by Tatum West
“I’ve seen his videos,” Stephan says. “He’s… strange. Androgynous and—”
“Easy,” I say, turning off the engine. “We’re lawyers, not judges. Leave your twentieth century prejudices at the door.”
We ring the bell. A moment later, Nikki answers the door, wearing a teal kimono robe, adorned with cherry blossoms. His face is clear of the makeup he was wearing the night before, and what I thought was his hair is now gone. In its place is thick, light blond, real hair, cropped close on the sides and much longer on top. His eyes are wearier, and somehow older, than they looked last night.
All the artifice is gone, but he’s still just as beautiful, maybe more so.
I introduce him to Stephan, and the two men politely nod at one another in greeting. I still want to kick Stephan in the shins for saying anything negative about Nikki. Again, not something I should feel with new clients.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he offers, moving in bare feet toward the kitchen as if he’s skating over clouds. He floats. “I have apple juice and pomegranate juice. I have beer and water too.”
His feet are long and narrow, with toenails painted a deep, burgundy red.
I absolutely can’t pull my gaze away from him.
Jesus Christ. I have a problem I’ve never had before. I’m infatuated with my client. This is… challenging.
“The security detail is on their way,” I say, trying to catch my breath. Stephan gives me a look. He sees the almost imperceptible changes in me, even if he doesn’t understand them.
“Have you heard from your manager or Derek today?” Stephan asks.
Nikki shakes his head while pouring himself a glass of fruit juice. “No,” he says. “I guess they’re all sleeping it off. Derek left here at seven-thirty this morning. Correction: I kicked that fucker out at seven-thirty this morning. I don’t know when Sal left the club. I don’t think he came here. He’s probably busy embezzling my money and plotting my downfall.” Nikki sighs. “I’ve been so stupid.”
I look to Stephan. “Remind me to ask Ellis to review the cameras from 1-Oak to see what time Domenico left the club. To see if he left with Derek, or someone else.”
Stephan retrieves a small notepad from his coat pocket, jotting down my request.
“Who’s Ellis?” Nikki asks, peering at me, questioningly. His eyes appear troubled. “Why do you need to know when Sal left?”
“One of the other lawyers at the firm. He’s good with stuff like this.”
“Got it. Okay.” Nikki fidgets with the tie on his robe, regarding me with intelligent, crystal blue eyes. He tries a smile, but his face drops after a moment, and he hangs his head in his hands. “Tell me what all of this entails.” He gestures to me and Stephan with a broad sweep of one hand.
While Stephan does a walk-through of Nikki’s house, taking pictures of the mirror and noting details for the security team, I sit down with Nikki and go through the particulars of our business, from a deep-dive background investigation on him and all his associates, to comprehensive security and financial audits.
“We’ll get a CPA firm to go deep into your finances to see if there are any improprieties. We’re looking for shell companies, double billing, irregular mark-ups, and over-or-under-valuation of purchases or services billed for.”
Nikki nods and then lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Yeah I should have done this a long time ago. Fuck me, right?”
“Well, a lot of celebrities don’t even have one good lawyer. And a lot of them have been through exactly what you’re going through, right down to the security breach. We’ll get a financial audit going first—”
“I want my mom to do the financial audit,” Nikki says, straight-faced. “I trust her.”
“She’s got the qualifications?”
“More than. Her specialty is looking into money laundering.”
“Done,” I say. “We will run a background check on her—all standard procedure. But I’m sure she’s golden. We look forward to working with her. Maybe our team can learn a thing or two from her.”
While we wait for Christian Black and his team to show, Stephan and I explain the details of our written agreement, patiently guiding Nikki through the contract, line by line.
“Essentially, you’re hiring us to oversee the investigation and documentation of every aspect of your finances,” Stephan states. “Every cent you’ve earned since you filed your first tax return as an entertainer. We’ll track every expenditure, who got paid, how they were paid, and where that money went after it left your account. If substantial irregularities turn up, those can be used as evidence in criminal court.”
Nikki nods.
“In addition to that,” I say, “We’ll look at the contracts you’ve signed to determine if you were properly represented. Sometimes we find people sign contracts they don’t understand, that are patently unethical breaches of fiduciary responsibility. If we can establish a pattern of that, we have the basis for a civil suit.”
“I had my dad review all of my contracts. I think I’m covered there.”
“Well, we’ll find out for sure,” I say. “There’s one last thing I’d like to request.”
“What’s that?” Nikki asks, peering down at the stack of paperwork before him.
“We want you to keep your manager and Derek at arm’s length for the next few weeks. I’ll help you come up with excuses. And I also want you to stay off social media until we can get a team in place to help manage that aspect of your professional life. Can you go quiet for a while?”
Nikki nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I can do that. I kind of feel like I need to do that.”
“Great,” I say. The doorbell rings. “That’ll be your protection detail,” I tell Nikki. “I think you’ll find this team somewhat more professional than Derek and his crew.”
I keep my cool—or I try to—watching Nikki out of the corner of my eye while I run numbers.
Nikki is so many things, all at once. And I find myself wanting to know every piece of him, all at once.
CHAPTER SIX
NIKKI
F ox Lee is somehow even hotter now, sitting across from me talking financial audits and social media discipline, than he was last night when he saved me. I can barely follow what he’s saying, he’s got me so distracted by his chiseled jaw; his “I do pull-ups for fun” shoulders stretching the seams of his dress shirt; and the most perfectly shaped, tight ass filling out a pair of Brooks Brothers slacks.
When he gets up to answer the door, I can’t take my eyes away from him. I always was a sucker for a GQ, squared-away, butchy man. He’s got that look down better than any man I’ve seen in the past… well since I moved to fucking Hollywood.
It’s not just that. I see plenty of beautiful men. I have men—and women—of all sorts, throwing themselves at me day and night. But I haven’t met anyone terribly interesting, not in a very long time. There’s something about the spark in Fox’s eyes, the way he grins at my snarky jokes, his efficiency, his prowess. A lot of people in LA think they have power. Fox Lee actually does.
“Nikki, this is my associate, Christian Black, CEO of ASP Security,” Fox says, bringing forward a sharp-looking guy in a silk suit who may have gotten his hair cut on the set of Platoon.
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Rippon,” he says, shaking my hand. His grip is strong and firm.. His formal address and sharp attire seem more apropos to a board meeting, rather than hanging out in my living room. “I’ve brought two members of your new security detail with me. They’ll be along shortly. They’re doing a perimeter check of the grounds before joining us inside.”
“A perimeter check?” I ask, grinning nervously. “What are they looking for? Coyotes? I swear I have seen a mountain lion. And it wasn’t too long ago, either. This area is a little wilder than it seems.”
Mr. Black returns my smile. “Let’s hope that’s all we find.”
There’s more discussion of security audits, surveillanc
e systems, cameras, and exterior flood lights. There’s more paperwork to sign and fax. I even agree to give his analysts access to my social media accounts—to scour for details on my stalker. Or stalkers. Who the hell knows—it’s been an exciting couple of days.
“Most of what we do will be completely transparent to you, Mr. Rippon,” he says. “Our job is to implement protocols necessary to keeping you safe, while keeping the disruptions to your personal life, your schedule, and your movements as minimal as possible. The biggest change is you’ll have a twenty-four-seven detail with you from now on, until we’re all satisfied you’re safe with a lower level of protection.”
“How long will that be?” I ask. I love people, I live and breath for them—but there’s only so much I can take in close quarters.
Mr. Black shakes his head. “I have no idea,” he says. “There are too many intangibles at play right now. We’re just getting started. We need to determine where the threats are, how to neutralize them, how to mitigate risk, whether those risks are external to your network or inside it. That’s what the audit is for.”
I can’t help but wonder whether all of this may be overkill.
“What does all this cost?” I ask.
Mr. Black smiles. Fox’s business partner sits forward, folding his hands between his knees. Fox engages me with an answer that–momentarily–blows my mind. When it comes to the cost of momentous shit like this, I sometimes forget that I’m not poor anymore. I’m no longer struggling to make rent, and I’m not living in a windowless room, tucked in the back of a basement apartment, trying to get spots at open mic nights. I live my life like I’m still that nineteen-year-old boy, scared and living right next to the poverty line. Too many people lose that idea, and they bleed themselves dry with fancy houses and Porsches before they’re forty.
“It’s one hundred thousand for the security audit, plus expenses for systems installation and monitoring,” Fox begins, rattling through the details like he’s done this hundreds of times. “Typically, one-fifty is about where we wind up, but your house is smaller than average, and the property footprint is smaller. It may be a bit less. The detail is billed monthly at fifty-thousand, all inclusive. You have five people on your team. They work rotating twelve-hour shifts in teams, with a fifth person covering days off and special events.”
“The only deviation from that monthly fee would be if you go on tour,” Christian Black adds. “We have a different program for clients on extended concert tours.”
I’m not touring again anytime soon. As it turns out, I sell just as many records whether I tour or not. YouTube videos and television appearances are just as effective, and a lot less painful than taking an expensive production cross-country. I’ll do a few festival dates next year, maybe.
“That’s a shitload of money,” I say. “I might be better off letting Sal skim off me until the end of time.”
Mr. Black retrieves his phone from his suit pocket, pulling up something. When he’s got it, he turns the screen to face me. I see a photograph of the lipstick scripted message emblazoned on my bathroom mirror.
“This person was in your home,” Mr. Black says. “While you slept, he wrote that on your bathroom mirror, just a few feet away from you. What’s your life worth, Mr. Rippon?”
Fox stares at me, his eyebrows furrowed. He barely knows me, but he looks like he really cares. He’s the first person to look at me like that since Mom and Dad put me on a plane at Blacksburg Regional airport, the night I graduated from high school.
The last thing Mom said to me before I walked away, headed through security, was, “No matter what, you need to take care of yourself. That’s a big city you’re going to and not everyone is going to love you like we do. Be smart, honey. Take care of you.”
Yeah. I think my life might just be a worthwhile investment. I’ve missed that message for the past few years, somehow. I inwardly cringe at the thought and note it down as one of the many things I ought to bring up with a therapist, whenever I get around to going to therapy.
This is a good first step, though.
Where do I sign?
As soon as my dad calls and lets me know that the ASP Security Contracts look good to him, I sign on to having my life taken over by people I just met today. I’ve never done anything like this before. It feels strange. But, it also feels good: this is the first thing I’ve chosen for myself. This is the first decision I’ve made where I am not being influenced by Sal and Derek.
They’re going to be pissed. But I’m all out of fucks to give about that.
“THAT’S IT!” Dan shouts into the house mic. “That’s a print! Perfect!”
We just laid down the final vocal track for the last song on my new record which, with any luck, will be out by spring. Dan Walsh is my producer. He’s produced music for almost everyone of any significance for the last thirty years, from U2 and Green Day, to Adele and The Killers. A few years ago, when I was acting as my own record label, production company, and distribution agent, there’s no way I could have gotten a guy like Dan Walsh to produce my records. After the Grammys, though, record labels fell all over themselves to sign me.
I’ve done three albums since—all of which have gone multi-platinum.
“Take a break, Nikki,” Dan says. “Let me run through this for a few minutes and I’ll play you a mix.”
I nod, pulling the headphones from my ears, and taking a breath. There’s nothing more mentally or physically challenging than laying down lead vocal tracks. I care about the performance—hitting the high notes, making sure my timing is perfect. A lot can be fixed in the studio. Auto-tune can mask any evil, but that’s not how I work, which is why Dan Walsh and I get along so well. He’s an old school perfectionist who came up in the analog world. Singers had to be able to sing in those days. I try to emulate the old ways when I can.
James, who leads my new security detail, meets me outside the sound booth with a cold bottle of spring water and an apple.
“Have you eaten anything today?” James asks. He raises an eyebrow at me.
After a couple of weeks of having bonafide, professional bodyguards seeing to my well-being, I actually like these guys. James, in particular, seems to have my best interests at heart.
I take a bite from the apple, chewing slowly, enjoying the sweet crunchiness. It’s pure sugar, which I try to avoid at all costs. James knows this. He says I need to ‘put some meat on’ my bones. It didn’t take James long to realize I have a tempestuous relationship with food.
If I was female, someone would call it an ‘eating disorder.’ I prefer to call it watching my figure. Adolescent-boy skinny sells to the people who buy my music and plaster their social media pages with my photos. When I was twenty, I could eat pizza six days a week and never gain an ounce. At twenty-six, my body is trying to change. I’ve got muscles where I never had them before. If I eat pizza, it shows up on my body two days later.
“I’ll pay you to eat something,” James says. “Let’s go get Italian tonight. My treat.”
He’s dreaming. I grin, handing the apple back to him, chugging water to chase down my bite of the succulent fruit. If he was asking me out on a date it would be one thing. James is dreamy. He’s beefcake-pretty with big muscles and a tough-guy teddy bear personality. He’s also ridiculously straight and absurdly professional.
“Sorry,” I say, mock flipping my hair. “I have a date with a kale salad.”
I need some fresh air and sunshine, so I head out the back exit to the parking lot. As soon as I clear the fire exit door, my phone rings.
It’s Sal. He’s been calling for days, and I’ve avoided him. Derek has called three times. I let them all go to voicemail, and then I delete the messages without listening. Fox asked that I keep them all at arm’s length, so I have, but it’s getting ridiculous. I can’t stand it anymore
I lift my phone, swiping up to accept the call.
“Hey Sal,” I say, keeping my tone light, as if nothing is amiss.
“Jesus kid, I was starting to think you fell off the edge of the planet. What gives? I’ve been trying to get up with you all week. Where are you?”
“I’m at the studio,” I tell him. “We’re wrapping it up in the next day or two. I just laid down my last vocal track.”
“That’s great!” he says. “I talked to Derek yesterday. He says you’re dodging him. And what’s this shit about a stalker in your house? You need to bring Derek’s team back in. You can’t roll without security.”
“I have security,” I say, glancing back at the heavy fire exit door, which is now propped back open, though I had shut it firmly behind myself. I can see James’ shoulder in the doorframe. He is my perpetual albeit welcome shadow. “I got hooked up with ASP Security. I’m good.”
“What?” Sal asks. “Another security team?”
“Yeah,” I say, unable to contain my disdain. “They’re great. No drugs. No girls at my place. You know they wear suits when they work? And my man James, he’s actually sober during working hours, and he seems to care about my wellbeing. All Derek did was try to get me to smoke dope. Funny the difference.”
Sal doesn’t say anything for a long time. When he finally does, his attitude isn’t nearly as cheerful.
“What’s going on, Nikki?” he asks. “Who’s talking to you? I know you didn’t pick up the phone and call ASP Security all by yourself. What else are they telling you? What are they charging you? How are you paying?”
I decide not to tell Sal that Fox filed paperwork revoking his power of attorney, which eliminates him from having access to any of my assets. I don’t tell him that the accountants are closing those same accounts, and moving them to different institutions and investments, so that Sal’s contacts can’t see what’s happening. I don’t tell Sal that his cash cow is drying up. I don’t tell him any of this, because Fox and my mom are convinced he’s hidden more money in other accounts only he has access to. They’re trying to find that money before Sal figures out what’s going on and covers his tracks.
