“Hello, Nitra,” says Colin. The only person here.
“Hi,” I answer, still looking around the suite. Not understanding at all. “Where’s my dad?” I ask Colin.
“At the network party,” he answers. “So’s my wife. I told them to meet me there later.”
That’s when his eyes shift from me to Woods. “I didn’t want to do this any place but in private.”
Oooh-kay, I think as his words sink in and Woods’ hands fall out of mine.
I’d heard rumors that Colin kept his relationships out of the press before he got married because he was super kinky. And now I’m wondering how I can explain this situation to Woods without it ending in a fight.
“Listen,” I say to Colin. “I know there’s still a lot of confusion going around after I kissed Dyana in that one episode. But that was just for show. I’m not into threesomes or swinging or whatever it is you thought I might be good for when you had Sandy arrange this, ah…” I’m not sure what to call it now, so I settle for, “meeting.”
“That was a good episode,” Colin says, an appreciative note tinting his voice, “But I didn’t invite you up here to have sex with you.”
Woods’ expression goes from hard to granite, and my eyes widen as I say, “Oh, you want to…?” I look from Colin to Woods and grimace because they’re both so ridic hot, I have to admit if it were anyone but my husband involved in this hypothetical, I’d be crazy turned on by the thought of them going at it right now.
But since this is my Woods he’s talking about, I say, “Oh no, Colin. This isn’t a Terrell situation. Woods doesn’t swing that way.”
Then I rush into a formal introduction so we can change the subject. “This is my husband, Woods,” I say to Colin. “He’s a really big fan of yours…” Then I trail off yet again, because oops, yeah I heard it.
“Of your music,” I quickly edit. “He’s a really big fan of your music.”
But instead of taking the compliment, Colin’s eyes go all squinty and angry on Woods. “You really going to do this, man?” he asks. “How far are you willing to take this?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking between Woods and Colin with real alarm.
“He’s old,” Woods says.
His voice is quiet. But the two words erupt inside the room, blowing up my initial perception of the situation as I realize Colin knows who Woods is. He knows him.
But Colin jerks his head back as if Woods has physically punched him, “Okay, first you have the nerve to show up here, and now you’re calling me old?!”
“No, that’s just the way he talks,” I answer for Woods. “Because of a very long and involved story. But him calling you ‘old’ is actually a good thing, because you’re the first person he’s met that he’s actually said that about. And, oh my gosh…!”
I grab my almost-husband’s hand and say, “He actually knows who you are! Like in real life. Maybe that’s why you were playing his song on the guitar.”
“Stop right there,” Colin says, holding up one hand to me while he says to Woods, “You been playing a song of mine on the guitar? Why the hell would you be doing that?!”
And at that point I have to ask Colin, “Um, are you and Woods some kind of rivals? Did he win some award you really wanted or something?”
Truth is, save for the crossover acts, I don’t know a ton about country other than the indisputable fact that Dolly Parton is a national treasure. But I’m well aware of how vicious the music business can be even when it’s served up in a baseball hat and plaid shirt. And right now, I doubt Colin has a gun on him, but I can definitely see he and Woods—or whoever Woods used to be—have some major beef.
But Colin continues to glare at Woods as he says, “No, he ain’t my rival, he’s my half-brother. And by the way, I don’t know what lies he’s told you in order to get this close to me, but his name ain’t Woods. It’s Dixon. Dixon Fairgood.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dixon Fairgood. We finally had a name. And that’s wonderful. Even if neither Colin nor Woods—no, Dixon—seem to think so at the moment.
The two are staring each other down like a rap battle is about to go off, but I can totally see the resemblance now that I’m looking for it. Colin’s more muscular, but they’re both around the same height with the same lanky build. Also, they have the same set of crystal blue eyes.
However while Woods’, uh, Dixon’s are completely cold, Colin’s are glittering with red-hot hate.
“Why are you here?” Colin demands, his voice harsh.
“I don’t like you,” Dixon realizes this out loud, in a way I’ve become familiar with. But Colin reacts like his half-brother straight stepped to him.
“You think I care what you think of me, Dixon?” he demands, stepping towards the man I’m assuming is his younger brother in the time-honored tradition of men getting all the way up in each other’s faces. “You think I won’t have my security guard beat you within an inch of your life if you ever try to come anywhere near me and mine again, you piece of shit?” he demands. “I already told you lot how I feel about you coming near me. And I think my choice of life partner ought to have cemented my position on these matters loud and clear. Although, obviously you’re snake enough to trick this poor girl into bringing you here—”
“Wait, wait, wait!” I say, squeezing between them and putting a hand on each of their chests.
“I don’t know what you think is going on here or what’s gone down between you in the past, but Woods—I mean, Dixon—has amnesia. He didn’t lie to me about his name. He’s never lied to me.”
But Colin shakes his head at me. “What? No. He lied to you.”
Exasperated, I ask, “Do you watch Rap Star Wives for real? Or was that just a joke you were making earlier?”
Colin squints in a manner so similar to Woods, it’s a wonder I didn’t recognize them as kin from the door. Then he admits, “Maybe an episode or two. My wife loves that show.”
I don’t bother to tell him we have a near 50% male viewer share and only a few percentage points worth are actually unabashed gay male fans. The rest are men who claim to only be watching the show because their wives or girlfriends do.
Instead, I continue with my explanation. “So then you know I’ve been in West Virginia for the last few years, and now I’m a doctor in real life. I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it’s true. I met your half-brother at the hospital where I work. He has a severe case of amnesia. I swear to you he does not know who you are to him, and he really doesn’t remember whatever caused this beef between you two. So please, I need you to set aside whatever happened and tell him exactly who he is. Right now.”
Colin shakes his head in denial. But then he gives me a considering look—again so similar to Dixon’s I feel a chill go down my spine. And my words must sink in, because eventually his face softens as he asks, “Dixon, is this true, man? Do you really have amnesia or is this some elaborate scheme Uncle Fred put together?”
Dixon steps forward, tucking me under his arm. Despite his confusion, his first priority still seems to be protecting me, even now.
“Yeah, it’s true,” he answers, voice cold. “I get that you don’t like me and I don’t like you. That’s old. But I can’t remember the reason.”
Now Colin looks down at me, his eyes wide. “And, oh hell, is the rest of what they’ve been saying all night true, too? You married—actually married Nitra fucking Mello?”
Okay, I get that to just about everyone in the entire world who’s ever seen an episode of Rap Star Wives, I’m not exactly a catch. But I feel compelled to point out to Colin, “You know that’s not the real me. Your half-brother is now married to a doctor with nothing but good intentions toward everyone she meets. Nitra Mello is a character I play on a TV show.”
But Colin scrapes two hands through his hair and says, “Oh hell, Dixon. I can’t even wrap my mind around what is happening here.”
Something is wrong, I realize from inside Dixon’s arm. I
wasn’t expecting Colin to be like, “Okay, yeah, I get it. That’s cool.” But there’s something a little outsized and a lot off about his reaction.
And only my medical training keeps my voice level as I ask, “Seriously, can you please just tell us, Colin? What the hell is going on here? Why are you so upset about—?”
My many questions are interrupted by the sound of loud voices outside.
“What the…?”
But both Colin and Dixon must recognize the voice of whoever is yelling at Colin’s bodyguard, because Dixon grits out an, “Old” just as Colin says. “Oh, fucking hell…”
He turns to Dixon with an apologetic look. “I didn’t think. When I saw you down there, I called Mason and left him a voicemail, telling him off. But he must have already been in the area if he got here this quick.”
I’m a reality star, but at that moment, I feel like I’ve switched genres. Listening to both Colin and the commotion outside the door, I find myself shaking my head in horror.
The yelling cuts off abruptly, followed by the unmistakable dull smack of fist against skin.
“Fuck,” Dixon says, then, “Doc, get behind me.”
“Me too,” Colin says grimly as he comes to stand beside his half-brother.
But before I can even consider doing as they say, the door bangs open, admitting two men dressed in sleeveless leather motorcycle jackets, black jeans, and long-sleeved tees. In what feels like a strange recasting of the West Virginia diner showdown, one is stocky and older, with a full head of gray hair. He immediately puts me in mind of a rattlesnake with his weathered skin and mean glare. But he doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the younger one.
He’s larger than life. The largest, nastiest thing I’ve ever seen. With tattoos completely covering his meaty forearms and snaking from places unknown over his neck. Beautiful tattoos, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. But completely without color. A mish mash of black covering white skin so I can barely make out any of what they say.
I’m not quite sure what to make of him. Can only assume he got up here because security thought he was part of the Devil Rider’s cast. But I’ve met most of those guys, and they’re total sweeties in real life.
These two are definitely not.
Neither of them are blond, but I can immediately tell by their light blue-eyed squints that they’re also Fairgoods. Like tigers and lions. Part of the same family.
And I’m standing directly between both sides.
I look to Dixon, who’s staring at these guys like he stared at those motorcycle gang members back in West Virginia. Like he’s afraid they’re going to hurt me. Like he’s willing to do anything to prevent that from happening.
“Who…?” I have to swallow when my voice comes out as little more than a croak. “Who are they?” I ask Colin.
Colin answers, his voice grim and dark. “Our cousin, Mason, and our Uncle Fred.”
Then before I can respond to that bomb drop, Mason growls, “Where’s our money, D?”
At the same time his uncle asks. “Is it true? Did you really marry this nigger bitch?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Despite my years spent in the reality show business, I’ve never understood the term “all hell broke loose” until now. On my show, the fights are pre-planned and sometimes even coordinated for the best camera angles and effects.
But Dixon jumps on the older man so fast, the first punch is being thrown before I can even think to stop him. His uncle takes the punch and throws one of his own, which Dixon narrowly avoids by canting to the side. But then Mason spins him around, one meaty fist already raised…
“No!” I scream at Mason. “Please don’t hurt him.”
Thank God for Colin. He jumps Mason from behind, sending the biker stumbling backwards.
“Run!” I yell at Dixon.
But instead of running, Dixon follows Mason’s backward stumble. Seemingly hell bent on punching him out, too.
The doctor in me is about to have a brain aneurysm at the thought of the many relapses and injuries Dixon’s setting himself up for. But my heart un-seizes when I hear the sound of running feet….
Only to curdle right back up when I see who it is: My dad, Sandy, and a camera guy, probably dragged out of the VMH shindig where he was supposed to be shooting advanced footage for the Vemmie’s after-party news story.
Dad stops for a second to assess the situation, then faster than you can say “ratings gold,” he’s in the mix, too. Showing his true street nature and throwing punches right alongside Dixon, like a man who’s been leashed up in his gilded cage for way too long.
“Stop it! Stop it!” I scream. The knowledge that I could hurt the baby is the only thing keeping me out of the fray.
In a burst of strategy, I get in front of the camera, blocking the shot. “He has a head injury. Please stop! Please stop rolling and make them stop fighting!!!” I scream loud enough for the entire legal department of VMH to hear in their matching Brentwood homes.
Me breaking the fourth wall and pretty much ruining the take is Sandy’s cue to act like an actual human. “Okay, that’s enough, Curtis!” she informs my father. “We need Woods out of this fight.”
Like an impeccably trained actor, C-Mello immediately stops fighting and starts yelling. “Okay, okay shut this shit down right now. This supposed to be a celebration. What the fuck you all doing fighting up in here?”
Dixon’s uncle, whose nose is pretty much bleeding and broken, replies, “You think I’m going to listen to you? You ain’t nothing but a…” And that’s when Uncle Fred drops another N-bomb on my dad.
Having grown up on the mean but mostly black streets of Compton, I realize at that moment that the well-known rapper may not have ever been called that particular word in his life by an actual white Southerner.
Dad squints at the bloody nosed biker and his voice drops about two registers deeper than I’ve heard it in over a decade as he asks, “What did you just call me?”
“He has amnesia!” I yell, running to get between the two factions before they can start fighting again. “He has amnesia. I don’t know what you all are so mad at him about, but whatever it is, he doesn’t remember. So please stop this before you seriously hurt him. Please!”
Mason, who was just gearing up to throw another punch at Dixon now that Colin is finally off his back, lets his arm drop.
“What?” he asks.
I would have done anything to not have this go down with cameras rolling. Anything. But my reality life and my real life have finally collided and I find myself with no choice but to step forward and explain, on camera, for all of America to hear: “I don’t know who you are, but whatever you believe this man has done to you is a mistake. He didn’t steal your money. He has amnesia. He presented in my hospital a few months ago with no recollection of who he is or why he was in West Virginia.”
Mason steps back, both fist uncurling as he asks, “That true, D. You don’t got any memory of me? Or you?”
Dixon just looks at him, fists still raised. But he admits, “You’re old.”
Before Mason can get offended like Colin did, I explain, “That’s his way of saying he knows you have a place in his past, but he doesn’t remember who you are or what you mean to him. When we first met he called me new. In fact, everyone he’s met has been new up until tonight.”
“I bet. You’re real new,” Mason snarls at me. Then he turns back to Dixon. “Tell me you didn’t really marry her like we heard on the news.”
I peek over at Dixon. Considering how his family is taking this news, this might be a good time for him to confess that we’re not legally married, just promised.
But Dixon glares at his cousin, brow pulled low. “I don’t care what kind of kin you are to me. She’s my wife, and if you say another word against her, I promise I will end you.”
For a full second, Mason only stares back at him, mouth agape. Not with anger, I now realize, watching him watch Dixon, but with true confusion. As if Dix
on has just said the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard.
“You cannot feel that way about her, D. You cannot stay with her,” he explains like Dixon is a slow child. “That is not an option for you.”
“Why, because you said so?” Dixon asks in a way that doesn’t leave much in the way of doubt about his unwillingness to do anything his cousin says.
Mason shakes his head. “No, dickweed! Because you’re the president of our motorcycle gang, the Southern Freedom Knights.”
Oh no, I think, he’s the leader of a gang. And that’s all I’m thinking in the moment.
Forgive me. This is a lot to take in, following the chaos of the fight and all the jaw-dropping reveals. That Woods’ name is really Dixon. That he’s related by blood to one of biggest singers in country music. That he’s apparently the head of—if Mason is any indicator—a really gnarly, redneck motorcycle gang.
So maybe you can see why it takes so long for the other shoe to drop. Why I don’t get the implication of his and his cousin’s names until my dad says, “Wait a minute, you talking about that fucked up white supremacist gang? Them Southern Freedom Knights?”
“Yeah, them Southern Freedom Knights,” Dixon’s uncle answers without any embarrassment whatsoever. Then he turns his horrible gaze back to Dixon to say, “We don’t believe in race-mixing of any kind. In fact, the only way any of us would agree to be with one of her kind,” he jerks his head at me, “is if he had a goddamn case of amnesia.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The world spins.
Not because I’m pregnant.
This isn’t another fainting spell, but the kind of mental whiplash you get when a ride spinning so fast one way suddenly decides to go in the opposite direction. A sickening reversal from when John Doe kissed me in my apartment, and made every wish I wouldn’t have admitted to harboring—being known only as a doctor by somebody, being kissed for real, not for ratings, experiencing actual attraction for the very first time—come true.
His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia Page 16
