by Tatum West
The post he’s referring to features the same photo from LAX James showed me earlier today, but it’s accompanied by more, taken by other photographers in the same crowd of fans. There’s a clear image of me in one of those. Anyone who knows me would recognize me in an instant.
I scroll down, scanning the comments. They’re a mixed bag of mostly complementary observations about Nikki, scattered with a few criticisms of his clothing, and a few more criticisms of me. One commenter states with absolute authority that the TMZ headline is ridiculous, there’s no way Nikki would date a man “that old.” They get less flattering from there.
Below that post there’s another thread dedicated entirely to me, with fans piling on negatively regarding the “mystery man,” hurling insults at me, accusing me of all manner of intrigue. One commenter even goes so far as to state that I’m a “gold-digging cunt” and should be “put down like the rabid dog he is.”
James and Tyler were right about everything. It’s a little unsettling to see that kind of vile hatred coming from complete strangers, but I guess I’ve signed up for it. I’ve worked with celebrities most of my adult life, so I should have anticipated this. Maybe I didn’t want to see it.
Nikki is so incredibly popular, and his recent efforts to stay out of the limelight have made all of the rumors go wild.
“Sometimes—no, most times—I hate everything that comes along with being famous,” Nikki says. “What makes people think they have the right to say things like that about anyone I care about?”
I shake my head, returning Nikki’s phone to him. “You should turn it off,” I say. “Nothing good comes from paying attention to stuff like that.”
He peers at me, his eyes rimmed in red, tears threatening. He slowly puts down his phone. “Why can’t they just wish us well? Why can’t they let us be happy?”
I take Nikki in my arms, pulling him tight against my chest, cradling his head on my shoulder. “It’s not up to them,” I whisper into his hair. “It’s up to us to take happiness and hold onto it, no matter what anyone else thinks. There will always be people who can’t allow anyone else’s happiness. They don’t know how to be happy themselves.”
HOURS LATER, after the sun is long gone but the moon hasn’t appeared above the horizon, I tentatively motor Wilshire’s Bounty away from the coastline in the pitch dark, looking for channel markers, hoping I don’t run aground.
These shoals are not called ‘the graveyard of the Atlantic’ for no reason. There are more shipwrecks in these waters than anywhere else on the planet. One wrong move into the shallows and you’re grounded, waiting for the waves to crush or capsize you. It’s getting late and the seas are starting to pick up, making me even more nervous as I creep along with all the lights off.
The lights from houses at Ocracoke are deceptively comforting. Between us and them are sandbars sitting inches below the surface, ready to grab the hull and hold on. I point us northwest instead of toward the mouth of Silver Lake. I want to find the channel the ferry uses because I know it’s dredged deep. From there, the lights of the channel markers will show me the way in.
“Is that it?” Nikki asks, pointing way out on the black horizon at a string of small, flickering lights.
It must be.
“I hope so,” I say, just as we pass over an area so shallow it sounds like sandpaper grinding against the bottom of the dual hull.
That happens two more times before I can see the lights ahead clearly enough to ascertain they are, in fact, marking the broad width of a deep-water channel. We pass between two of the marker lights and I execute a hard turn to the east, dropping us into the middle of the lane between two long lines of widely strung-out lights; each one bobbing on top of a small buoy on the surface of the inky black water.
As soon as we’re inside the channel, tension flows out of my body like someone pulled the drain plug on an overflowing bathtub. I pick up the pace a little, guiding Wilshire’s Bounty toward the mouth of Silver Lake and beyond, to safety.
I come in slow, dark, and quiet, looking out for our adversaries, who I hope are in some salty bar getting drunk. Gliding past the ferry landing, easing toward the marina, I spot a couple of figures at the end of a long dock. One of them has his arm high in the air, waving at us.
“That’s James,” Nikki says.
I let the engines idle, drifting toward the dock. There’s more than just James and Tyler to greet us. A couple of sturdy watermen dressed in Carhartt overalls and dirty t-shirts step out of the shadows, grabbing hold of the rails, muscling the boat in. Before we even touch the dock one of the men boards, leaping from dock to deck with the alacrity of a pirate.
The other man pulls the aft end of the boat against the dock and ties it off with one loose loop, then he boards.
“Bryan said you needed the boat stashed for a little while,” the first man says, bounding up the steps, alighting on the helm beside me like he’s been here a thousand times. “I’ll take it.”
I leave the engine running, stepping away from the wheel. I shake the man’s hand firmly, asking his name.
“Pete Midgett,” he says. “Call me Pee-Wee, everybody does.”
“Thanks, Pee-Wee,” I respond. “Take good care of her. She’s my pride and joy.”
“Always,” he says, grinning. “I’m just gonna swing her aroundside the back o’tha island, pop her in a ditch dock by one of Bryan’s rentals. Nobody’ll be any wiser.”
I think I know what he means, but I shake his hand again, acting as if I’m certain. “Sounds like a plan,” I say. “Tell Bryan I’ll be around in the morning.”
He nods, taking the wheel.
“Your security boys er a hoot,” he says as we move to go downstairs. “I never figured California fella’s was funny. Damned entra-taining!”
Nikki and I both laugh. At least we’re entertaining to someone today, if not our own selves. We must look a sight, huddled together in our raincoats, with cracker crumbs on our shirts.
The other man waits for us at the stern while we climb off, landing flat-footed on the dock. He throws off the rope and a moment later my boat is in motion, swinging around to motor back out of Silver Lake.
“Let’s get you two tucked in,” James says, his big hand circling Nikki’s elbow while he and Troy hustle us swiftly down the pier toward a black SUV parked in the public road just beyond the boardwalk.
“It’s okay,” Nikki complains, shrugging off James’s grip.
For just a moment, I’m with Nikki, thinking all of this cloak and dagger sneaking around is just a bit much, until I see a flash from my left.
“No the fuck it’s not,” James growls, moving between that flash and Nikki. He almost lifts Nikki off his feet, hauling him toward the idling SUV.
A second later, I’m blinded by strobing flashes in my eyes, confused by a cacophony of shouting voices. I hear my name among the shouts as I try to shield my eyes. A hand shoves me forward and I tumble into a familiar vehicle. The door slams shut.
I get my bearings. I see faces and cameras pressed against the tinted glass, flashbulbs going off. Nikki’s ahead of me in the front passenger seat with Nathan at the wheel. Tyler jumps in beside me and before he even gets his door closed we’re off.
“Fuck!” Nikki shouts, frustration boiling over. “Where did they come from!?”
“They’re like cockroaches. They hide in the cracks,” Nathan grumbles, keeping his eyes on the narrow road ahead.
I turn back, looking out the rear window to see if they’re giving chase. It doesn’t look like it.
“James and Troy are staying back,” Tyler says to me. “Keeping them from following.”
“How?” I ask. “How can they stop them?”
He smirks. “We have guns. They don’t. And there’s not so much as a Barney Fife on this island to intervene. The nearest deputy is a two-hour ferry ride away. We are the law out here, at least until morning.”
Good lord. Is this what it’s come to?
Arr
iving back at the house, I’m astonished to see two armed men standing in the driveway. They appear to be locals, but they’re also strapped with sidearms and don’t look like the kind of men you’d want to cross. They’re large, with sun-faded tattoos wrapping their forearms, and wearing identical dour expressions.
We encounter a couple more men matching the same description, guarding the main entrance to the house.
“Who are these guys?” I ask.
Nathan glances in the rearview at me as he shifts the SUV into park. “Local talent,” he quips. “Not ideal, but we had to improvise. It’s been an interesting day.”
“More than just the photographers?” Nikki asks, turning toward Nathan with worry furrowing his brow, darkening his eyes.
“James will tell you everything,” Nathan says, turning the engine off. “Let’s go in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
NIKKI
I’m not a drinker, but after everything that’s happened today, what I want more than anything is a double Scotch. Fox hands me the requested drink, making an identical one for himself. He lingers close, and I can feel his warmth just behind me where I sit at the kitchen bar. I sip the smoky elixir, trying to settle my jangled nerves
“Today was just one whiplash after another,” James says, spreading stapled stacks of papers in front of me. “My email blew up about twenty minutes after you guys took off.”
He pushes a stack forward. “Let’s start with the easy stuff. This is from Stephan Jackson, your new lawyer. He called, looking for you. I made excuses. He asked me to forward this as soon as possible. I had a look, so I’ll distill it for you. Your manager, Salvatore Domenico, is a little pissed that his bank accounts have been frozen, and he can’t transfer nine million dollars from his accounts in LA to an offshore account in Grand Bahama. He’s asked for a meeting to discuss terms. He wants to negotiate.”
James pushes another stack forward. “This isn’t nearly as entertaining,” he says. “This is what we’ve collected so far in internet activity related to you, originating from an account with the handle DemonDontCare. He’s the guy we’re looking at for your stalker. He’s everywhere you are online, and he’s having a meltdown about the ‘Mystery Man’ photos. To put it in a nutshell, he feels you’ve been unfaithful to him, and now he’s claiming he’s going to get his revenge.”
Good lord! Fox slips his hand into mine holding firmly. I know I have him and a lot of security, but this news is scary.
“Based on his profile and posts on other sites, we think he may be ex-military and trained with firearms and explosives, so we’re maintaining a high level of vigilance.”
James pushes the last stack of papers forward. “And then there’s this,” he says, a wry smile brightening his expression.
What else could there possibly be?
“Your former security detail--your boy Derek Bowman--has some interesting friends.”
I’ve ceased breathing. I can’t look away from the train wreck that is my life.
“Who?” I ask.
“He’s so deep in organized crime, it beggars description,” James says. “It’s mostly drug and gun-related, though it seems he’s dabbled in sex trafficking and money laundering, as well. He used your concert venues for both, creating a front to run sex workers and cash through the vendors before flipping the laundered profits to his bosses.”
I made that possible? I feel sick.
“The good news, if you can call it that,” James adds, “is it appears he skimmed a little too much off the top. Apparently, he’s in some serious trouble. He owes dangerous people a lot of money, and they’re looking to extract their pound of flesh from him, one way or another. He might not survive long enough to stand trial.”
“Is that all?” Fox asks when it appears James is done.
“For now,” James says. “It’s been a laugh a minute around here, so something new could turn up any time.”
“What do we need to do?” I ask.
James’s body language relaxes a little. He slips onto the stool across the bar from me, folding his hands in front of him.
“My best advice is we go back to LA where we know the lay of the land and have as much back-up as we need,” he says, and I feel my heart sink. “But I know you don’t want to do that, so the next best option is to get a lot more security out here, and I’m not talking about these local guys. I’m talking professionals. I can make a few calls to a firm I know of here in the state and probably have some additional people on hand in just a few hours.”
“I like that option better,” I say.
“I knew you would,” James replies, his tone wry. “I already called and have a fresh, six-man detail on the way. They’ll be here in two hours.”
I nod. “Good,” I say. “What else can we do?”
James’s jaw tightens. He lifts his head, looking up at Fox, then dropping his gaze to me. “Don’t ever pull another stunt like you two did with the boat,” he states coolly. “That’s the kind of shit that’ll get someone killed. My job is to keep you safe, and sometimes that means protecting you from your own bad judgement. Don’t ever get in the way of me doing my job again, or I’ll simply walk away. I don’t need to work for assholes.”
“It’s my fault,” Fox says, his tone conciliatory. “In hindsight, I see now how stupid it was. It’ll never happen again, and I’m so sorry I ever did it in the first place. I can’t apologize enough.”
James’ demeanor is chilly. “I appreciate the fact that hindsight has enlightened you,” James says. “With all due respect, Mr. Lee, henceforth my team and I will consider you a potential threat to Nikki’s safety. We will act on it if there is a next time.”
“Wait. Hold up!” I interrupt, my contrition giving way to anger. I seldom get angry, but when I do, my inner middle-weight boxer comes out swinging. “Fox was apologizing. He spent hours beating himself up over this. He’s been as contrite as anyone could be, so there’s no fucking reason for you to be the asshole. Fox’s no threat to anybody, and you know that! If you want to play that card, walk the fuck away right now, because I don’t need you trying to be the biggest dick in my world.”
Fox and James both regard me with wide eyes, shocked at my outburst.
“I’m fucking serious,” I say. “You need to walk that last statement back. I care about you both and know you both have my best interests at heart. Right?”
James holds up his hands, leaning backward on his stool. “Fine,” he says, his tone tight. “Consider it walked back.”
“It’s okay,” Fox says, dropping a hand to my shoulder. “I hate it when my client’s trip over their own incompetence, then won’t even follow my advice on how to straighten things out. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy.
“It’s been a long day for everyone,” Fox states diplomatically. “I’m going to make us some dinner, and then we’re calling it a night.”
An hour later, I’m watching Fox skillfully slice a Russet potato into perfect, shoe-string strips for homemade French Fries. He’s also made Coleslaw, which is chilling in the fridge. There’s a plate full of huge flounder fillets ready to batter and drop into a countertop fryer.
“The fish will be done as soon as the fries are cool enough to eat,” he says, dropping sliced potatoes into the fryer. The thing hisses loudly and a billow of steam lifts, dissipating in the air.
As good as I know this meal will be, as much trouble as Fox has gone to, and even though I’ve hardly eaten anything all day, I can’t manage to work up an appetite. The paparazzi are here and they’re going to give us no peace. We won’t be able to leave the house without them descending upon us. As if that wasn’t bad enough, this homicidal stalker may be right around the corner, just waiting for a chance to get his ‘revenge’ for my imagined crimes against him.
On top of all that, there’s the news about Sal and Derek.
“Why do you think Sal wants to meet?” I ask Fox.
He shakes the sputtering French fries in their basket. “If
I had to guess, I’d say he wants to avoid criminal charges. He may want to offer a cash settlement if you agree not to pursue legal remedies.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask.
Fox’s brow raises with a tiny smile tipping his lip. “Because you might lose in court, but in this case, I’d say that’s unlikely,” he says. “Or you may want to avoid the embarrassment of having the whole world know your manager ripped you off. Some people just want the fast money rather than dragging out a lawsuit, where it may take years to recover your losses, if at all, even if you do win.”
He lifts the fry basket from the grease, letting it drain, then pours the finished fries into a stainless-steel warming pan and pops it in the warmer. He starts on the fish fillets, battering them and dropping them in the fryer.
“Sal’s got money in the bank. We know that,” Fox says. “His assets are frozen, so he can’t access them. Unless he’s got money squirrelled away that we don’t know about – which he may very well have – he might not be able to mount a defense because no lawyer would take his case without proof of his ability to pay.”
Once he’s done dropping all the fillets in the fryer, he washes his hands and turns back to me.
“I’m not your attorney,” he reminds me. “If I was, I’d advise you not to meet with him. But I’m not. And if you want to, you could see what he has to say. Might be interesting. He could have a proposal that’s interesting. My instincts tell me he might.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that right?
“Just don’t count on that,” Fox adds. “Manage your expectations.”
I nod. My expectations for Sal Domenico and Derek Bowman are so low, if they get any lower, they’d be runoff, clogging the sewers.
“Almost time to eat,” Fox says, nodding to my empty glass of Scotch. “For a guy who doesn’t drink, you didn’t have any trouble finishing that. You want another one? I’m having another one.”
I lift my glass, peering at it sternly. I’ve always equated alcohol with bad behavior and with people who didn’t know when to stop. That’s not how Fox drinks. Apparently, it’s not how I drink either.