Silver Fox (Bridge to Abingdon Book 4)

by Tatum West

He shakes his head. “I think I’m good,” he says. “I talked to your PI, Ellis Robards, yesterday. Thanks for calling him. He got me up to speed on what he’s doing on his end. Now we’re just waiting for the banks to turn over more data from Domenico’s offshore accounts. It’s all due in a couple days.”

  I nod. “You got the tags put on his account?”

  “In place,” he assures me, then smiles. “I also got the IRS interested. They’re fascinated with what we’ve uncovered so far and looking forward to more.”

  “Perfect,” I say, pleased with the progress. “Keep me posted. I doubt I’ll be able to get online when I’m in North Carolina, but I should be able to text with no problems.”

  Stephan assures me he’ll keep me in the loop. I collect my laptop and bag, along with a few active files to review on the plane. I’m looking forward to walking away from all this for a while, to spending some dedicated, quality time with Nikki and letting him get a good look at who I am when you take me out of Beverly Hills. I’m just as interested in discovering who Nikki is once Beverly Hills is taken out of him. He will have zero opportunity to prance around in flaming pink Pradas. I hope he found some topsiders. He’ll need practical shoes, or he’ll have to spend the whole time there barefoot.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NIKKI

  F ox said I couldn’t get Topsiders in pink, which just goes to show that Fox Lee – as smart as he is – doesn’t know everything. Celebrity has its advantages. I called the Sperry corporation’s headquarters in Maine, explaining my imminent travel plans and the direness of my situation. The lovely woman I spoke with on the phone said she’d check the production floor and see what was possible. Apparently, the four-week turn-around for custom Sperry Topsiders diminishes to just two days when you’re a Grammy Award winner about to go on holiday. The amazing young woman I spoke to was just as mortified as I was that I didn’t have any appropriate shoes for the Carolina coast. She told me we’d get to fixing that right away.

  With overnight shipping, my metallic rose gold and lavender Topsiders arrive just in time. I tuck the box into my last suitcase and hand it off to Spencer to take to the car. The Ralph Lauren shop on Rodeo Drive provided a handsome variety of nautically inspired daywear. The lines and colors are rather conservative, but they’re classic and beautiful, just the same. Fox suggested I tone down my aspirations to haute couture while we’re on the island. Ralph Lauren is about as toned down as this boy gets. I’ll look luscious in white, skinny-legged chinos and my one-of-a-kind topsiders. I’ll be adorable.

  Sadly, my travel attire is a lot less inspired. Experience has taught me that airports and car rental depots are the absolute worst when it comes to getting spotted by the paps or descended upon by fans. My basic attire for LAX is a ratty baseball hat, aviator shades, worn jeans, and my trusty Lakers jersey. Even then, when traveling with security, it’s almost impossible not to get noticed.

  The ultimate downside of celebrity is that it’s tough to escape fame once you step outside the privacy of your own home. Sometimes, you can’t even escape it there.

  Fox watches the train of suitcases ascend out of the back of the limo, and onward, into the charter terminal. A smile plays at the corner of his lips, and his eyes meet mine, playful and amused.

  “If we ever go abroad, we’ll have to stay at Versailles to have room for your suitcases,” he teases. “Or maybe the queen will lend us Buckingham Palace.”

  I shrug and laugh. “Maybe she will. Who knows? I mean we are extremely important people, right?”

  “Definitely.” Fox pulls me into an embrace and kisses my cheek right then and there.

  We almost made it through security before someone recognized me. I delayed the line (not by choice) when a gaggle of shrieking, giggling teenage girls demanded autographs and selfies. The TSA agents were not amused, despite being accustomed to celebrities passing through. Perhaps they’re just as ‘over it’ as I am.

  James, Troy, and Tyler get between me and the girls, and Nathan and Spencer hustle me and Fox to the gate and our waiting jet.

  Fox was patient while I interacted with my fans. He understands they’re the ones who buy my records, watch my videos, come to my shows. It’s clear, though, that he doesn’t like the attention. He’ll never be the boyfriend who photobombs the fan’s selfies. He hung way back while the fans circled around me.

  “You’re good with all that,” Fox observes, once we’re onboard the chartered jet. He settles into the plush leather seat beside mine. “You make them feel important.”

  The jet engines fire as soon as James, Troy, and Tyler catch up to us, taking seats at the rear, hopefully out of earshot.

  “It’s my job to be good with all that,” I reply. “Part of the package. They’re not all bad. Like those girls out there; they were just sweet and starstruck. And they are important. Everyone is. I like to make them feel that way, even if it’s just for a moment.”

  He nods, taking my hand in his. “I know. It’s just odd, sharing you with strangers.”

  That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I lean into Fox’s shoulder, pulling his arm over me.

  “You’re not sharing me,” I say. “They don’t really know me. All they know is what I show them, which is just designer clothes, make-up and over-produced pop music. I doubt they’d like me as much if they really knew me, warts and all.”

  “You have no warts, Nikki,” Fox says softly, pulling me close. “You’re complicated and beautiful. You’re smart, and you’re extraordinarily talented, and I’m glad you came with me.”

  “You flatter me, Fox Lee.”

  “It’s more than that. I want you to know how important you are—to me.”

  I grin.

  I’m glad I decided to come, too.

  MY PARENTS TOOK me on several beach vacations when I was a kid. We went to Virginia Beach or the crowded, touristy section of the Outer Banks. I had no idea that Ocracoke was even here, a day trip away from the vacation spots I’d frequented as a child.

  And since moving to LA, the beach has lost most of its wonder. I love the little hideaways in Santa Barbara, but I mostly avoid the coast otherwise. I like it all well enough, but the crowds get to me. I love people—just not that many. However, the Santa Monica, Venice, and Malibu beaches are not like this. As the jet circles the island on its approach, the view I glimpse through the cabin window is spectacular, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

  The island is a thin strip of sand stretched between two wide bodies of water. On the west side, the water is shallow, aquamarine blue, and teeming with life. The Atlantic Ocean, to the east, is the shade of polished lapis lazuli, rippling with whitecaps and gargantuan waves crashing on the shore. It’s wild and unspoiled, a piece of land that has remained mostly untouched for thousands of years. Fox told me that the people who live here have lives based around the water. There are tourists, certainly, but they’re not the same as the teeming masses of humanity that plague the Southern California coastline.

  At the southern end of the island I spot a tiny village surrounding a small harbor; colorful boats of various sizes and descriptions are anchored therein. It looks like a picture book or a Degas painting—like something from long ago, nostalgic and unabashedly colorful.

  Growing up in Abingdon, I used to say: “Abingdon might not be the edge of the universe, but you can see it from here.” I do believe Fox Lee has vacation property at the actual edge of the universe. The island emerges from the waves like Venus from the clam. A precipice upon which one could look out and see nothing but the sea and sky.

  The jet touches down with a thud, skidding fast on a bumpy, weathered blacktop. The engines whine in reverse, slowing us enough to cause my glass to tip on my tray table, sliding off the edge.

  “Short air strip,” Fox observes, nimbly catching the glass just before it drops to the carpeted floor. “Not like landing at LAX where there are miles of runway to work with.”

  Nothing about this experience
is going to be like LA, I think, or like much of anything I’ve ever done.. Even from the air this place seems undeniably remote and old-fashioned.

  The rental cars wait for us at the end of the runway, along with a woman who Fox obviously knows. They shake hands, exchanging greetings as she regards me and my detail (and my luggage) with curiosity.

  The trip to Fox’s house is brief. We barely skirt the edge of the tiny village, instead turning onto narrow, sand swept streets lined with quaint houses. They are all covered in weathered, gray shingles, and shaded under canopies of gnarled oaks, lofting pines, and feathery cedars.

  It’s late in the afternoon and most of the people out and about look as if they’re taking a carefree evening stroll rather than going anywhere in particular. They move at an unhurried pace. As we pass, I see a woman in a faded floral house dress stop, lingering at a neighbor’s yard long enough to smell the last of the season’s wild roses trailing along a sun-bleached picket fence. I turn in my seat to watch her as we speed by. This place is like a long lost Mayberry, a cliche preserved by time.

  Fox squeezes my hand gently. I turn back, regarding him with a wonder-struck smile. He’s grinning.

  A moment later, we pull into a narrow, tree-shaded, dirt drive. The house is concealed from the road by rows of dense, woody shrubs and hanging oaks, but once we clear the trees the house is revealed in all of her eccentric glory.

  The place is neither large nor of any high architectural quality. It’s a tumbled jumble of boxed additions surrounding and piled above a main structure, all wrapped up and capped with decks and screened porches. The exterior is a patchwork of bare wooden boards and cedar shakes. There is no apparent method to the madness of the place’s lack of uniformity or symmetry. Even the roof is a mystery. The main house boasts a copper colored metal roof, while all of the porch additions have green metal roofs of a slightly different fashion.

  All in all, it’s a quirky little house I think might grow on me.

  “I’ll show you around outside later,” Fox says. “The mosquitoes are coming out now, and they don’t mess around. Let’s get inside and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  Tyler and Spencer are on detail tonight, so they carry our bags in, while Nathan, James, and Troy take the second car (with their bags) to settle themselves in next door. They have the night off and I suspect they may investigate every inch of this little town, looking for decent food, spirits, and company. I hope they find all of the above. They deserve some relaxation and fun as much as Fox and I do.

  The house is rustic, with all wood paneling and aged hardwood floors that glow golden in the setting sunlight. It’s like a film set from the 1950s, with better furniture and tasteful coastal-themed art and prints. Some walls are covered with smaller framed photographs. The hallway and wall along the stairwell are stacked with hundreds of them.

  “My grandfather built this place,” Fox says, gazing around fondly. “The locals call it ‘The Captain’s House’ because he was a Navy Captain stationed here during World War II. He liked Ocracoke so much, he bought a piece of property with an old shack on it and, over about three years, he built a house, using the shack as its heart. It’s… special. Different from California.”

  Once our bags are stashed, our clothes put away, and the sun has gone down, Fox gets to work preparing supper for us. The realtor has seen to our needs, stocking the fridge with all manner of good things, including a copious amount of fresh seafood.

  I crack the cap on a bottle of Dos Equis and saddle up to the bar top that divides the cozy kitchen from the main living area. I drink straight from the bottle, forgoing the niceties of a glass, while Fox entertains me with tales of his family’s history here on the island, and with this house in particular.

  Fox’s grandmother was from Ocracoke, the daughter of a local pilot and fisherman who wasn’t at all thrilled with the idea of his sheltered little girl getting mixed up with a sailor from Los Angeles, California. “The thing was, my grandmother wanted to get off this island and make something of her life, so she concocted a plan to convince her family to let her see my grandfather,” Fox says, skinning fresh shrimp while he talks. “Building the house was her idea. It worked.”

  “How did that convince her parents to let her go?”

  “They knew my grandfather had good intentions, I guess. This house was like an anchor point; they knew their daughter would always come back to them.”

  I think of Abingdon, far from the beach, and how I’ve stayed away for a long time. I can’t quite remember why. Suddenly, it pains me, physically.

  “They came back all the time, bringing their kids with them,” Fox boasts. “Those kids grew up, bringing their kids. I spent entire summers here with my cousins until I was sixteen. When my father died a few years back, I inherited his share of the property. I bought out my cousins and my aunt, who also owned interests in the house.”

  I can tell by his expression that there’s more to the story than he’s willing to tell just now, so I decide not to press it. He’s on to another subject as soon as he’s finished the last.

  The meal – spicy steamed shrimp with coleslaw and corn on the cob – is delicious and extremely filling. Fox makes enough for everyone in the house. Tyler and Spencer eat with us, something that almost never happened in LA. We’re in close quarters here, and it’s not like the guys can order Chinese delivery. Fox says there’s not even delivery pizza on the island.

  After supper, we meander through the back of the house, drinks in hand, toward the wide screened-in porch that spans the length of the place and wraps around one corner. Beyond that, we settle on comfortable wooden lounge chairs on the open deck, overlooking the water. The evening air is chilly, with a steady breeze coming in from the east. The horizon spreads out as wide; the sky is inky black, filled with twinkling stars. I gaze up, and for the first time since I left Abingdon, I see the magnificence of the Milky Way hanging overhead.

  It’s so quiet here it’s almost unsettling. I’m accustomed to the drone of traffic and aircraft flying overhead; the buzz of the city as background noise. Here, the quiet is lifted with a symphony of insects and frogs, the gentle lapping of water by the boardwalk and dock, and the sound of my breathing. It’s peaceful here; peaceful enough to think clearly.

  An hour, perhaps two, passes in absolute silence between Fox and me. Instead of awkwardness or uncertainty, the quiet is contemplative and easy. We breathe fresh, salty air perfumed with the scent of tidal mud. We listen to the night, gazing at the heavens, counting falling stars, slowly forgetting about things like legal cases, stalkers, embezzlers, and fame. The moon rises, casting eerie light through the branches of the old oak trees. The only sounds are the ocean and the breeze in the trees.

  I see now why Fox said I should leave my haute couture in LA. This place has no need for such trivialities. Its beauty is perfect, just as it is. There’s no improving it.

  Fox reaches across the narrow space between us, circling his hand around mine. “You’re cold,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

  I am? I hadn’t noticed. I was lost in the dark.

  He lifts his glass to his lips, downing the golden amber contents. “C’mon,” he says getting to his feet, pulling me to mine. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll warm you up.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FOX

  I pull Nikki into my chest, circling my arms around him, drawing him as close as we can be while still clothed. His slight frame shivers in the chill of this breezy, island air. He’s used to the hot Santa Ana winds that render everything bone dry this time of year. It’s humid here. Autumn is just beginning to settle in, with temperatures dropping fast as soon as the sun goes down.

  I hug him tight, pressing my lips to his downy-soft ear. He relaxes into me, his lips pressed to my neck.

  I’ve never brought anyone out here with me. I’m not sure why; perhaps I’m selfish. I never wanted to share it with anyone. Perhaps I simply don’t like sharing things I care about deeply
. Perhaps it’s why I don’t love sharing Nikki with his fans. I’d never take that away from him, and I’d never try to possess him or keep him away from the life he’s led for years now. But it feels safe and comfortable to have him here, in this place I’ve never shared before.

  Maybe out here, we can both just be.

  On the way upstairs, Nikki slows, then pauses on the steps to inspect some of the family photos. He gently touches the glass at one faded image. It’s a photo of my mother and I when I was very small, taken on the beach. We’re both happy, smiling, eyes crinkled against the glare of the sun. I’m holding a small plastic bucket in one hand. We must have been building sand castles or digging for treasure.

  “You were beautiful then, too,” Nikki says, peering at the photo, then up at me. “And your mom is gorgeous.”

  Yes, she was.

  I squeeze Nikki’s hand, pulling him along. “You can study them tomorrow if you’re still interested. I want to show you our bedroom,” I urge. “And the rooftop deck.”

  Nikki’s eyes brighten. “A rooftop deck? Really?”

  “Come on. Quit dawdling,” I tease. “We don’t have all night.”

  “Yeah we do,” he quips, following me. “We’ve got nowhere to be.”

  The rooftop deck is just one of my contributions to the never-ceasing improvements made to the house. It’s accessible only through the balcony just off the master bedroom; its floor decking is at the same elevation as the highest roof peak of this many-gabled house. During daylight hours, the view is breathtaking. The Atlantic is visible to the east, over the treetops. The Sound, which begins at the foot of the property, extends to the other horizon without end.

  “We’ll have our coffee up here tomorrow morning,” I say, stepping close behind Nikki, wrapping my hands around his chest, pulling him against me. “And from here we’ll plot the rest of the day.”

  His chilled hands slip over mine. He leans into me, letting his head lull to my shoulder.