Silver Fox (Bridge to Abingdon Book 4)

by Tatum West

  SILVER FOX

  A BRIDGE TO ABINGDON NOVEL

  TATUM WEST

  © 2019 Tatum West

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented are 18 or over.

  Kindle Edition

  * * *

  Cover Design:

  Mayhem Cover Creations

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  NIKKI

  M AY, 1999

  “Have a seat Nicholas,” Dr. Voorhees states sternly, pointing toward the austere, straight-backed chair to his left, beside the more comfortable, leather-covered seats to his right.

  My father and mother occupy those. They both look uncomfortable – but not as uncomfortable as I feel. I’d been in the hallway outside of the principal’s office for thirty minutes, waiting to hear just how low his expectations of me are.

  “I understand from your parents that you’ve all agreed to put college on hold,” he states, heaving a despondent sigh. “ I have to tell you, I believe this decision is a terrible mistake. The statistics are against you. If you take a gap year, the odds are you’ll never attend college, much less graduate.”

  My parents have no response except to squirm nervously, wanting this scolding session to be over as much as I do. We’ve been through this. They can’t make me go to college, and it’s a little late to apply now. Tomorrow is graduation day. And tomorrow night, I'm jetsetting to LA. I’ll wipe the dust off this decrepit little town off my platformed Prada boots and paint Hollywood pink! If the interest in my website is any indication, I'm going to be a star! That's the plan anyway."

  What are statistics? I think, I’m not a statistic. I’m the lightning about to strike – or die trying.

  “I’m not going to college,” I say, feeling my glossed lips purse ever so slightly. “Not now. Not ever. I have a plan, and it doesn’t include dining halls and dorm rooms.”

  Dr. Voorhees rolls his eyes. “Nicholas, you’re being ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head derisively. “You’re talented, but this idea you have of going off and becoming some kind of rock star or something, that’s just reckless. It’s stupid.”

  No, Dr. Voorhees. Your shitty aftershave, cheap Stafford shirt, and polyester necktie are stupid.

  I give him a thin smile. “Thank you for your encouragement,” I say. “It’s great to have the support of the people who know me best.”

  Voorhees glares at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Sarcasm will get you an hour in detention.”

  “Dr. Voorhees, we appreciate your concern,” my father pipes up, coming to my defense. “While we share some of your concerns, we also recognize Nikki’s never going to follow the conventional path. He’s not like most of the other boys here at Jackson…”

  You can say that again, I think, wryly.

  “…We’ve discussed Nikki’s plan as a family and we’ve all agreed to give it a couple years and just see what happens.” He smiles at Voorhees, nodding in my direction. “You have to admit, the boy has something… special. Lightning might just strike.”

  My mom smiles too, reaching behind Dad, circling her hand around my forearm, squeezing firmly. Her support steels my resolve, as it always does.

  “We have so much faith in Nikki,” she says, almost bursting with maternal pride. “He’s so talented. A lot of people already realize how talented he is.” She lets go of my arm, leaning in toward Dr. Voorhees. “But more than that,” she continues, “he may get out there and decide, after all is said and done, that that’s not what he wants after all. If we forbid it, or pressure him to give up his dreams, what good would ever come of it? It would be a lifelong regret. Nikki’s too young to start regretting things just yet. We want him to spread his wings and try it, and if it doesn’t work, he’s always got a safe place to land. If it does work out, he’ll know we supported him from the very beginning.”

  Dr. Voorhees regards my parents as if they’re speaking some exotic foreign tongue he can’t comprehend.

  “That’s a lovely sentiment,” he says, dryly. “However, it’s unrealistic to think…”

  My father stands up fast. “Doctor Voorhees, we thank you for your sincere concern,” he states, cutting Voorhees off. “We appreciate the quality education and all the opportunities Jackson Academy has given him. He’s graduating tomorrow and, after that, your work of molding him into a responsible citizen is all done. Once he walks across that stage and takes his diploma, he’s his own man. We have to hope we all did our best getting him to this point. I’m confident we have.”

  Mom stands up beside Dad. “We’ve taken enough of your time, Doctor Voorhees. You have a wonderful day.”

  “Let’s go Nikki,” my dad urges, pointing me toward the door, giving me a sly wink.

  I’m so lucky. I have the best parents in the entire world.

  I know I was born different. I know my father – like all fathers – probably hoped to have a son to play catch with or watch football games. I was never that son, and I never could be. Instead, my dad sat on the couch with me while I watched “My So Called Life.” He bought me my first Tori Amos CD, and he got me the boombox that had the recorder so I could make custom mix tapes for my best friends, Gil and Zane. He watched Edward Scissorhands with me time and time again, and he never once flinched when I kept talking about Johnny Depp’s hair and his amazing black leather.

  And my dad sat with me while I cried and cried after my very first broken heart. All he said was, “What’s his name? Do you need me to call his parents? Or would you like Mom to?”

  I never had to come out to my parents—they already knew, and it simply didn’t matter. They saw me, and with them, I was always safe.

  I think I was about ten years old the first time I came to the dinner table wearing eyeliner, mascara, and glittery lipstick. Dad smiled and raised an eyebrow, but he never said a word. Mom’s reaction was even better. Passing the mashed potatoes my way, she gave me a close inspection, then said, “Honey, that peach tint just doesn’t suit your coloring. Tomorrow we’ll go to the makeup counter at Macy’s and find a few shades that suit you better.”

  “Now, Molly,” my dad said to my mom, his eyebrow still raised.

  I looked at him, m
y stomach dropping, heart pounding in my ears.

  “That’s an awfully long drive out to Roanoke. Should I change your oil tonight?”

  My mom and I nearly died laughing.

  Mom was as good as her word on that offer, too. Looking back, I can’t imagine the bravery it took to walk into the Macy’s in Roanoke, Virginia with her ten-year-old son in tow, picking out lipstick and eyeshadow with him while all the old biddies behind the counter clucked and gawked. Mom ignored them, showing me how to be brave.

  She’s my hero.

  They both are.

  GRADUATION NIGHT, 1999

  Voorhees and every single member of the faculty look at me slack-jawed. When he called my name to come across the stage and accept my diploma, he may have expected something odd, but he never expected this.

  The whole senior class has practiced this routine five times, just to make sure no one screwed up or wore their tassel the wrong way. They made us practice marching across the stage, just to confirm our black shoes were polished to a glossy shine and the cuffs of our dress slacks are hemmed to a uniform length. They wanted us all to look exactly alike; to goose-step to the same beat.

  Fuck that noise.

  I ditched my shiny black shoes under my seat, exchanging them for my favorite pair of four-inch, strappy, fuchsia-colored platform heels. I rolled my slacks up to my thighs--I have calves so shapely they stop traffic on a routine basis, and it would be a shame to hide them underneath itchy wool trousers. I’m powdered, painted, glittered and glossed, with eyelashes long enough to swat flies. My pink feather boa is six feet long, wrapped around my neck, fluttering in the air as I runway-walk toward Voorhees.

  Applause rises from the audience.

  I turn toward the auditorium for just a moment, and I see my friends shouting and cheering, punching fists in the air in celebration of my final, perfect act of defiance. Zane Chase and Gil Steele lead a chant, and others join in. My old friend Elias Spaulding looks a little like he wants to sink down into his seat and disappear; I’m not sure there’s any hope for that particular closet case, but who knows. Stranger things have happened in the history of the gay world.

  All the solemn reverence of the ceremony we practiced fled the auditorium as I mount the stage. My nearest and dearest underclassman friend, Zane, is yelling at the stage like a madman possessed, and Gil’s infectious laughter and cheers drown out the few who shout ‘faggot’ and ‘queer.’ Those spoil-sports are stating the obvious. They lack imagination.

  I snatch my diploma from Voorhees’ frozen clutches, winking at him. I blow him a kiss while I twirl a pirouette around him, flinging my boa in his face.

  I think he’s stopped breathing. He’s pale as death except for that monstrous blue vein on his forehead pumping oxygen-depleted blood to his brain at a rate too fast for his general well-being. If I weren’t graduating tonight, I would surely be expelled.

  “Breathe, sweetie,” I sing to him. “It’s almost the new millennium. Time for a few changes around here.”

  Voorhees flushes a dozen shades of red, breaking out in a sweat as I dance down the steps, returning to my seat. My classmates pat my back and whisper congratulations in my ear.

  “You’re the bravest motherfucker I’ve ever met,” Gil Steele tells me later. “The look on Voorhees’ face! I thought he’d stroke out. God, I’m gonna miss you, Nikki.”

  He wraps me in a sweet, crushing bear hug, lifting me off my feet. Even in four-inch heels, I’m still short next to him and I’m half his weight. Despite that, and the fact that he’s popular, gorgeous, smart, and passing as straight, we’ve been close friends ever since he arrived here at Jackson. When Gil got here, my world improved. The bullying stopped because he stopped it. Or at least, the laughter at my expense got a lot less hurtful. Gil’s had my back for four years; years that gave me the space to find my own voice, claim my own world, and build a mountain of confidence. I wasn’t born with siblings, but Gil Steele is my brother.

  I don’t know what it would have been like without Gil. I don’t want to know.

  I tear up; a dangerous thing to do with a face made up so perfectly. “Stop making me cry,” I plead, hugging him back. “You’ll make my mascara run and all that beautiful Hard Candy eyeshadow fall out all over the place.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Gil says. “You’d probably just mist a few tears and they’d evaporate when they came in contact with your fabulousness. And besides, the Hard Candy shadow doesn’t have a lot of fallout. You said on your website.”

  “Too true,” I say, stifling a laugh. I sigh and lean my head on Gil’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you too. And I don’t want you to go into the Marines. I think the world is gonna change, Gil. I don’t want you away when it does.”

  “There’s nothing that can hurt me,” Gil says, leaning back in his loafers and giving me that thousand-watt smile. “And just like you, I gotta get the hell out of this town before it crushes me. Marines will pay the college bills, help me put a down payment on the house. And I’ll be out without setting foot anywhere dangerous. What could happen in the next four years?”

  “I dunno,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe plenty.”

  “Doubtful,” he says. “The future is bright. And we both need to get out of this place, Nik. You got your way, and I got mine.”

  On that, we can agree.

  I hang around long enough to share tearful goodbyes with friends, the handful of guys who’ve made Jackson bearable all these years. Even Elias gives me a stiff hug and a little smile. I speak to my chorus and drama teachers and sign a few underclassmen’s yearbooks while they nervously gush, telling me they loved my strut across the stage and keep track of my website to see what I’ve posted. What’s not to love?

  “Keep watching,” I tease them. “Next week, I’m posting stories on my LiveJournal from Hollywood Boulevard. I’m going to Madonna’s house and stalk her until she listens to my demos and introduces me to her people.”

  They all laugh, assuming I’m joking, but they’ll see. I didn’t win the senior superlative, ‘Most likely to become famous’ just because I’m relentlessly gay and unapologetic about it. I won it because I’m manically hardworking, I live inside the music I write, and I’m the absolute best at being the most fascinating person in the room—in any room. The relentlessly gay part is absolutely incidental.

  I feel sorry for the queer kids left here after Gil and I graduate. The color and light might altogether disappear from this place. Then again, between Gil and me, we changed things. And Zane might pick up the pieces where we left off. Maybe the kids following us will make it even brighter, even more outrageously, unapologetically, divinely colorful. Who knows? Maybe a few of us will end up back here, and the place might finally join the future.

  Whatever happens once we’re gone; my work here is done for now.

  I have a plane to catch.

  SIX YEARS LATER

  Electricity crackles in the air and the deafening, thunderous roar of ten thousand voices, all singing along with my amplified voice, cry out, lifting into the darkened arena. The music is wired into my ears with sound-canceling electronics; my song pumps into my head at a volume loud enough that I shouldn’t be able to hear anything else, except I can. Or maybe I just feel the energy. Maybe their voices crash atoms against my skin and it just seems like I can hear them.

  When I’ve sung the last word, when the music inside my head goes quiet, I really can hear them: the voices, the applause, the screaming, the crazed, shrieking adoration is legion. The notes each sing inside of my head, long after they’ve finished playing. The melody and bass still buzz in my blood.

  There’s nothing else that compares to this. This is better than sex. Better than any drug. On stage, I’m superhuman. I’m the center of the universe, and everyone loves me.

  Behind me, three ninety-foot tall screens broadcast my image at a monstrous scale. My heaving chest; the sweat beading on my brow; the glittering rhinestones arched over my artfully shaped
eyebrows, shimmering rainbows in the lights – all of this is rendered in fine, digital detail.

  Out in the world, millions of people see the same image on their television screens.

  As the fading echoes of my song ripple through the rafters, I know my mother and father are settled on the couch in our living room, watching this. I know all the people back home who cheered me on at the high school talent shows, who sang my praises after stage performances at the Barter Theater when I was just a teenage wannabe, and all those who laughed at me and asked, “Who do you think you are?”, they’re all out there, watching.

  I drop, folding into a deep, relaxed bow to the audience as the announcer calls my name.

  As soon as the lights drop, I bolt for stage left. I’ve got precisely two minutes to get all these wired earphones, mics, and battery packs unwound from my body before the next round of awards.

  Sometimes, I still don’t believe it. I’m singing, live at the Grammys. A queer punk kid from a small town in Virginia, and this is my life. If the world didn’t know my name or my work before, after tonight they will.

  I’m nominated in five categories. I’ve already won three of them. The red light on the backstage camera blinks on and I hear the announcer call out, “And the nominees for the record of the year are…”

  There are five of us. Four of them are already huge stars—veterans. It doesn’t seem real. It’s impossible to believe I’m even here. My heart pounds in my head. I’m still trying to catch my breath from my performance. I can’t even…

  “And the award for record of the year goes to… Nikki Rippon for his number one hit single, Strike Like Lightning, from his debut album, Thunderstruck!”

  Oh god… Four Grammys. Oh, my, God.

  I’m out of speeches. I have no words. The lights are so bright—blinding—and all those faces, are shining, smiling up at me. What do they think? Who do they see up here on the stage beneath the elaborate costumes and glittering make-up? Behind the wig and polished nails, the shimmering lipstick?