Silver Fox (Bridge to Abingdon Book 4)

by Tatum West

  Yeah, I said it.

  “I love you,” I say again. “I’ve never said that to anybody before, so don’t take it lightly.”

  I’m going to show Fox Lee what love feels like, what a real family is, what a real community looks like. Everyone in Abingdon is going to love him almost as much as I do.

  He blinks once, then twice, then a smile builds, spreading across his handsome face. He slides his land around the back of my neck, pulling me to him for the most soulful, most passionate kiss I’ve ever been party to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It would be something magical to be truly loved by a creature like Nikki Rippon. To know I was in his thoughts every day. To believe I’m the man he wants to come home to every night. When I first saw him, I thought he was a beautiful, glittering prince. I saw something aloof, almost regal about him. Today, I see more than just his surface beauty; the pale shade of his blue eyes, the delicate peaches and cream of his soft skin. He glows from within with a warmth that’s impossible to contrive. It’s a steady love that was planted in his blood and has been nurtured in him since childhood. It’s the kind of true love so few people are capable of initiating, much less sustaining. Nikki – I believe with all my heart – is capable of both.When Nikki’s mother took my hand in hers today, smiling as she welcomed me to her home, I saw Nikki’s smile inside hers. When his father shook my hand, gripping it firmly, sincerely, I felt Nikki’s touch. His beautiful soul and bold fearlessness were conceived inside their unconditional love.

  How could I ever deserve to be part of that? It’s the height of ambition to aspire to it.

  Nikki’s kisses spin me, making me drunk with him. His tongue tastes like cherry wine, hot and sweet. His body against mine is the essence of warmth. I could melt inside him and never want to come up for air.

  It’s impossible to possess Nikki. I realize as I take control, pushing him down into the cushions, my mouth seeking every inch of him. I’ve only got as much control as he allows. He possesses me, and I’m only doing his bidding. I could spend eternity doing his bidding.

  I remind myself to slow down, taking my time rounding Nikki’s curves and angles with my lips and tongue. His body reminds me of a racing greyhound; lithe, streamlined, stronger than it looks. His arms and legs crush around me as soon as I’m inside him. He cries out, whining, eyes seared closed, mouth heaving open, gulping for oxygen, every muscle in his body flexed and tight, sucking me into him deeper, demanding more and more.

  I rock him, rolling in hard, pulling out, driving him like a thunderous high tide until he cries my name, opening his eyes, fixing mine in a stunned gaze. His cock is a hot iron spike, pressed tight between our bellies. I feel it twitch. I feel his balls draw tight and firm against his body, scraping the top of my shaft every time I thrust back into the tight grip of his ass.

  “You’re gonna cum for me just like that,” I say, my sweat dripping hot and salty onto his face, stinging his lips. “I’m gonna watch you cum, and then I’m gonna bust you open when I go.”

  If he could catch his breath, he’d grin at me, but as it is, all he can do is nod and heave for air.

  “Fu… Fu… Fu…,” he cries, his voice breaking, his fingers digging into my shoulders, his heels ground into my back so hard it hurts.

  The only better feeling than this, is when Nikki does this to me. The thought of that is almost enough to make me lose control, so I quickly shove the image out of my mind.

  In another moment, my self-control is rewarded. Niki cries out, his body convulsing beneath me. His head snaps back, driving into the couch cushions while he grinds his teeth. A second later, a flood of hot, slippery liquid erupts between us, smearing between our bellies. I bite his nipples in turn, causing him to moan loudly, escalating his orgasm perfectly.

  He reflexively tries to ball up, but I shove him back down onto his back, pressing his shoulders away from me while I ride it out. Nikki huffs, mouth slacked open, his eyes wide, fixed on mine.

  “God damn, Fox… fuck…” he whispers, watching me struggle not to come. “God, I love you so much. You make me feel so fucking good.”

  He loves me. He means it. There’s nothing hotter in the world than having one of God’s own angels spread wide open underneath you, his divine asshole wrapped around your cock so tight you just want to blow, and then he says, ‘I love you so much…You make me feel so fucking good…’

  “Fuck,” I huff, oxygen depleted, my entire body slick with sweat.

  I’m done. My body takes over from my conscious will. I explode inside Nikki with a force of pure, white hot pleasure for which there are no words adequate to describe it. From some great distance away, through the crash of waves and the sound of exploding stars, I hear myself crying out. My body stiffens. I finally collapse in a spent heap on top of my angel, who holds me tight. We both start laughing uncontrollably.

  “Fuck, Fox,” he cries, laughing so hard his muscles squeeze my cock, forcing me out of him. “You’re so fucking amazing.”

  I try and fail to catch my breath between fits of uncontrolled giggling.

  “Whew!” I breath, drawing Nikki’s scent into my lungs, feeling his essence slip into my pores. “I love you,” I wheeze, still hauling for air. “I love you.”

  “I know,” Niki whispers. “I know ,baby.”

  As soon as I can move, I roll over onto my back. Nikki rests his open palm against my still heaving chest. He rolls onto me, draping a long, lithe leg over my hip. His face rests in the curve of my neck.

  “Stay,” he pleads. “Please don’t go home. I want to sleep beside you in my bed. I want to wake up beside you.”

  I heave a deep breath, centering myself. It’s Friday night. Tomorrow is Saturday. I don’t have to go to work, but Nikki does.

  “Umm,” I purr against his soft hair, feeling my heartbeat start to return to normal. “You’ve got the taping at Fox tomorrow, for the New Year’s Eve special. I should go and let you get some rest, so you’ll be up for it.”

  “Come with me,” Nikki says without lifting his head. His voice is soft, sleepy, yet it’s still ringing with humor. “Come with me tomorrow. Come watch me be a superstar in satin and sequins.”

  I can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday. I could watch Nikki Rippon scrub the bathtub and it would still be sexy-as-fuck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  NIKKI

  I spend an hour in wardrobe and another hour in makeup while the talented ladies at Fox Studios transform me from the gawky boy, stumbling in at seven-thirty in the morning with a paper cup of Starbucks coffee, into an absolutely radioactive-hot diva.

  Fox hangs back, watching me in the mirrors as the metamorphosis takes shape, his eyes fixed, bright with fascinated interest.

  “What about your hair?” one of the stylists asks. “Don’t you usually wear a wig?”

  I nod, smiling through blood red painted lips.

  “Not anymore,” I reply to her. “I’m going for a little more of a Freddy Mercury vibe this year.”

  “You need a trim then,” she says, running her fingers around my nape. “I’ll buzz it short around the back and give you some body wave on top.”

  I nod and glance up at Fox with a wry smile. He smiles wickedly, mouthing, “Sexy. As. Fuck,” while she takes my hair down to a butchy, platinum blond buzz, feathered on top.

  When it’s nearly time to step into the television studio with its fake stage and audience of fake fans dancing under genuinely hot spotlights, Fox walks along with me. In platform shoes, I’m as tall as he is, and I see him with a new perspective.

  “I would kiss you,” I say, batting long artificial eyelashes at him. “But my face is made up, and it’s got to be perfect for the cameras.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, almost smacking his lips. “I can wait. You look beautiful.”

  Taping for a television show is nothing at all like performing live before a real audience. For starters, I’m lip-syncing. It feels like cheating, but there�
�s no way around it. This is T.V. Next, if the lights aren’t perfect, if someone’s dancing obstructs the camera’s view, or something is out of place, the director calls “Cut!” and everything stops. I’m supposed to sustain enthusiasm and believable engagement through multiple ‘cuts’ and ‘rolls’, even when starting up in the middle of a song.

  After the film crew gets all the wide shots they need, we start all over again to tape close-ups of me at the microphone, trying for all I’m worth to make my mouth move in perfect synchrony with the soundtrack of my own vocals piped into my ear. Even if you’re a master at karaoke, perfect lip-synching is way more difficult than it looks. I’ve got great timing and a theatrical sense of emotive drama, but it’s tough to do every single note, line, and inflection exactly the same way as the studio recording.

  When we’ve completed taping the first two songs, the director reviews the unedited footage; apparently satisfied, he breaks for lunch.

  Fox makes his way across the sound stage toward me with his phone in his hand.

  “You are amazing,” he says, taking my hand. “That’s a lot harder than it looks on television.”

  “Thank god we’re almost done,” I respond, collapsing into one of those folding chairs with my name stretched across the back of it. I gently nudge my shoes off and relax, hooking my toes around the chair’s legs.

  “I just got a call from my admin,” Fox says, disappointment clear in his tone. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to bail on you. A client was involved in a DUI last night. There was an accident. He’s been charged. I need to go get him out of jail.”

  “I thought you didn’t have to work on Saturdays.”

  Fox smiles, slipping his pinky around mine. “He’s in jail. He’s a star. Stars don’t do jail. Even on Saturdays. If I let him sit there ‘til Monday, I won’t be his attorney anymore.”

  Pouting isn’t going to make Fox stay. He’s just too responsible to be pushed around.

  “Let’s have dinner tonight at the club,” Fox suggests. “You know the Soho House in West Hollywood?”

  I nod. I’ve been there once or twice but that was a long time ago. I wanted to join, but Sal said it was a stupid idea, as the members were mostly just wannabes.

  “Will you be done here by five or so?”

  “Long before then,” I say. “How should I dress?”

  Fox grins. “Any way you want to dress, baby. It’s Saturday night in West Hollywood, and you’re a trendsetter. I think you get to decide.” He leans in, brushing soft lips and a little stubble against my powdered cheek. “I’ll pick you up at your place at six. I’ll see you then.”

  Fox’s taking me to the Soho House on the Saturday night. It’ll be busy, and everyone will see us together. He kissed me in public and was making sexy eyes at me while the makeup crew and stylists looked on. I told him I loved him last night, and he melted in a puddle right into my arms. I told my parents about him, and he’s going home with me, to spend time with my family and get to know the place where I grew up. I guess Fox and I are no longer on the down-low.

  I think I might finally be able to say, ‘Life is perfect.’ I’ve got it all – fame, beauty, success – and I’ve got Fox to share it with. For once since all this nonsense began, I can enjoy it, because I know Fox is with me.

  For the first time since I left home, I’m not alone on this long strange trip.

  “A TRENDSETTER, HUH?” I say out loud to no one but the dust mites and my alter ego.

  There are too many dust mites. Fox’s right. I need a housekeeper. I used to be so tidy and obsessive about dusting, vacuuming, and polishing, but after a few years of chasing Derek’s beer bottles around and emptying ashtrays, I’ve given up. This place needs a thorough scrubbing.

  I step into my closet to consider my wardrobe possibilities.The paparazzi are going to see us, that’s a given. A lot of Fox’s friends and colleagues are also going to see us. People will talk. What they say will depend a lot on the impression I make. They all know my stage persona, but they’ve never met me, face to face. Let’s give them something unexpected.

  I go deep into the racks to find the item I’m looking for. Laying hands on it for the first time since I bought it, I remember why I fell in love with it, even though it’s just a modest, unadorned, cream colored turtleneck. The knit is as light and as soft as a cloud. It’s angora, made in a tight, thin weave that looks a bit like finely spun silk, but feels like baby’s breath against my skin. It hangs so snug and so supple, every turn of lean muscle and bone shows through, almost as if it’s transparent.

  Black, sharply pressed wool slacks anchor the cream sweater nicely. I puzzle over what to top the outfit with. Something unique, but also classic. Something no one else has. I know!

  It’s boxed up, stored high on a shelf where I knew it would always be safe.

  No one else on this side of the continent owns a perfect replica of a cavalry officer’s butternut colored frock coat in soft suede, complete with caramel-colored, authentic bone buttons, and just enough gold piping around the tab color and cuffs to be visually interesting, without being boastful.

  My mother had this made for me my senior year of high school when I played both of the Tarleton twins in a reimagined, darkly comedic version of Gone With the Wind. I loved the role, because I looked the part of the effete, useless twins who strutted about trying to appear dashing, but who were, together, about as smart as a bag of hammers. The role was a blast to play, but it was the clothes that stuck with me. Wearing this coat, I felt two feet taller and bulletproof, like I imagine every cavalry officer needed to feel.

  I slip into it, dipping my hand down deep into narrow sleeves, feeling the weight of the material. Once it’s on, I check myself in the mirror. It still fits perfectly. It’s beautiful, and it absolutely makes this outfit. I anchor the ensemble with a pair of brown, calf-skin boots; understated, but stylish on their own terms.

  I inspect myself from every angle. I look wonderful. With this outfit, just a thin application of eyeliner to bring out the color of my eyes, and my new, severe haircut, I might not even be recognized. Someone may just mistake me for some stunning runway model.

  If Fox loved me in blue silk with a tie, he’s going to love me even more in angora and golden suede. Finally, I drape a gun-metal gray knit scarf around my neck. Even when wrapped once, its feathery fringe still brushes my knees.

  I’m ready to go.

  Downstairs, I find James and Troy waiting in the living room.

  “Fox’s late,” James observes. “Unusual.”

  It is unusual, but he’s probably caught in bad traffic.

  “You look nice,” Troy remarks, which is wholly out of character for him. No one in my security detail--besides James--has ever had anything to say about my appearance before. I think I like it.

  “Thank you,” I reply, smiling demurely. “We’re going to the Soho House.”

  “Unless we miss your reservations,” James observes. “They were at six-thirty, right?”

  We have plenty of time. It’s just a few miles away.

  James looks at his watch again. “We’re cutting it close.”

  A nagging feeling pulls at me, like there’s something I’ve forgotten, some reason why Fox might be late. But I simply smile, cool and nonchalant. Nothing could ruin this evening--he’ll be here.

  “Give him a few more minutes,” I ask, going to the kitchen for a bottle of water.

  Five minutes pass, and I decide to call Fox, just to make sure we weren’t supposed to meet him there. I’m sure he said he was picking me up, but maybe I misheard.

  His phone rings and rings, rolling over to voicemail. Also unusual; Fox always takes my calls.

  “I’ll try him,” James says, pulling up Fox’s number from his contacts list.

  The result is the same. James decides to leave a voicemail. As he’s leaving the message, suggesting we may miss our reservations, my phone buzzes with a text message.

  When I read it I smile
at Fox’s humor. It reads: Sorry sweetness. I’m a little tied up right now. I’ll explain...

  “He must be on a call,” I say to James, lifting my phone to show him the text. Just then, another text comes in, but this one is a photo. I can’t see what it is in the thumbnail. When I enlarge it, I don’t immediately get it.

  The image is of Fox, seated in a chair in a dimly lit room, with something partially covering his face.

  Before I can process the image a third text comes in. It reads: Nikki, you’re a cheating liar. We could have had everything. I thought you hung the sun and moon. I would have died for you. Do not call the cops. Don’t even think about it. $5 million in cash gets your boyfriend back, maybe. You have until Monday morning. I’ll text you then.

  Oh my god.

  “What?” James asks.

  “It’s… It’s…”

  He gently takes the phone from my trembling hand. “Shit,” James mutters. He turns to Troy. “Lockdown,” he snaps. “Call in everybody on the team and triple check the premises for unsecured doors and windows. I’ve gotta call the boss.”

  James ushers me to the couch. “Stay,” he barks. “Don’t move.”

  Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?

  James calls someone and tells him what’s happened. He forwards the text messages from my phone to that person and they discuss what to do. I barely follow. I’m frozen.

  What did the text say? ‘Nikki, you’re a cheating liar.’

  It’s the guy who was stalking me, following me. The one who Fox punched at 1-Oak . The one who called me his husband.

  “Alright, sir,” James says. “We’ll sit tight. See you shortly.”

  When he’s off the phone, James sits down on top of the coffee table, right in front of me.

  “Does Fox have any relatives nearby? Parents? Adult children? Even an ex-wife would do.”

  I shake my head. “His parents are dead and he doesn’t have kids. He’s never been married.”