds like solid wisdom to me. Most of the time, I don’t trust the parents of pop stars. But, in this case, the advice sounds solid, measured, and appropriate.”

  “It is. That’s how my parents are. They love everything I do, and they always have my best interests at heart.” I sigh. “I always thought I wanted to grow up and get out of that tiny little town I’m from. Turns out, the glamorous life isn’t so glamorous.”

  Fox laughs, deep and rich. “That’s a damn fact, Nikki Rippon.”

  I like it when he says my name. I look out of the
window the see the sun rising over the hills.

  I tell Fox where to turn, pointing him up Laurel Canyon Drive. He follows my instructions to the letter. At every turn, I expect him to veer off-course, making away with me like some crazed serial killer, but instead, he drives me right to my front door.

  “Beautiful place,” he observes, peering out his window at my small bungalow tucked into a hollow in the hills of Laurel Canyon. “I see to many of metal and chrome monstrosities in my line of work.”

  “I prefer something a little cozier. I’d always envisioned a big old country house, with a huge open space for parties, exposed beams in the ceiling, a big kitchen looking out over a garden. But they don’t really make those here, do they?”

  “No, not to my knowledge. Though I suppose you could pay for it.”

  I laugh. “I could. I like this right now. It’s cozy. Restored art deco, classic hardwoods, one of those endless lap-swimming pools I never use. It’s cozy. I like how unexpected it is. My manager was horrified when I bought it. He still is. Guess he wanted me to have one of those monstrosities.”

  “No doubt.” Fox smiles.

  The man is truly, breathtakingly handsome. Beautiful really, in that classic sense of the word, like a Greek God. He’s conservatively dressed in a starched Oxford shirt and deep, indigo-blue denim jeans. His eyes are almost the same shade of indigo, like the sky once you’ve hit the outskirts of town, where the pollution and noise start to fade, and all that’s left is the beauty of the sea meeting the sky on the southern coasts of California. The way he carries himself suggests a fastidious and organized personality, a buttoned-up life, an existence where the trains run on time and dinner is always figured out. I bet he has an alarm set for 5:30 am every weekday so he can get to the gym--I’m probably interfering with his schedule.

  Fox turns back to me, offering a small, warm smile. “You need a better security team,” he advises. “You’re not just famous. You’re at a level of fame that’s a siren call for every kind of crazy out there. I saw a little bit of that tonight. You need professionals with you, not a bunch of tweaked-out thugs.”