by Tatum West
Silence falls. Doors open and close. The fan comes on and goes off. The building moans and creaks like an arthritic old woman, complaining under its own bloated weight.
Derek’s going to kill me.
If I know Christian Black – and I do – he’s playing this by the book. The FBI is involved. They’re doing everything in their power to find me. I need to stay alive long enough to help them.
Of course, things could – and often do – go horribly wrong. Derek is an unknown variable. He’s a thug without much intelligence. Even Sal has washed his hands of him.
Derek is planning on killing me. I have absolutely nothing to lose by fighting back. I just need to figure out how. As long as I’m tied up in a chair, blindfolded, in a dank room, there’s not much I can do. I need to wait. I need to be patient. I need to be ready.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NIKKI
We got Delmonico!” Special Agent Rhys shouts, causing the room to erupt into celebratory applause.
I’m not applauding shit until Fox is safe in my arms. Everything else is bullshit.
“He was taken into custody peacefully two blocks from the warehouse. He’s already talking, cooperating fully.”
Great. Maybe he’ll tell us something we don’t know, like whether Fox is in that building, and if he’s alive.
Rhys crosses his arms, leaning on my kitchen bar top.
“The team on the ground have the green light to go at will,” he says. “It’s up to their command on location to make the final decision.”
All the cops in the room tune their radios to the same channel, listening to the banter between SWAT officers and troops stationed all around the warehouse.
“Yeah, we’re a green light,” a voice crackles over the radio. “Everybody in position. Two minutes ‘til contact. On my signal.”
The radios go silent for the first time in many hours. It’s eerie how it happens so fast. One minute they’re chattering about football and cracking jokes, the next, the dead air feels like a funeral the moment before the preacher begins to speak.
I look up at Christian Black.
“Take me there,” I say. “I want to be there. Whatever happens, I need to be there.”
“That’s not…”
“Take me there, dammit!” I shout, my rage boiling, erupting, animating me for the first time since all this happened. “Right now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FOX
The sound of footsteps in the hall brings me back to awareness. It hasn’t been a long time since Sal’s voice went quiet. He must have left. It’s just me and Derek now. He’s coming my way.
The door opens, creaking on dry hinges. I feel the warmth of a light overhead.
“I need to move you,” Derek says, his voice loud, reverberating off the moist, brick walls. “They may have figured out where we are, and I don’t want to be here when they come.”
He slices the tape binding me to the chair.
“I’ve gotta pee,” I say. “I’m gonna piss all over myself if I don’t get to a bathroom now.”
“Fucking hell,” Derek moans. “You can’t hold it even twelve hours? Fucking princess.”
He cuts through the tape at my ankles, freeing my legs, then slices the tape binding my wrists to the chair back. My wrists are still bound together behind me, and I’m still blindfolded, but my legs are free.
I could run, but I can’t see where I’m going. I could attempt to kick him, but I can’t see where to hit.
“Come on,” Derek says, taking me by the arm, dragging me forward. “The shitter’s this way.”
We go down the long hallway, then turn to the right. He turns me into a small room.
“Do what you need to do,” he says, and I hear him backing out.
“I’m fucking tied up,” I say. “I can’t get my pants down.”
“Good fucking lord,” Derek moans. “If you’re just trying to get me close to your dick so you can fuck with me, I swear to god I’ll kill you.”
“I need to pee,” I say. “Just let my hands loose, just for a few minutes. I’m about to shit myself.”
He turns me around. I feel a blade come between my wrists, slicing through the tape. I’m free. I grab Derek by the balls and dick from behind and shove him against the wall; I twist them in the tightest grip my numb hands can manage. He shrieks, crumbling into a heap at my feet. I kick him hard in the ribs, once, twice, three times for good measure, then bring a sharp heel down with force, feeling bones crunch beneath my foot. He cries out again. The sound reverberates off the brick walls, filling the space with screams.
I back away, but Derek is no shrinking violet. He grabs my ankles, bringing me down – hard. I stumble into him, punching with all my might into his throat, his gut, his nuts, but still he comes up with power. And with a shiny, nickel-plated .45 pointed right at my head.
“You’re a smart-ass,” he says, spitting blood beside my face, grinning. “Tough guy. I like it. Makes it easier to blow your head off and leave the little pieces for the rats to clean up.”
He presses the cold steel barrel of his gun to my forehead, leering down on me. His knees press my wrists into the concrete, immobilizing me.
I understand now how Nikki let these people intimidate him. They never had to be outright violent. They simply implied the violence with their physical presence. Derek is a sadist at his very core. He enjoys intimidating and controlling people. He might kill me right now just on principle. I fought him. I hurt him. I defied him. Anybody who does that must deserve – in his twisted view of things – to die.
He’d kill Nikki if he could, but I did a good job of surrounding him with the best security team his money could buy. Derek couldn’t touch him. I was the next best thing.
I should have listened to James when he told me I was a soft target. I should have taken the same advice I gave Nikki.
Suddenly, there’s a strange noise; one I haven’t heard before.
Derek looks up into the open doorway of the toilet. He hears the noise too.
For just a brief second, he moves his gun away from my head, lifting it toward the rectangle of empty space between us and the hallway.
I take my chance, using all my power to roll him aside, reaching for the gun, shoving it to one side before he has time to pull the trigger.
“Freeze! FBI! Put down your weapon!” a cacophony of voices shout as lights swirl about the room.
Derek’s gun, still in his hand, raises toward me, his finger flexing on the trigger.
In an instant, a deafening roar of thunder fills the small space, overwhelming my senses, sending me cowering. The lightning from the gunfire ignites the space like a fireworks exhibition.
“I have the target,” a voice shouts as someone seizes me by the collar, dragging me from the bathroom, away from the spray of dripping blood and Derek’s, bullet-riddled body slumped on the tile.
It’s daylight outside. The sunlight hurts my eyes as EMTs lay me out on the asphalt, poking and prodding, looking for injuries.
“I’m fine!” I cry. “I’m okay. Let me go!”
Shit! Derek’s dead! I’m alive. Nikki’s out there somewhere. Fucking hell. I love him. I love his precious, sweet face and his ridiculous outfits. I love the way he kisses me. I love the way he feels inside me and the way I feel inside him. I love tasting him and the way he smells. I love waking up next to him. I love making breakfast for him. I love sleeping alongside him and waking up tangled in his long, gangly limbs. I love the way his lips taste. I love the way he laughs. I love…
“Fox!”
I turn my head and see Nikki coming for me. He launches into me, his chest slamming into my own, his arms wrapping around me. “Oh god, I thought I lost you. Oh, god, I love you so much.”
My Nikki. I raise my hand to his head, pulling him close to me.
“Oh, no baby. It’ll take a lot more than that to keep me from you,” I whisper. “We’re supposed to be together and nothing can get in the way of
that.”
A tornado of FBI agents and SWAT team members swirl around us. Cops filter in and out while we stand on the concrete, ignoring it all, just reveling in the fact that we’re both still alive and together.
“I love you, Nikki,” I say, holding his thin frame close. “I love you so much it almost hurts.”
“Can we go home now?” Nikki asks, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I got all dressed up and you stood me up! You owe me a nice night without any drama. Take me home.”
I can’t help but laugh. Nikki laughs too.
James and Troy appear, hovering around Nikki, both looking tired but still alert, still on point.
“Let’s go,” I say. If anybody needs a statement from me, they can find me tomorrow. I need a drink and a snack, and then I need Nikki tangled up in me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NIKKI
F ox slides his hands around me, letting them come to a rest at my belly. He leans in, his chest to my back, his lips just level with my earlobe. We’re both dressed for dinner, but I could be talked into staying home if he keeps this up.
“You look lovely,” he whispers into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “I haven’t seen this look before. I like it.”
I’m wearing the outfit I planned to wear the night Fox was kidnapped. That night, I took the clothes off, hung them up, and cried alone in my closet for two hours straight. I swore I’d never wear those colors again if Fox didn’t come home to me. Luckily, that’s not a sacrifice I have to make.
“Thank you,” I say, laying one hand on his, reaching behind me with the other to circle my fingers around the back of his neck. He got a haircut today and the short hairs tickle my fingers. “You’re awfully handsome too.”
He’s wearing low slung, tailored slacks that cling to his narrow hips, and a pale gray-colored knit V-neck sweater wrapping his broad shoulders and long waist so snugly it’s almost obscene. He’s stunning to behold with his little silver bracelet and his dash of suntan. I don’t for the life of me know how I caught this man’s attention, but every day that I live, I’ll be forever grateful I did.
As handsome as Fox is, I detect faint traces of dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t slept well since the incident. When he does sleep, he has bad dreams. His doctor says it will pass with time and by talking about it, but right now it’s ever-present, threatening like a storm.
Fox nips my ear playfully, smiling. He hugs me tight, then releases me. “We should go,” he says. “I’m hungry!”
We’re going to the Soho House for dinner. Neither Fox nor I gave much thought to planning anything for ourselves. With everything that’s happened, I don’t think anyone can blame us. Fox found out his club was serving dinner, and since we missed our date there last week, he made us a reservation.
Troy and James follow us in one of the SUVs as we come down from Laurel Canyon, dropping into the Hollywood basin onto flat, busy streets. Fox keeps his eyes on them in his rearview mirror, as I keep my eyes on him.
He’s a little jumpy and a lot distracted. He’s been so quiet, reflective, as if he’s puzzling over some difficult problem he needs to solve. I’ve asked him about it a hundred times, but he always says, “Nothing, I’m fine.”
He’ll tell me what’s going on inside his head when he’s ready.
The Soho House is a press- and paparazzi-free zone. They don’t even allow their members to use smartphone cameras inside the club. It may be the only place in LA that’s a designated safe-zone for someone like me. Ever since Fox told me about it I’ve wondered why Sal was so opposed to the place. As soon as we step foot inside, I understand.
The vibe is antithetical to everything LA is about. It’s burnished leather and bookshelves rather than disco balls and neon. It’s low-key and everything inside moves at a slower pace than the rest of LA.
“Let’s go eat,” Fox says, punching the ‘up’ button on the elevator.
I have a feeling there’s a lot to see besides just the restaurant, but this is Fox’s party and I’m not going to act like a tourist.
When the elevator doors open on the dining room, the scene before us is like one of my high school daydreams.
I spy Jodie Foster seated at a table near the center of the room, surrounded by her teenage children. She’s wearing a baseball cap and well-worn Keds tennis shoes. She’s so tiny, her older son, who’s probably about sixteen or seventeen, towers over her. The boys are laughing. So is their mother. They look happy and exquisitely normal. Robert Downey Jr. is across the room at a large table crowded with friends. A few feet away, Tori Spelling, her husband, and kids are sharing a big meal. She’s as glamorous as ever, but her husband is dressed in shorts and golf cleats, like he just came in off the green. Toward the back of the restaurant, I spot a guy who looks a lot like a badly weathered Axl Rose drinking from a tall bottle of water.
The room is packed with A-listers and old stalwarts, balanced by a smattering of agents, publicists, producers, writers, and directors. This is clearly the place to be. I had no idea it was quite like this.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lee,” the host says to Fox, a cool smile animating his face. “Your table’s ready. Follow me.”
Fox steps back, letting me walk ahead. As we cross the vaguely Polynesian themed dining room, heads turn in my direction. Some smile, nodding with respectful recognition. No one jumps up or screams. No one bolts toward me demanding an autograph or a selfie. I’m in a room packed with people who – for the most part – recognize me, and who don’t give a shit.
It’s wonderful. It’s amazing. It’s so freeing!
“Here we go,” our host says, stopping beside a stylishly set table by the window with a breathtaking view of LA. He pulls a chair out for me first, then for Fox.
“I love this place,” I say to Fox as soon as we’re alone. “I want to move in here.”
He grins. “You can actually do that. They have rooms. You can rent by the night or the week. Pricey though, and you have to be a member.”
“I want to be a member,” I say. “How do I become a member?”
Fox shakes his head. “You have me,” he says. “If you really want to be a member, I’ll put you up for it, but save your money and just be my guest for a while.”
Our waiter comes to us offering all manner of good things, beginning with appetizers. He offers deviled eggs wrapped in brown rice and nori, served with Thai hot sauce.
My mother would have a coronary if she knew what some pretentious chef has done with southern comfort food.
“I’ll have the kale salad, hold the croutons, cheese, and dressing,” I say, forgoing all culinary creativity. “And an iced tea. Unsweetened.”
Fox raises an eyebrow at me. “I’ll have a glass of the house red and the octopus,” he says, handing his menu to the waiter. “And we’re going to share the roasted, crispy duck for our entrée, with white rice and sugar snaps.”
What?!
“Very good,” our waiter says, taking my menu and departing as smoothly as he appeared.
“It’s our first night out since all of this,” Fox says. “You’re eating real food if I have to feed it to you by the mouthful. You can’t survive on kale and Rice Krispies.”
I can try.
Fox sits back in his chair, looking around the room. He turns back to me, leaning forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “This town is crazy, and it’s made everyone in it crazy. It’s making us crazy.”
No one’s denying that, but what is he talking about?
“Everywhere you go, you’re looking for stalkers and paparazzi. You’re terrified of gaining an ounce and looking fat and happy in the tabloids,” he says. “And everywhere I go, I see psychopaths with guns. I even see them in my sleep. I need a change of scenery,” Fox says, his voice low. “I need to step away from LA for awhile and get my head clear.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Our waiter appears a second later with our drinks. When he leaves, Fox props his elbows on the c
risp linen tablecloth. “I’m thinking seriously about retiring,” he says, folding his hands under his chin. “I’ve got the money. I can quit and live comfortably for the rest of my life. When I started all this, I didn’t imagine I’d wind up being the retainer attorney to Hollywood’s worst and stupidest. I used to enjoy the work. I don’t even hate it. I just don’t care anymore.”
Jesus.
“What would you do?” I ask. “I mean, you don’t exactly play golf.”
He nods, smiling. “You’re right. I’ll find something, though. Something useful. Something that’s not… this.” He waves his hand around at the room.
“Why?” I have to ask. “What changed?” I already know the answer, but I want him to acknowledge it. I want him to say it out loud.
Fox’s face goes dark. His expression flattens. His brow furrows.
“You know,” he says. “When someone holds a gun to your head, it makes you re-evaluate how you’ve spent your life. I’ve spent my life chasing the money, but I never did anything that mattered.”
“That’s not true,” I say, reaching across the table, taking his hands inside mine. “You saved me. You got me out from under the cloud of Sal and Derek. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and that wouldn’t have happened if…”
“I know,” Fox interrupts, squeezing my hands. “But I think that may have been my last hurrah. I think I’m done.”
What does that even mean?
“It doesn’t mean I’m done with you,” Fox offers, lifting my hand, kissing my knuckles. “It means I want more time with you. I want us, without all the crazy, LA nonsense. I want us to make something real and meaningful from this. I can’t do that working in this town. This town is out of its mind.”
Okay. He’s right about LA. It is crazy. It’s also the center of the entertainment universe. It’s all I know. It’s my work, my livelihood. It was my dream to get here. I’m here now. I’m successful. I’m famous…
