Silver Fox (Bridge to Abingdon Book 4)

by Tatum West

  I peer out in the general direction of the television cameras, trying to fix eye contact against the glare of spotlights.

  “Mom,” I say, vaulting the winged statue high into the air. “Dad. Lightning struck! Thank you for believing in me! I love you both so, so much!”

  A standing ovation follows as I’m hustled off-stage. My manager, Sal, and a dozen of my crew descend upon me as soon as I’m cut loose from the production handlers who take my fourth Grammy from my hands for safe-keeping.

  “Lookit you,” Sal says, his big toothy smile alight. “Lookit you, kid. You’re the shit! You’re the dream. We’ve made it kid. We’re golden. You own this town now!”

  I’m surrounded by friends and strangers, all crushing in close, all touching me, begging for photos and autographs. The air is hot and dense. My head hurts.

  I’m golden? I’ve made it?

  Maybe I have. But what happens now?

  CHAPTER ONE

  FOX

  TWO YEARS LATER

  “Natalie Bethesda—” Stephan says, sighing. I see that his eyes are bloodshot when his picture becomes clear over Skype.

  “Excuse me? Who? You’re supposed to be working on that car crash thing.” I groan audibly and sit back in my chair.

  “Yeah, well, this young woman somehow got our information, and she’s telling me you need to come to her rescue immediately, if not sooner.”

  I sigh. “She’s the one from that show on NBC, the one with the girls’ school, right?”

  “Yeah that’s her. And you don’t have to worry about her management team. She just fired them,” Stephan adds. Stephan, an integral part of our team, is working with another client in San Francisco, a young model who’s gotten into some trouble involving two grams of cocaine, and a joy ride down a pedestrian boardwalk that ended with a wrecked police car and a Porsche wrapped around a concrete barricade. And now Stephan is trying to get me to take care of this disillusioned young actress who thinks she’s far more important than she actually is.

  This is a minor part of what we do; we untangle celebrities from their self-induced dramas, high crimes, and misdemeanors. Sometimes we just do audits to find out where the money went. That’s the part I like the best—there’s a lot less human drama.

  I’m sipping my morning latte, watching planes circle overhead from my corner office window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard.

  “Natalie’s spun up about contracts she says she was coerced into signing, about management fees she claims she never agreed to. Meet with her and let’s see if we can help her sort it out without pissing off half of LA.”

  I don’t like dealing with these kinds of clients. I’m fine with DeNiro or George Lucas. I’m great with studio executives. Popstars and upstart Hollywood starlets are not the best use of my time. I’m the contracts and negotiations guy. I can litigate and tie our opponents up in red tape so tightly woven they’re happy to pay us a fortune to unwind it, but dealing with some of the personalities we represent, that’s Stephan’s forte. I’ve already done my time in the trenches.

  “This can’t wait ‘til you’re back?” I ask him. “You’re so good with actresses. And I’m not. Actually, I just really don’t fucking care about them. So you can deal with this one, right?”

  “Nope,” he states flatly. “She’s flipping out. She says we need to meet her today, or she’ll find someone else who will. She told me she just signed to co-star along with Jamie Dornan and George Clooney in another remake of Pride and Prejudice. She’s up and coming. It would be a shame to miss signing one of the hottest rising celebrities in Hollywood. Just go talk to her. Reassure her. I’ll be back in two days and I’ll close it.”

  It’s not as if I haven’t done my fair share of schmoozing and ego stroking to land new clients and keep old ones. I can pull my weight, even if I’d rather pull out my own teeth.

  “Fine,” I say, putting down my latte. “I’ll deal with it. Text me her numbers and I’ll give her a call now.”

  I do a quick Google search on this ‘up and coming’ starlet my partner is so eager to sign.

  Natalie Bethesda is twenty-two years-old, leggy, with big blue eyes and long dark hair. She was represented by Troika Talent until she fired her manager last week in a hissy fit that’s rumored to be related to her on-set behavior. Great. The paparazzi love her because she doesn’t shy away from their lenses. Judging by the quantity and quality of pap shots on the Internet, my guess is she cultivates the attention. She gets around, too, hanging out in high-profile clubs, partying with other celebrities, painting the town.

  I’m going to have my work cut out for me with this one. I’ve seen it a million times. The fame gets to them, makes them start to go insane.

  I dial the number Stephan gave me and am not surprised when I get a quick, curt response.

  “Who’s calling?” the thin, stressed voice asks.

  “This is Fox Lee with Lee, Jackson & Bragg, attorneys. Miss Bethesda is expecting my call. She spoke with my partner, Stephan Jackson, yesterday.”

  A long pause ensues, followed by a staccato caught breath. “Oh, thank God!” she exclaims. “Yes! You’ve got to help us. She’s lost it! Natalie’s firing everybody! She’s gone off the deep end!”

  Wonderful.

  “Excuse me, who am I speaking with?” I ask.

  “This is Donna Dunn. I’m Nat’s PA,” she says breathlessly. “I’m all that’s left. Everybody else—except her dealer and her groupies—have been cut loose. I’m probably next. She was sane for about ten minutes yesterday, and that’s how I convinced her to call Mr. Jackson.”

  Oh. Good. God. Almighty.

  “Where’s Miss Bethesda now?” I ask.

  “Passed out,” she replies. “She got in about an hour ago. I don’t even know how she got home. Somebody poured her in the door. The security alarms went off, and they ran.”

  This just gets better and better.

  “Okay,” I respond. “Let her sleep it off. Give me a call when she wakes up. If she’s able to talk, if she wants to, I’ll come to her. Try to keep her sober until I get there.”

  “Okay,” her assistant replies weakly. “I’ll try.”

  I spend the next hour tentatively arranging for a luxury suite in the best private rehab clinic in the state. We won’t be signing to represent Miss Bethesda until she’s been clean and sober at least seventy-two hours. Otherwise it won’t hold up in court and she’s liable to sue us for coercion. I can’t check her into rehab, but after I speak with her, if she’s not willing, I can contact her family and ask them to intervene.

  The joys of being a celebrity lawyer are never ending.

  It’s almost eight p.m. before I get a call back. I had dinner plans with a guy I met at the gym—I was hoping something deeply illicit and reputation-threatening might come of it, but duty calls. My date wasn’t happy with the last-minute cancellation. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be, and I can’t say that I particularly care one way or another. The men in this town are a dime a dozen, each one exactly like the last.

  Miss Bethesda’s house is such a Hollywood film star cliché I almost laugh. It’s a steel, glass, and concrete mid-century modern structure hung off the side of a steep hillside, promising views of the city fit for the big screen. I’m certain there’s a pool and, with any luck, a buff pool boy to go with it. I ring the bell and wait.

  The person who answers the door is clearly not Natalie Bethesda or her PA. He’s a six-foot two-inch bundle of tightly wound meat covered in tattoos with a shaved head and at least three pounds of shiny metal rings and studs hanging from his ears, his nose, and his eyebrows. I wonder where else he’s pierced.

  “You the lawyer?” he asks.

  I nod. I regard him coolly. “Yep.”

  He steps back, opening the door wide to admit me.

  The interior is just as I expected; an Architectural Digest model of chrome and glass minimalism, littered with dirty dishes, empty booze bottles, and odiferous containers of take-out.
The pervasive scent of marijuana smoke hangs in the air.

  “She’s out by the pool,” the man says. “With Donna and the manicurist.”

  I find Natalie Bethesda reclining in a chaise lounge wearing only string-thin bikini bottoms, stretched out long and lean under the night sky. A smock-wearing woman is hunched over her feet, painting her toenails. Another woman occupies a chair beside her, busily tapping on her phone. The view of the glittering lights of the LA basin beyond is stunning. I take a second to appreciate it before I move on.

  The second woman looks up as I approach. She scrambles, dropping a small towel over her boss’s exposed, surgically-enhanced breasts, then jumps to her feet to meet me halfway across the pool deck.

  “You must be Mr. Lee,” Donna says, smiling awkwardly, putting her hand out. She’s got a decent grip.

  “You let me talk to him!” Natalie shouts, hurtling out of the lounge chair, nearly knocking over the shocked esthetician. Orange nail polish spills and pools on the concrete. The manicurist cringes in horror. There is now orange spattered all down the front of her smock.

  “I have a 6pm appointment,” the manicurist says, standing up and taking off the now-ruined smock. She shoves it in her leather bag. “And it seems you no longer require my assistance.”

  Natalie plainly ignores the woman as she packs her stylist’s bag. “Donna, clean that mess the fuck up and get me four Advil. Now. And get some cash for that shitty manicurist. No tip.”

  I cringe. It’s a bad sign when the clients talk like that to their assistants. I’ve been in the business long enough to tell if someone is a decent human being—and that starts with how they treat the people who work for them.

  Natalie steps up to me, delicately holding the towel over her supernaturally perky breasts. I restrain myself from commenting that I’ve seen it all before—and I could honestly care less.

  “It’s Fox, isn’t it?” She gives me a coy smile. I can tell from the dark circles under her eyes, the skin on her cheeks that looks very faintly gray, and her wobbly gait that she’s both slightly drunk and horribly hungover. “I told that Stephan guy that I got weaseled out of several million when I signed on for that movie. My agent that got me the show on Netflix didn’t fight hard enough, and people all over the place are taking advantage of me because I’m young, and they think I’m too pretty to be as smart as I am.”

  I keep watching Miss Bethesda as she speaks, my eyes focusing in on her surgically altered lips. She keeps talking with barely a breath in between sentences, and she slurs every fifth word or so. She’s pissed off, hurling accusations at her former agent, her accountant, and even her hair stylist. Suddenly, she starts crying hysterically. In the background, Donna is hunched over the pavement, still trying to remove nail polish from the patio. The manicurist, who may be more intelligent than either me or Donna, is nowhere to be seen.

  “Nat,” Donna cries. “Please don’t beat yourself up! You’ve had such a hard time.”

  “I know,” Natalie moans, nodding. “I have.” Tears keep running down her cheeks. She puts one cool hand on my arm and leans in. I step back. Natalie continues crying, sobbing about her alcohol abuse, her eating disorder, her ADHD, and her temper. She blames her mother, her stepfather, and her psychiatrist for her current predicament. And finally, she blames her housekeeper for quitting yesterday and leaving no one to grocery shop for her.

  “I’ll go to the grocery store. I’ll get some of that vegan chicken salad,” Donna offers, leaping up and taking Natlie’s hand, trying to comfort her.

  Natalie snatches her hand away. “You fucking smell like acetone!”

  “I’ll wash up,” Donna says. “I’ll get changed too. I have some nail polish on my jeans…”

  “Fuck it!” Natalie spits, ignoring Donna and shifting gears again. “Let’s go out! I’m hungry and I want to dance.” She points a manicured nail at me. “You’re coming with us. You and I are going to talk business at the club.”

  “I don’t do clubs, Miss Bethesda. Respectfully.”

  “You do if your firm wants to represent me.”

  This isn’t at all how I wanted my evening to go.

  After a tedious dinner with Natalie and Donna, I find myself at one of the most exclusive clubs in town: 1-Oak on the Sunset Strip. I’m at the bar with a soft drink in my hand, crushed between Miss Bethesda; Eddy, the tattooed doorman and a couple of guys who look like they eat starlets for breakfast. They claim to be casting directors for Fox. I suspect something slightly more nefarious.

  “We should find a place to talk,” I shout in Miss Bethesda’s ear, trying to be heard over the pounding music. “I’m not staying much longer. Not my scene.”

  “What is your scene?” she asks me, already drunk, her hand slipping around my wrist, leaning into me suggestively.

  “Not this,” I say, pulling away again. “My firm’s not going to be able to help you until you can sign a contract, and I don’t think you’re capable of doing that now. You need to dry out and get your head together. Then we can help you.”

  She rolls her eyes, pushing me back teasingly. “God, you’re being a bore.” She says, smirking. “I’ll talk rehab tomorrow. Tonight, we party.”

  I’m about to suggest another alternative—like leaving right now—when she jumps up and down, pointing across the room, her face animated, her eyes bright with mischief.

  “Look!” she exclaims. “It’s Nikki Rippon! Oh my God! I’ve got to talk to him!”

  She bolts into the scrum surrounding a tall, slender wisp of a man, bursting through his tidy entourage of beefy body guards and glittering hangers-on. He looks every bit the part of the celebrity: he’s wearing deep black jeans that hug each inch of his long legs, silver platform ankle boots, a deep gray silk tunic, and a deep cyan blue scarf that exactly match the shade of his eyes. His angular face is accented with silver-specked highlights above each cheekbone, deep purple eyeshadow, gold winged eyeliner, and a dual toned lip ink that is somehow both rose and violet. His hair, tinted magenta and teal, is curled in a crazy pompadour that even Prince—God rest his soul—might envy. He reminds me at once of Bowie as Ziggy Stardust and Annie Lennox in the very first music videos she released to MTV.

  I step in to shepherd my would-be client back to the bar, and, i’ll admit, for a closer look. Nikki Rippon glows, even in this crowd of celebrities and LA’s high-status elites. He may be the only real star in this room. Judging by the way the sea of people gawk and hurriedly step back to let him pass, he’s got something the all instantly recognize—and admire.

  Natalie Bethesda disappears into the roiling mass of people as my attention is drawn away from her, toward Nikki Rippon. He is captivating. I don’t often take my mind off of the particulars of my job--and nothing would bring me to a place like this except for my job. But I can’t look away from Nikki and the lines of his deep-set eyes, the grace of his small movements, the way he smiles and laughs with his fans as he speaks to each person coming to greet him.

  I watch in mild horror as Natalie attaches herself to Nikki’s arm as he strides toward the VIP lounge. His entourage moves with him, and I find myself following. Maybe I’m hoping to prevent disaster. Perhaps I’m simply still trying to woo my client, but if I’m being honest, that isn’t it. I hang back, watching Natalie and her terrified assistant.

  “Lost cause,” I mutter. Natalie is ordering a round of champagne for everyone in the lounge, and her eyes are already glazed over again. I’d place a decent bet that the movie she’s signed for won’t go through, not with this level of Hollywood insanity.

  Nikki is seated on a couch in the corner, a scantily clad girl curled up on his left, another on his right, and a circle of very pretty boys seated before him, leaning in, hanging on his every word as if waiting for pearls of wisdom to descend from the heavens of Nikki Rippon’s highly glossed lips.

  Strangely, he seems disenchanted by the attention. He listens more than he speaks, smiling from time to time, encouraging his fans to take
center stage.

  “That’s just how life is, honey,” I hear him say to one of the group, with the faintest of Southern accents, “She’s a bitch from time to time.”

  He looks up, catching my gaze. I see something in those pale blue eyes that no amount of eye liner or carefully applied make-up can conceal—sadness, loneliness, withdrawal.

  He blinks, coming alert, sharpening his gaze, fixing on mine. He smiles.

  It’s a sweet, beautiful, soul-crushingly painful smile.

  “Fox! You’ve gotta come now!”

  Someone grabs my arm, breaking me from my reverie, and unceremoniously swinging me around. It’s Donna. Her expression is frantic.

  “She’s doing lines in the bathroom with a bunch of guys!” Donna shouts. “I’ve never seen so much coke in my life. There must be five of them in there with her. They’ve got the door locked!”

  Shit. Absolutely not what I signed up for. I had eyes on her five seconds ago. This is why Stephan handles the younger clients; he actually enjoys the drama.

  Sure enough, the men’s room door is locked, and I hear Natalie Bethesda inside. There are several voices besides hers, echoing off the walls in the small room. They’re whooping and laughing—and I can make out the distinct noise of people snorting endless lines of coke. One man inside sounds especially happy to be doing drugs right alongside the very beautiful Natalie Bethesda.

  I knock, but they ignore me.

  “Go get security,” I tell Donna. “Tell them they’re about to get sued for aiding and abetting a sexual assault. And tell them I’ve already called the police.”

  “But…” Donna says, her brow furrowing, hesitating.

  “Go!” I insist. “Do it!”

  I keep pounding on the door, calling for Natalie, listening to her sing and laugh behind the closed door. She’s clearly flying high, unconcerned. This is all just a game to her.

  Donna returns in a few moments with two huge, muscle-bound bouncers, one with a key in his hand. They open the door, and the people inside scramble out, scurrying like cockroaches. I recognize at least one of them from the large crew who came in with Nikki Rippon. The only one remaining in the men’s room with Miss Bethesda is Eddy, and he sighs grandly, looking extremely bored.