by Tatum West
“I pretty much kidnapped Nikki,” I admit. “At the time we’d never met. Until that night at the club, I’d never heard of him. I just shoved him in the car and got him out of there. I drove him home.”
Mrs. Rippon regards me with concern. “Who was he with?” she asks. “How did it happen that you took him home?”
I shrug. “I think Nikki had enough of the club and his entourage. He just wanted to get away. He didn’t have a plan. He was running. I just happened to be there.”
She looks back at her husband in the back seat, both of their expressions furrowed with concern. She returns to me and asks, “Is Nikki okay? Is there something he’s not telling us?”
I take a breath. “I think Nikki’s told you everything,” I say. “I think he’s just burned out. Overworked. He’s stressed out and it’s been a rough few years for him. That night he just reached his wits end. Things have improved since then.”
A few minutes later we’re navigating into LAX, looking for the Delta terminal. It’s busy and the traffic is heavy, but I find a spot near the doors and pull in to help them with their bags and see them off.
“Travel safely and be sure to give Nikki a call when you get back,” I say once they’re organized, with tickets in hand.
“We will,” Mrs. Rippon says, stepping forward. “Thank you for looking out after Nikki that night,” she says. “I’m glad you were there.”
I smile awkwardly, scuffing the pavement with the toe of my loafers. “I’m glad I was too.” She really can’t comprehend just how glad I am.
“We’re looking forward to seeing you when you come home,” she adds, surprising me. “Get your appetite. We don’t take holidays lightly in Abingdon. It’s a big deal.”
I nod, trying to mask my relief. “Okay,” I say, hearing the catch in my voice.
Mr. Rippon puts his hand forward. I accept it, and we exchange a firm handshake. “Good grip!” he laughs. “We’ll see you then.”
They’re off before I’ve processed the warm exchange and the welcome they’ve extended to me. I don’t even know what to think about it; it’s fantastic. It’s been so many years since I let myself even acknowledge the holidays. I entirely missed Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. And somehow, it’s already past the new year. I don’t do holidays. I stopped doing holidays when I left home. When I was made to leave home.
Nikki’s parents are warm and beautiful – like him. They’re kind and decent, just the way all parents should be. Meeting them, seeing how open and generous they are, makes the bitterness of my relationship with my own parents briefly resurface.
There’s no point in treading that well-worn path anymore. They’re gone. All their judgement and rejection has gone with them.
I return to my car, pointing it back toward Beverly Hills. It’s nine-fifteen A.M. and I would love to talk to Nikki, but he’s probably already busy at the studio. I don’t want to interrupt him. He—along with the producers, and executives from his record label—are doing the final listen through for his new album. If everything goes well today, they’ll finalize the mixes, burn them, and start the process of distribution. Nikki’s going to be busy over the next month with promotions. He’s got tapings on all the most popular daytime shows like Ellen and The View; he’s also going to be the musical guest on Saturday Night Live in a couple weeks. Toward the end of this week, he’s taping three songs from the new record for a network television broadcast on New Year’s Eve. It’s a big deal; many millions will tune-in to watch the ball drop, and he’s scheduled to be the last act broadcast before midnight.
I told his folks things were improving in his world, and in some degree, things have gotten better. Sal Domenico and Derek Bowman are out of his life and on their way to facing justice. His finances are under control. However, his schedule is still a nightmare, and with this new record it’s only getting worse. Since Sal’s been out of his life, Nikki’s had a heck of a time figuring out what appearances he’s obligated to and when; which studio to show up at; and a hundred other details of the professional entertainer’s life. His parents can handle negotiations and commitments, but they can’t manage the day-to-day from Abingdon, Virginia.
Even Natalie Bethesda, as messed up as she was, had a personal assistant whose job it was to keep her life on the rails. Nikki’s never had one because Sal oversaw everything, not wanting anyone else involved in Nikki’s affairs. Nikki needs a PA.
He also needs a personal trainer so he can stop stressing about what he eats and get healthy.
I make a mental note to bring these two ideas forward tonight when Nikki and I get together; until then, all I can do is brainstorm ways to make his world a little less frenetic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NIKKI
Dennis Chapman gives me a big smile, bobbing his head, tapping his foot along with the final notes of the new record. He’s the only one in this room whose opinion matters. The room is teeming with marketing and public relations people; guys in suits whose job it is to make sure my songs get played; a handful of people who I have no clue what they do; and my producer, Dan Walsh. Dennis is top brass at Asylum Records, and personally oversees what they call their ‘top tier talent’. That’s me. What Dennis likes gets released and promoted. Dennis likes my music. He has since the first time he heard me, back when I cut my first independent record. I had caught his attention when I promptly sold a few million and broke the Top 10 with no promotion budget and no clue what I was doing.
That miracle was pulled off due to a dedicated fan base cultivated over years of maintaining a YouTube Channel, constantly adding new material, and consistently interacting with my supporters. By the time Asylum Records and Dennis Chapman came calling, I was already a hit.
“The songs are the best you’ve made so far,” Dennis says, clapping me on the back. “You’ve hit it out of the park, again!”
Dan Walsh smiles too. He did amazing work with this record. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished, even if I’m relieved to be done with it. It was six months of tediousness pulling everything together. Dan is more of an obsessive perfectionist than I am.
“Burn ‘em,” Dennis says, rolling his chair back from the soundboard. “Get this record out and let’s see the hits pile up.”
We’re done. I shake Dan’s hand as everyone files out of the room.
“I hope you’ll come back again for another record,” I tell him. “I loved working with you.”
“I’d love to,” he says. “Have my people call my people.” He grins at me, winking. “I’m booked solid for two years, but you know that.”
I busy myself gathering my things, but I pause when Dan turns back to me.
“Hey, Nikki, can I give you some advice?” he asks, his expression warm and earnest.
“Absolutely,” I say, giving him my undivided attention.
“I’ve been at this a long time. I’ve seen a lot of talented people come and go. I’ve seen things that would break your heart, too. If I could give you one bit of advice, it would be, take some time off. You’ve been at it non-stop for five or six years without a break. You haven’t looked up. You have to stop moving and look up sometimes just to make sure you’re going in the right direction.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I know what he’s saying is sound, sage advice. I know there’s truth in it. I’m just not sure how to go about acting on it.
“I know you’re wrapped up in promoting this record for the next month or so. The label’s going to pressure you to tour this summer. Don’t do it. Take the rest of the year off. Go wherever it is you go to feel safe and stay there. Learn to take care of yourself. Walk away from the crazy for a while. It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done for yourself and for your creativity.”
I nod, feeling the threat of tears. I don’t want to cry, not in front of Dan. “I’ll try,” I say. “I really will.”
He leaves me alone in the studio. It’s quiet. I look around wondering – quite seriously – if I e
ver want to step back into a place like this. While I’d never admit it to Dennis or anyone at the label, I’m completely burned out. Dan sees it.
I may not have another record in me. Or I may have twenty more, but I’ll never know until I do just what Dan suggests. I need to stop, look up, and see what’s out there.
Hearing Dan say it gives me permission to at least try to figure out how to do it.
FOX ARRIVES at my place with take-out from what he swears is the best Mexican restaurant in LA. He knows about these things so I’m not about to second guess him, plus he comes bearing good news.
“Your parents are lovely people,” he says as we settle on my couch with plates piled high with fish tacos and refried black beans loaded with cheese and sour cream.
“I know they are,” I say proudly. “They’re the best. Always have been.”
Fox nods. “They said they’re looking forward to seeing me again.” His expression is unreadable.
“And?” I prod.
“And I’m really glad they’re okay with us, at least enough to welcome me to their home.”
“It’s my home too,” I remind him, biting into a mouthful of succulent, fresh whitefish, perfectly seasoned, tucked between crunch taco shells and garnished with sweet greens and tomatoes.
He nods again, looking thoughtfully at his tacos.
“Did you come out to your parents? Or did they just know?” Fox asks almost apologetically, as if he’s prying. “I mean, did you have that conversation with them?”
“Yeah, we definitely had that conversation,” I tell him. “But they knew already. They had a long time to get their heads wrapped around it. I was a six-year-old drag queen. But yeah, we talked about it when I was about seventeen.”
“What did they say?”
I shrug. “I dunno,” I admit. In truth, I barely recall the conversation. “Something like, ‘Oh that’s nice dear, now come over here and help me change this lightbulb.’ It was pretty much a non-issue. My dad did buy me a box of condoms and show me what to do with them, like I didn’t already know.” I smile at the recollection. “That was actually kind of sweet, now that I think about it.”
I look up from my plate of tacos and my reminiscences, and Fox’s staring at me like I’ve just said something incomprehensible. “Damn,” he says, his tone wistful. “That must have been amazing.”
Was it?
Yes, it certainly was compared to every other coming out story I hear. But I don’t have another frame of reference. I don’t know anything but my mom and dad. I can’t imagine carrying the burden of hatred, disbelief, and negativity that so many queer people face when coming out to their families.
“Why are you asking me about all this?” I ask.
He sits back, his face a mixture of confusion and wonder. “My experience was different,” he says. “A lot different. I’ll say it once more; your parents are lovely people.” He shrugs off the conversation, not wanting to divulge more. Instead, he changes the subject altogether.
“I wanted to run a couple ideas past you to see what you think of them.”
Fox tells me I need a personal assistant to help with basic logistics of daily schedules and obligations, like handling phone calls and emails. “Some PA’s even do valuable stuff like grocery shopping,” Fox says with a smirk. “Which you could use some help with. You could probably benefit from a housekeeper, too.”
I tell him I’ll think about it. I know he’s probably right, but I just got rid of Sal, Derek, and a crew of thugs hanging out in my house. James and the rest of the security detail are unobtrusive, so their presence is fine. I’m enjoying having some space to myself. I’m not sure I’m ready to have another batch of mother hen’s sweep in and tell me what to do all the time.
“It’s not like that,” Fox informs me. “They’re help, and unlike Sal and Derek, they go away when you tell them to.”
He’s got more ideas for me than just that, however.
“Have you ever been to a gym or had a regular work-out regime?”
What? I put my fork down, feeling a wave of horror sweet up from my taco filled belly. “Am I getting fat?” I ask. “God, I knew I was eating too much!”
Fox rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “You’re such a drama queen,” he laughs. “No! You’re not getting fat. You’re perfect. But that response right there is why you need to go to the gym. You need to get regular exercise; raise your metabolism; dense up your muscle mass; and then you can eat whatever the hell you want to eat and not worry about it.”
The gym? I think back to high school gym class and all the boys laughing at me, poking their thumbs in my ribs, calling me ‘faggot.’ Gil had beaten up the guy who said it, but it didn’t make things better. I also remember Gil and Dillon, both of whom spent a lot of time in the gym, woofing down massive portions of food, from cheesesteaks to chocolate cake. As far as I know neither one of them ever had an ounce of fat on their bodies.
“The expression of abject terror on your face tells me you have some negative experiences with the gym,” Fox observes with a bright grin.
“Yeah, I do yoga in the comfort of my own home. And I use my treadmill.”
“Well, that’s why I’m going to recommend a one-on-one personal trainer in a closed gym. No one but you and he—or she—will be there, and they’ll work with you to get you healthy, lean and fit, and hungry all the time.”
“I could have a she for a trainer?” I ask. That idea isn’t horrible. A female trainer may be kinder than some beef-jerky muscle-head who takes one look at me and sees a ninety-eight-pound weakling in need of a solid ass-kicking.
Fox nods knowingly. “My trainer’s a woman. She’s tough on me, but she’s great.”
“Why do you have a woman for your trainer?” I ask, genuinely interested. Fox’s got nothing to fear from tough guys. He is a tough guy. He’s got the body of a fitness model.
“I like men,” he says, and not shyly. “I like sweaty, hot men of all descriptions. You tend to get a little close and physical with your trainer,” he says. “I didn’t want to risk anything coming up, that shouldn’t.” His eyes flash mischievously. “My trainer is gorgeous. She’s got a fantastic body. But it does nothing for me.”
That’s a great scheme. If Jackson Academy had admitted girls, I would have joined their PE class and avoided some of the more traumatic experiences of my adolescence.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll give it a month. But if I start beefing up like some lunkhead, I’m quitting. I want to keep this body, with maybe just a touch more tone.”
“Perfect,” Fox says. “I’ll set it up.”
With that out of the way, I’m determined to return to the prior subject.“What did your folks do when you came out?” I ask. “When did you do it?”
Fox looks up from his meal with anxious eyes. “Why are you bringing that up?”
“Because you asked me, but you didn’t share your own experience, which tells me there’s a story there,” I reply.
Fox cleans the last bite of taco from his plate, scooping up guacamole with his fingers and sucking them dry. He puts his plate aside and leans back, meeting my eyes. “My dad told me, ‘Get the fuck out of my house and don’t come back.’ My mom just stood there silent as stone, looking at me like I’d slapped her in the face.” He clenches his jaw tightly, swallowing hard. “I was twenty-two, about to graduate from college, heading to Berkeley Law.”
That’s horrible. I’ve heard plenty of stories like this, but I’ve never met anyone it actually happened to.
“What did you do?” I ask. “Where did you go?”
“I went to Berkeley,” Fox says, matter-of-factly. “I graduated top of my class, made president of the Law Review my second year. I was a good student.”
“How long did it take them to finally wake up?” I ask. “I mean, they did come around, didn’t they?”
Fox shakes his head, his eyes going slightly dark and liquid. “No,” he says. “My mother died about ten years ago. She had b
reast cancer. I didn’t know. My father called me after the funeral to tell me she was gone, but he didn’t have anything else to say. And then, he died just a few years later.” He folds his hands between his knees, rubbing them together slowly. “No contact between us from the night they kicked me out until my mother died, then nothing again after that.”
Tragic, and so painful; so unnecessarily painful.
“God, baby, I’m so sorry.” I put my plate down and crawl across the couch on all fours, pulling Fox into my arms, cradling him. I can tell he wants to cry, but he’s not going to let himself do it; he’s a tough-guy, and he’s got it all figured out in his head that he’s not going to cry for them.
He needs to just cry because it hurts.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, whispering in his ear. “They missed having a beautiful, kind, loving son beside them in their hardest days. They missed the best of you.”
“Oh, Christ,” Fox huffs into my shoulder, his fingers pressing hard into my back. “Don’t,” he says, pulling away, wiping his sleeve across wet eyes, looking away. “It’s okay. Just don’t.”
My tough guy has a broken place and I just stumbled into it. I hate that he’s hurting, but I’m glad I know about this. This makes Fox that much more real, that much more beautiful to me, that much more admirable. He’s taken rejection and pain and turned it into something useful. He’s taken the meanness inflicted upon him and turned it into kindness rendered to nearly everyone he encounters, even strangers.
That’s why he saved me that night in front of the club. He knew how it felt to be exposed, hurt, and then ridiculed. He tried to spare me.
“God, I love you,” I say, unable to help myself. “I love you so much, and I can’t wait to take you home with me, and drag you to see all my friends, and go to the Barter and see a show, go to the parade, eat at the Tavern. You’ll love Abingdon. It’s so gorgeous, like a little mountainside paradise…”
I would keep going but Fox is staring at me, shocked, blinking. “You what?” he asks, his voice small.
