by Tatum West
I have plenty that Sal doesn’t know about. And I feel like a fool for ever letting Sal touch my money.
“I just talked to my mom and dad,” I say. “They told me to hire a lawyer to deal with the stalker and my security issues, so that’s what I did.”
“Your mom and dad?” Sal asks, incredulous, defensive. “What the hell? What lawyer? Who did you hire?”
“Fox Lee,” I tell him. “Do you know him?”
There’s another long, quiet silence before Sal responds.
“I know who he is,” he says, ice in his tone. “You shouldn’t have done that, Nikki. If you had worries, you should have come to me. You don’t know who you can trust.”
“I trust my parents,” I tell him, realizing I’ve probably already said too much.
“You don’t trust me?” Sal demands, getting angry. “After all we’ve been through together?”
“I don’t know who to trust, anymore,” I tell him truthfully. “I don’t understand what the harm is in getting better security and trying to find out who’s stalking me. Why are you upset?”
“I’m upset,” Sal spits, “because you went behind my back. I should’a been part of the decision. I’m your god-damned manager, Nikki. I’m your only friend.”
There’s the problem. I can’t blame Sal entirely for the truth in that statement. I let it happen. The more fame and success I achieved, the more I closed the circle around me, shutting almost everyone and everything else out, until there was just Sal, Derek, and his crew of toughs.
My circle, while still not large or even remotely satisfying, is slowly expanding. While I can’t exactly call my bodyguard James a ‘friend’, he’s a lot more human than Derek. He laughs and jokes with me, and he’s a decent person who treats everyone with respect. I never have to worry about going out with James or the other members of my new detail, wondering what they might do or how they’ll behave. They make me feel safe, even at ease, rather than constantly on edge, waiting for the next fight to break out with someone they’ve crossed.
Fox, though, is starting to feel like a genuine friend. We meet or talk on the phone to discuss business issues, but we always end up talking about other stuff. He’s as interesting as I thought he might, and I find myself drawn to him over and over again. He makes audits sound fascinating, he’s hilariously cynical, and his laugh is genuine and infectious. He’s also charming as fuck. I’ve gotten over breaking out in a sweat when I’m around him, but my crush on him has only gotten worse. I’ve started making up excuses to call him almost every day. His administrative assistant and I are on a first-name basis now. Nancy’s a sweet lady. She kind of reminds me of my mom.
I keep expecting Fox to shut it down, to tell me he’s not interested, that he shouldn’t be friends with his clients. At some point, I’m sure he’s going to tell me to make an appointment through his assistant, or lose his patience with my pestering, but right now, he smiles when he sees me. He answers every call, asks about my parents, talks about the things he likes—hiking and camping and outdoor manly things that I don’t have a shred of interest in. He’s even started texting me… for no reason at all. So far, he’s not discouraging me, or even trying to cut our conversations short. And, last night, he called me.
He called just to ask how things were going with the record. Not about business or security; he just wanted to see how I was doing. He listened to every quibble I had with the production, every thought about the lyrics. I know I’m pretty fucking fascinating, but talking about minor chords and background beats has never been interesting to people who aren’t musicians.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost let myself believe he might like me. Guys like him—smart, successful, gorgeous as fuck—don’t usually waste time on androgynous, glam musicians with frivolous songs about love and fame. Or, they historically haven’t when it comes to me. Every guy I’ve dated since moving out here has gotten overwhelmed by the fans, threatened by my penchant for wearing amazing skirts and looking way better than anyone else in the room. Or they don’t like the fact that I’m different. I might be a pop idol--this month, anyway--but I also skirt the line between boy and girl. I always have. And thank the sweet Southern lord for my parents, who never batted an eye and always told me to be exactly who I was. I love that I can rock a three thousand dollar suit with glitter in my brows and Jimmy Choo heels. I cherish that about myself; but most of the men I’m attracted to don’t seem to get it. I’m not sure that Fox does, but he doesn’t seem threatened.
I think he likes me for me.
I think.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOX
I’ve nearly cleared my schedule to prep for my vacation. I like not having to worry about things being neglected in my absence. I like it best when I don’t have to trust the care of my clients to other attorneys. All that said, I think I’m going to have a problem with Nikki. He calls every day, and I’m doing nothing to discourage him. In fact, I’m encouraging him. Last night, I called him, because I wanted to hear his voice.
His voice is mellifluous. It’s honey-tinged with the sweet tonic of a slight southern accent. The cadence of his speech is rhythmic, delivered in jazzy syncopation. When he laughs, it’s like bells ringing. He likes to laugh, and I like hearing it. Too often though, his humor is self-effacing. He goes to lengths not to appear egocentric or narcissistic. If he ever speaks about himself, it’s brief, and the significance of whatever he’s describing is diminished far below its actual value. He’s cutting his fifth album in six years – an amazing feat of creativity and work ethic – and yet all he has to say about it is, “I wrote some pretty good songs. Thank God Dan Walsh is there to make them better. If it wasn’t for Dan, the whole thing would probably be a catastrophe. I’m so lucky the label was able to get him.”
He talks about the producer, the sound mix engineers, and even the session musicians with such admiration and respect. He rarely says anything about his own talents: he wrote all the music;, recorded the rhythm, lead guitar, bass, and keyboard parts; and he’s currently recording all the vocals himself, including harmonies and backing vocals. Very few solo recording artists do as much. Very few could. The only way I even learned this amazing fact about Nikki is that I bought physical copies of every CD he’s released and read the details in the liner notes. I asked Nikki if he was doing it that way this time around, and his only reply was, “Of course. How else would I do it?”
Nikki Rippon is not only stunningly beautiful, with a personal style nobody else could ever pull off, he’s also incredibly talented. All that, and he’s disarmingly normal when it gets down to brass tacks. He’s doesn’t have a drug dealer following him around, he has a stellar relationship with his parents, and he’s ridiculously loyal to his friends from home. He’s even been sending money to an artist friend of his who landed in New York. I’d wanted to be jealous of Zane Chase, but then I saw his art. I get why Nikki loves him. And he’s made it ludicrously clear that he’s never had any kind of relationship with Zane or Gil--or some awful tech narcissist named Elias.
He’s kind, funny, and absolutely beautiful. I thought I might be put off by a man who wears pleather to the grocery store, but Nikki has made me see how utterly stupid that thought was.
It’s astonishing he’s still single.
My mind has been much too preoccupied with thoughts of Nikki: his relationship status, the sound of his voice, and wondering what myriad talents he’s keeping secret. It’s good I’ve cleared my slate, because I’m not getting much else done besides thinking about, and working for, Nikki. This week and next, Nikki’s basically the only client I have. Everyone else is scheduled out of my life until I come back from a couple weeks hidden away at my beach house.
“Mr. Lee,” Nancy appears in the doorway. “There’s a call for you on line six; a Mr. Domenico. Should I take a message?”
Domenico is calling me? Interesting.
“No, I’ll take it,” I say.
Domenico is as smooth as eel s
hit as soon as he gets on the line. He starts off by telling me he’s been trying to convince Nikki to deal with his security issues for many months, if not longer. He jokes that Nikki had to hear it from his mom to act on the concerns.
“Nikki’s a great kid,” Domenico says. “Talented. A little naïve. A little temperamental. He’s also rash. He jumps into things without thinking them through sometimes. He needs a steady hand.”
Is that so? Nikki seems as steady as anyone I’ve ever met. He often doesn’t think enough of himself, but there are far greater sins--and I’ve seen them all.
I lean forward, reaching to the console on my desk phone. I press the “record” button, so I can retain a digital recording of this conversation for future reference. Nothing he says can be used in court, but there are plenty of ways to make a call like this useful.
“I was thinking,” Domenico goes on. “We should collaborate. I know Nikki’s routines and most of his friends better than I know my own kids’...”
I know for a fact that Salvatore Domenico doesn’t have any kids. He’s been married twice, and twice divorced, without any children. He doesn’t even have any pets.
“…and with your legal talents and Rolodex, it could be a lucrative relationship for both of us. There’s a lot of work to spread around between us, managing a career like Nikki’s.”
I bet there is.
“That’s a tempting proposal,” I reply, encouraging him. “How would that work? What did you have in mind?”
“Income. Investments,” he says. “Between the two of us, we could make sure the funds are creatively managed for the best return. Plus, I bet you know some legal shit to put in the paperwork that’ll protect our interests from the competition.”
“Do we have any competition?” I ask Sal, taking my volume down a notch, leading him on. “I mean aside from one another? I’m only being honest. Right now, that’s kind of how it is. But it doesn’t need to be that way.”
Domenico laughs nervously. “Yeah. My thoughts exactly,” And then, he places the final nail in his metaphorical coffin:“Our competition is Nikki’s parents. They’re milquetoast over-protective WASPs from the east who butt their noses in where they don’t belong. It took me years to get Nikki to realize he didn’t need to burden them with his worries about his work or the business. If I could get him to stop sending every contract to his father for review, things would go even smoother; unfortunately, we haven’t broken that habit yet. You can help me with that, and it’ll work out good for both of us.”
“We should get together and talk face-to-face,” I say. “Thing is, I’m going on vacation soon, so let’s plan to meet up and discuss this when I get back in a few weeks. Will that work?”
“Sure,” Domenico says. “I’ll buy!” he laughs uproariously into the line. “We’ll go somewhere really nice.”
“I’ll call you,” I say. “In the meantime, give Nikki a little space. He’s just having a tantrum. He’ll cool off soon.”
“Yeah,” he says. “He can be a brat sometimes. You’ll learn that too. The best way to handle him is remind him who’s older, smarter, and taking care of him. When that doesn’t work I just yell at him. That’ll get him right in line every time.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I’ll file that for future reference.”
As soon as I’m off the phone I replay the conversation to make sure the recording caught everything said, then I download a copy to my backup drive. After that, it’s a quick call to Nikki’s mother. Molly Rippon is hardly surprised, but it’s upsetting to hear how callous Domenico is in discussing her son. It’s clear to both of us he’s a predatory bastard who’s been taking advantage of Nikki for years. His criminal actions against Nikki may only begin with embezzlement. He’s played mind games with him, all with the intent of driving a wedge between Nikki and anyone who might pose a threat to the scam Domenico has going.
Nikki was barely eighteen when he got out here. He was naive then; who isn’t? But I think he’s wising up to the leeches in his life, and fast.
“When do you expect we’ll have access to Sal’s financial records?” Molly asks me.
“Just a few more days on the initial batch we subpoenaed,” I say. “That should give you plenty to work with.”
“And how long until Sal finds out about the suit and the subpoena?”
I can’t help but chuckle . “Honestly, that depends on him, He’s either really stupid or he’s incredibly confident that we’re not digging into his finances, because he should already know. He obviously hasn’t attempted to access any of Nikki’s accounts. Once he does and gets blocked, he should figure it out quickly, and he’s probably not going to be happy.”
“Are you going to play that recording for Nikki?” Molly asks me.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m obligated to.”
“It’s probably going to break his heart,” she says. “He wants to believe that this is all just a big misunderstanding, and Sal’s not a bad guy.”
That’s sweet, and tragic, I think, glumly.
“The truth hurts. And Nikki is smart. He’s figuring out exactly what he needs to do.”
It hurts me to think of that greasy criminal conning Nikki. It hurts me to think of him bullying Nikki and manipulating him. It hurts me to think of him corrupting the relationship between Nikki and his folks. It hurts me, and it makes me absolutely furious.
Generally, I don’t get much of a charge out of going after an opponent, but I’m looking forward to putting the screws to Salvatore Domenico.
I make a mental note that I could very well have to put my vacation on hold if we turn over some incriminating shit on Sal.
It might be in Nikki’s best interest if I can help him stand up to this piece of work. That might be more important than relaxing, after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NIKKI
The numbers my mom shows me don’t mean much to me. The figures are too large to put into context. It’s a lot of money, money I worked ridiculously hard for, but according to Mom and her team of accountants, it’s not enough. Someone has been surreptitiously stealing from me.
We’re going over all of this via a video conference call, so some parts are tougher to follow than others.
“When we compare your income filings against your assets – the accounts and money you’ve spent on things we can track – it doesn’t add up,” she says. “And there are big expenditures showing up that make no sense.”
“Like what?” I ask.
She scans an account record, then pauses highlighting a line item on the spreadsheet. “Like this,” she says, pointing.
It’s a cash debit for $9846 to something called Executive Stylings.
“It’s probably clothes,” I say. “I get a lot of custom tailoring done.”
“Have you paid five hundred thousand dollars for custom tailoring?” Mom asks bluntly, raising her eyebrows at me in a very Mom way. “Because that’s how much money this company has received from you, from various accounts, over the last two years.”
“What!?” I ask, shocked. “What the hell?”
“And that’s not the only one. We’ve started a running list of all the recurring transactions to companies that don’t look legitimate. Executive Stylings, for instance, is just a full answering machine with no way to leave a message, and a post office box in Martinique. It’s a shell company.”
A shell company?
“We’ve just gotten started,” Mom says, “But at first blush, I’d say you’re missing around twelve million dollars, give or take a few million.”
That can’t be.
“With any luck, we’ll track most of it down. It’s hard to spend that kind of cash without being conspicuous.”
“Twelve million dollars?” I ask. “That’s… Oh my God, Mom… I feel so...”
“Nikki, honey, don’t say it. We didn’t know. You didn’t know. You’ve been so busy, sweetheart.”
I feel my throat start to tighten. I’m no stranger to
crying in front of my mom and dad, but I’d really rather not get started while we’re figuring this out. “That amount of money is…”
“A little more than twice your current net worth,” Mom says. “Not including your house, which is paid for and worth another three million, more or less.”
I have almost six million dollars in the bank, and I honestly didn’t think to look beyond that. Six million is astronomical… unimaginable. I almost don’t like looking at it because it means I’m so far from the pretty theater boy I was in Abingdon. Whenever I confront it, I don’t quite feel like me anymore.
But I’m missing twice that. I go through some of the bills and notes I have in front of me, clicking through all of the statements.
“He’s been doctoring the bank statements,” I say, letting it slowly sink in. I’d wanted to buy a new car last month, and Sal told me I didn’t have the money. That motherfucker.
I don’t often feel young and naive anymore, not like I did when I first got to LA. But I sure as fuck feel that way right now.
Sal’s been stealing from me. And I’ve been letting it happen for years.
“He has been, Nikki. It looks like he’s done it very slowly, a little bit at a time. When you were on tour, or recording, it would be almost impossible for you to notice. He’s been smart. But he’s started to get careless recently.”
“Christ on a bike, Mom.”
I look back at the statements again. I still don’t want to believe it. Maybe he’s putting the money into hidden accounts. He was always talking about saving for the future. I thought that’s why we never spent much, and why Sal kept me out of the finances.
“Mom,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach. “I need to stop looking at this or I’m going to get really upset. I’ll come back to it later, but I need to go take my mind off this for a while. It’s too… awful.”
Mom peers into the computer’s camera, her expression softening. “Sure, honey,” she says. “I understand.”