When It′s Real
When It's Real
Erin Watt
Wealth, fame and a real-life romance she never expected–seventeen-year-old Vaughn Bennett lands it all when she agrees to become a pop star's fake girlfriend in this smart, utterly addictive novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author duo Erin WattUnder ordinary circumstances, Oakley Ford and Vaughn Bennett would never even cross paths.There's nothing ordinary about Oakley. This bad-boy pop star's got Grammy Awards, millions of fangirls and a reputation as a restless, too-charming troublemaker. But with his home life disintegrating, his music well suddenly running dry and the tabloids having a field day over his outrageous exploits, Oakley needs to show the world he's settling down–and who better to help him than Vaughn, a part-time waitress trying to help her family get by? The very definition of ordinary.Posing as his girlfriend, Vaughn will overhaul Oakley's image from troublemaker to serious artist. In return for enough money to put her brothers through college, she can endure outlandish Hollywood parties and carefully orchestrated Twitter exchanges. She'll fool the paparazzi and the groupies. She might even start fooling herself a little.Because when ordinary rules no longer apply, there's no telling what your heart will do…
Wealth, fame and a real-life romance she never expected—seventeen-year-old Vaughn Bennett lands it all when she agrees to become a pop star’s fake girlfriend in this smart, utterly addictive novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author duo Erin Watt
Under ordinary circumstances, Oakley Ford and Vaughn Bennett would never even cross paths.
There’s nothing ordinary about Oakley. This bad-boy pop star’s got Grammy Awards, millions of fangirls and a reputation as a restless, too-charming troublemaker. But with his home life disintegrating, his music well suddenly running dry and the tabloids having a field day over his outrageous exploits, Oakley needs to show the world he’s settling down—and who better to help him than Vaughn, a part-time waitress trying to help her family get by? The very definition of ordinary.
Posing as his girlfriend, Vaughn will overhaul Oakley’s image from troublemaker to serious artist. In return for enough money to put her brothers through college, she can endure outlandish Hollywood parties and carefully orchestrated Twitter exchanges. She’ll fool the paparazzi and the groupies. She might even start fooling herself a little.
Because when ordinary rules no longer apply, there’s no telling what your heart will do...
When It’s Real
Erin Watt
ERIN WATT is the brainchild of two bestselling authors linked together through their love of great books and an addiction to writing.
They share one creative imagination.
Their greatest love (after their families and pets, of course)? Coming up with fun—and sometimes crazy—ideas.
Their greatest fear? Breaking up.
To Margo.
We loved you before you bought this book, and we love you even more after you helped us polish this manuscript into the gem it is. Thank you for being our editor, our cheerleader, our friend.
Contents
Cover (#ueb813bb6-442d-52d0-b07e-67a1ab6f36de)
Back Cover Text (#ue3407956-9394-540c-833c-247a144f408f)
Title Page (#u870342b7-2a61-5aca-b071-59393240ec84)
About the Author (#u70d7ab06-6421-58b8-a064-a4dac319f409)
Dedication (#u2ab43a80-1236-5228-9afe-a1a727890e27)
CHAPTER 1 (#udb6618f1-25b9-53dd-94b6-c6584c2c6c17)
CHAPTER 2 (#ue803cc3d-498c-5d11-ac6c-9abadf725beb)
CHAPTER 3 (#u3140f2f7-df39-58c0-b64c-5bd1a9ed3aec)
CHAPTER 4 (#ud0139383-89bd-55ca-9bad-4e734da3a531)
CHAPTER 5 (#u74022381-f97f-558d-9e52-58c7f15a22b5)
CHAPTER 6 (#ua0640ba2-2036-5314-ae1d-58e3ec8f75b6)
CHAPTER 7 (#u01ab5200-5428-5f7f-ae1c-caca0aea4b63)
CHAPTER 8 (#ub7273d64-8e06-511f-a8e8-ee0f7ad2a28d)
CHAPTER 9 (#uc3c0c403-879b-5c5b-87b2-3e4e788222d7)
CHAPTER 10 (#u0713128a-8167-504e-801d-84331f0a34a7)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
“Please tell me every girl in there is of legal age.”
“Every girl in there is of legal age,” I dutifully repeat to my manager, Jim Tolson.
Truth is, I have no clue if everyone’s legal. When I came home last night from the studio, the party was already raging. I didn’t take the time to card anyone before grabbing a beer and chatting up some eager girls who proclaimed that they were so in love with my music that they sang it in their sleep. It sounded vaguely like an invitation, but I wasn’t interested. My buddy Luke took them off my hands and then I wandered around trying to figure out if I knew even a quarter of the people in my house.
I ended up counting seven, tops, that I actually recognized.
Jim presses his already thin lips together before taking a seat in the lounger across from me. There’s a girl passed out on it, so he’s forced to perch on the end. Jim once told me that the biggest hazard of working with a young rock star is the age of his groupies. Sitting this close to a bikini-clad teenager makes him visibly edgy.
“Keep that line in mind in case TMI asks you about it on the street today,” Jim warns.
“Noted.” Also noted? Avoid any celeb hot spots today. I have zero desire to be papped.
“How was the studio last night?”
I roll my eyes. As if Jim didn’t have the studio tech on the phone immediately after I left, replaying the track. “You know exactly how it was. Crappy. Worse than crappy. I think a barking Chihuahua could lay down better vocals than me right now.”
I lean back and stroke my throat. Nothing’s wrong with my vocal cords. Jim and I got that checked out with a doctor a few months ago. But the notes that were coming out yesterday lacked...something. All my music seems flat these days.
I haven’t recorded anything decent since my last album. I can’t pinpoint the problem. It could be the lyrics or the rhythm or the melody. It’s everything and nothing, and no amount of tweaking has helped me.
I run my fingers over the six strings of my Gibson, knowing my frustration must show on my face.
“Come on, let’s walk a little.” Jim dips his head toward the girl. She looks passed out, but she could be faking it.
With a sigh, I set the guitar on the cushion and rise to my feet.
“Didn’t know you liked walks on the beach, Jim. Should we start quoting poetry to each other before you propose?” I joke. But he’s probably right about putting some distance between us and the groupie. We don’t need some yappy fan talking about my music block to the tabloids. I give them enough to talk about already.
“Did you see the latest social media numbers?” He holds his phone up.
“Is that an actual question?”
We stop at the railing on my wraparound deck. I wish we could walk down to the beach, but it’s public, and the last time I tried setting foot on the sand in the back of my house, I came away with my swim trunks torn off and a bloody nose. That was three years ago. The tabloids turned it into a story about me getting into a fight with my ex and terrorizing young children.
“You’re losing followers at a rate of a thousand a week.”
“Sounds dire.” Sounds awesome, actually. Maybe I’ll finally be able take advantage of my beachfront property.
His perfectly unlined face, courtesy of some of the best Swiss knives money can buy, is marred by irritation. “This is serious, Oakley.”
“So what? Who cares if I lose followers?”
“Do you want to be taken seriously as an artist?”
This lecture again? I’ve heard it from Jim a million frickin’ times since he signed me when I was fourteen. “You know I do.”
“Then you have to shape up,” he huffs.
“Why?” What does shaping up have to do with making great music? If anything, maybe I need to be wilder, really stretch the limits of everything in life.
But...haven’t I done that already? I feel like I’ve drunk, smoked, ingested and experienced nearly everything the world has to offer in the past five years. Am I already the washed-up pop star before I hit my twenties?
A tinge of fear scrapes down my spine at the thought.
“Because your label is on the verge of dropping you,” Jim warns.
I practically clap like a child at this news. We’ve been at odds for months. “So let them.”
“How do you think you’re going to have your next album made? The studio’s already rejected your last two attempts. You want to experiment with your sound? Use poetry as lyrics? Write about things other than heartache and pretty girls who don’t love you back?”
I stare sullenly at the water.
He grabs my arm. “Pay attention, Oak.”
I give him a what the hell are you doing look, and he lets go of my arm. We both know I don’t like being touched.
“They aren’t going to let you cut the record you want if you keep alienating your audience.”
“Exactly,” I say smugly. “So why do I care if the label drops me?”
“Because labels exist to make money, and they won’t produce your next album unless it’s one they can actually market. If you want to win another Grammy, if you want to be taken seriously by your peers, then your only chance is to rehabilitate your image. You haven’t had a record out since you were seventeen. That was two years ago. It’s like a decade in the music business.”
“Adele released at nineteen and twenty-five.”
“You aren’t fuckin’ Adele.”
“I’m bigger,” I say, and it’s not a boast. We both know it’s true.
Since I released my first album at fourteen, I’ve had unreal success. Every album has gone double platinum, with my self-titled Ford reaching the rare Diamond. That year I did thirty international tour stops, all stadium tours, all sellouts. There are fewer than ten artists in the world who do stadium tours. Everyone else is relegated to arenas, auditoriums, halls and clubs.
“Were bigger,” Jim says bluntly. “In fact, you’re on the verge of being a has-been at nineteen.”
I tense up as he voices my earlier fear.
“Congratulations, kid. Twenty years from now, you’ll be sitting in a chair on Hollywood Squares and some kid will ask their mother, ‘who’s Oakley Ford?’ and the mom will say—”
“I get it,” I say tightly.
“No. You don’t get it. Your existence will have been so fleeting that even that parent will turn to her kid and say, ‘I have no idea who that is.’” Jim’s tone turns pleading. “Look, Oak, I want you to be successful with the music you want to make, but you have to work with me. The industry is run by a bunch of old white men who are high on coke and power. They love knocking you artists around. They get off on it. Don’t give them any more reason to decide that you’re the fall guy. You’re better than that. I believe in you, but you gotta start believing in yourself, too.”
“I do believe in myself.”
Does it sound as fake to Jim’s ears as it does to mine?
“Then act like it.”
Translation? Grow up.
I reach over and take the phone from his hand. The social media number beside my name is still in the eight digits. Millions of people follow me and eat up all the ridiculous things my PR team posts daily. My shoes. My hands. Man, the hands post got over a million likes and launched an equal number of fictional stories. Those girls have very vivid imaginations. Vivid, dirty imaginations.
“So what’s your suggestion?” I mutter.
Jim sighs with relief. “I have a plan. I want you to date someone.”
“No way. We already tried the girlfriend thing.”
During the launch of Ford, management hooked me up with April Showers. Yup, that’s her real name—I saw it on her driver’s license. April was an up-and-coming reality television star and we all thought she’d know the score. A fake relationship to keep both our names on magazine covers and headlining every gossip site on the web. Yes, there’d be hate from certain corners, but the nonstop media attention and speculation would drive our visibility through the roof. Our names would be on everyone’s lips from here to China and back again.
The press strategy worked like a charm. We couldn’t sneeze without someone taking our picture. We dominated celebrity gossip for six months, and the Ford tour was a smashing success. April sat in the front row of more fashion shows than I knew actually existed and went on to sign a huge two-year modeling contract with a major agency.
Everything was great until the end of the tour. What everyone, including me, had failed to recognize was that if they threw two teenagers together and told them to act like they were in love, stuff was going to happen. Stuff did happen. The only problem? April thought stuff would continue to happen after the tour was over. When I told her it wouldn’t, she wasn’t happy—and she had a big enough platform to tell the world exactly how unhappy she was.
“This won’t be another April thing,” Jim assures me. “We want to appeal to all the girls out there who dream of walking down the red carpet but think it’s out of reach. We don’t want a model or a star. We want your fans to think you’re attainable.”
Against my better judgment, I ask, “And how do we do that?”
“We conjure up a normal. She starts posting to you on your social media accounts. Flirting with you online. People see you interact. Then you invite her to a concert. You meet, fall in love and boom. Serious heartthrob status again.”
“My fans hated April,” I remind him.
“Some did, but millions loved her. Millions more will love you if you fall for an ordinary girl, because each and every one of those girls is going to think that she’s their stand-in.”
I clench my teeth. “No.”
If Jim was trying to think up a way to torture me, this is absolutely it, because I hate social media. I grew up having my baby steps photographed and sold to the highest bidder. For charity, my mom later claimed. The public gets a ton of me. I want to keep some parts of my life private, which is why I pay a couple of people a fortune so I don’t have to touch that stuff.
“If you do this...” Jim pauses enticingly. “King will produce your album.”
My head swivels around so fast that Jim jumps back in surprise. “You serious?”
Donovan King is the best producer in the country. He’s worked on everything from rap to country to rock albums, turning artists into legends. I once read an interview where he said he’d never work with a pop star and their soulless commercial music, no matter how much anyone paid him. Working with King is a dream of mine, but he’s turned down every overture I’ve ever made.
If he wasn’t interested in producing Ford, then why this latest album? Why now?
Jim grins. Well, as much as his plastic face allows him to smile. “Yes. He said if you were serious, then he’d be interested, but he needs a show of faith.”
“And a girlfriend is that show of faith?” I ask incredulously.
“Not a girlfriend. It’s what dating a nonfamous, ordinary girl signifies. That you’re down-to-earth, making music for the sake of music, not for the sake of money and fame.”
“I am down-to-earth,” I protest.
Jim responds with a snort. He jerks his thumb at the French doors behind us. “Tell me something—what’s the name of that girl who’s passed out in there?”
I try not to cringe. “I...don’t know,” I mumble.
“That’s what I thought.” He frowns now. “Do you want to know what Nicky Novak was photographed doing last night?”
My head is starting to spin. “What the hell does Novak have to do with anything?” Nicky Novak is a sixteen-year-old pop star I’ve never even met. His boy band just released their debut album, and apparently it’s topping the charts. The group is giving 1D a run for their money.
“Ask me what Novak was doing,” Jim prompts.
“Fine. Whatever. What was Novak doing?”
“Bowling.” My manager crosses his arms over his chest. “He got papped on a bowling date with his girlfriend—some girl he’s been dating since middle school.”
“Well, good for him.” I give another eye roll. “You want me to go bowling, is that it? You think that will convince King to work with me? Seeing me roll some gutter balls?” It’s hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I just told you what I want,” Jim grumbles. “If you want King to produce your album, you need to show him you’re serious, that you’re ready to stop partying with girls whose names you don’t know and settle down with someone who will ground you.”
“I can tell him that.”
“He needs proof.”
My gaze shifts back to the ocean, and I stand there for a moment, watching the surf crash against the beach. This album I’ve been working on these past two years—no, the one I’m trying to work on and failing—suddenly feels as if it’s actually within my reach. A producer like King could help me move past this creative block and make the kind of music I’ve always wanted.
And all I have to do in return is date a normal? I guess I can do that. I mean, every artist has to make sacrifices for his art at one point in his life.
Right?
2 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard what I want,” my sister objects.
“I don’t need to. You have that look in your eye.” I pull the bacon out of the microwave and dump four slices on each plate.
“What look?” Paisley checks her reflection on the back of the spoon I used to stir the eggs.
“The one that says I’m not going to like what you have to say.” I pause as I dish up the rest of the twins’ breakfast. “Or that I’m too young to understand.”
“Ha. Everyone knows you’re more together than most adults. I wish you were more impulsive, actually. It’d make this easier.”
“Breakfast is ready!” I shout.
The clatter of shoes on the staircase makes Paisley sigh. Our little brothers are incredibly loud, eat an incredible amount of food and are getting incredibly expensive. All I can say is, thank goodness for Paisley’s new job. We’re barely keeping our heads above water, even though Paisley has performed miracles with what little insurance money our parents left us. I’m adding to the family account with my waitressing job at Sharkey’s, but we don’t have much extra left over. Spencer and Shane insist that we don’t need to worry about college tuition for them because they plan on full-ride athletic scholarships. But unless it’s for competitive eating, I’m not going to count on it.
As the twins practically fall face-first into their breakfast, Paisley pours their milk and shoves a paper towel next to their plates. Hopefully they’ll use it instead of the kitchen towel. Again, I’m not holding my breath.
I drink my coffee-infused milk, watching my twelve-year-old brothers inhale the first of what will likely be their six meals of the day. As they grumble about the shortness of Christmas break, I think about how glorious it is that I haven’t had one class this year, unlike them.
“Vaughn,” Paisley says urgently. “I still need to talk to you.”
“I already told you no.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh, fine. Talk.”
“Outside.” She jerks her head toward the back door.
“We’re not listening,” says Spencer.
Shane nods in agreement because that’s their shtick. Spencer talks and Shane backs up everything his brother says, even if he disagrees.
“Outside.” Paisley’s head jerk looks painful this time, so I take pity on her.
“Lead the way.”
The screen door slams shut behind us. I take another sip of my rapidly cooling drink as I watch Paisley search for words, which is worrisome because Paisley is never at a loss for words.
“Okay, so I want you to hear me out. Don’t say anything until the very end.”
“Did you drink one too many Red Bulls this morning?” I ask. We both know Paisley kind of has a caffeine addiction.
“Vaughn!”
“Okay. Okay.” I zip my lips shut. “Not another word.”
She rolls her eyes. “You do the lip-zipping after the last word, not before.”
“Details, shmetails. Now talk. I promise not to interrupt.”
She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you know how they finally gave me my own cubicle, so I don’t have to share with that other assistant anymore?”
I nod. “They” are her bosses at Diamond Talent Management. Paisley’s official job title is Brand Coverage Assistant, but technically she’s a glorified gofer—she goes on coffee runs, makes a zillion photocopies and spends an insane amount of time scheduling meetings. I swear, the people she works for hold more meetings than the UN.
“Well, my cube has this little bulletin board on the wall. I’m allowed to put up pictures, so yesterday I brought in a few photos. You know, like the one of Mom and Dad that we love, where they’re kissing on the boardwalk? And one of the twins at baseball camp. And then I put up the one I took of you at the beach bonfire we had for your birthday last month.”
I have to fight the urge not to make a waving motion with my hand to tell her to speed up. Paisley takes forever to get to the point.
“Anyway, so get this! Jim Tolson is walking by my cube—”
“Who’s Jim Tolson?” I ask, breaking my vow of silence.
“He’s my boss’s brother. He manages some of the biggest musicians in the world.” Paisley is so excited her cheeks are flushed. “So he’s walking by, and he sees the picture of you on my bulletin board and asks if he could borrow it for a minute—”
“Ew! I do not like where this story is going.”
She shoots me a dirty look. “I’m not done. You promised to be quiet until I was done.”
I swallow a sigh. “Sorry.”
“So I’m, like, sure, go ahead, but just make sure to bring it back because that’s my favorite picture of my little sister. So he takes the photo and disappears into his brother’s office for a while. He’s got all these assistants in there and they’re all talking about your picture—”
Okay, now I really don’t like where this is heading.
“Something major is going down at the agency,” Paisley adds. “I have no idea what, because I’m a lowly assistant, but Mr. Tolson has been in and out, arguing with his brother all week, and they keep having these secret meetings in the conference room.”
I swear, if she doesn’t get to the point soon, I’m going to lose my mind.
“So at the end of the day, my boss—Leo—calls me into Jim’s office and they start asking me all these questions about you.” She must see my worried look, because she’s quick to reassure me. “Nothing too personal. Jim wanted to know how old you are, what your interests are, if you’ve ever been in trouble with the law—”
“Um, what?”
Paisley huffs in annoyance. “He just wants to make sure you’re not a criminal.”
Forget this vow of silence. I’m too confused to stick to it. “Why does this agent—”
“Manager,” she corrects.
“Manager...” I roll my eyes. “Why does this manager care so much about me? And you said he manages musicians—is he trying to sign me as a client or something? You told him I can’t carry a tune, right?”
“Oh, totally. That was one of his questions, if you had any ‘musical aspirations.’” She air-quotes that. “He was pretty happy when I told him you’re (a) not musical and (b) interested in becoming a teacher.”
“Is it a matchmaking thing then? Because, gross. How old is this dude?” I ask skeptically.
She waves a hand. “In his thirties, I think. And that’s not it.”
“Is there an it? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”
Paisley pauses for a beat. Then she blurts out her next words in one breath. “They want you to pretend to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend this year.”
I spray the concrete steps with lukewarm coffee mixed with spit. “What?”
“I promise you it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
She runs a hand through her ordinarily perfectly styled black bob, and I notice for the first time that her hair is sticking up on the sides. Paisley’s usually so polished, from the top of her shiny head to the tips of the flats that she buffs every night.
“Mr. Tolson thinks you’re perfect for the job,” she tells me. “He said you’re pretty but not in an over-the-top way. More like a natural, girl-next-door type. I described you as down-to-earth, and he thinks that will complement Oakley, because Oakley can be really intense sometimes—”
“Okay, let’s back up,” I cut in. “Are you talking about Oakley Ford, pop icon? Oakley Ford, the guy with so many girls’ names tattooed on his body he’s like a phone directory of former Victoria’s Secret models? Oakley Ford, who tried to depants a monk in Angkor Wat and nearly caused an international incident? That Oakley Ford?”
“Yeah, him.” She scrunches up her nose. “And he’s only got one tattoo of a woman’s name and it’s his mom’s.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that or did you make a personal inspection?”
Oakley’s nineteen and Paisley’s twenty-three, so I guess it could happen, but that’s kinda disgusting. Not because he’s younger, but because Paisley’s too awesome to be some celebrejerk’s castoff.
“Ew, Vaughn.”
“Look, if you’re serious, the answer is still no. In fact, there are so many reasons for me to say no that I don’t know if we have time for me to list them all. But here’s one—I don’t even like Oakley Ford.”
“You played his album on repeat for, like, three months.”
“When I was fifteen!” Oakley Ford was a phase. Like BFF necklaces and Hannah Montana. Plus, his antics got really unappealing. After the tenth or so picture of him making out with some random girl at a club, he got kind of slimy in my eyes.
Paisley runs her hand through her hair again. “I know this is your year off. And I want you to have that, I swear. But this thing isn’t going to take up very much of your time. An hour or two maybe every other day. A couple nights. A couple weekends. It’s the same as if you were waiting tables at Sharkey’s.”
“Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”
She blinks. “What?”
“I have a boyfriend!”
“W?”
“Yes, W.” For some reason, Paisley hates W. She says his name is stupid and that he’s stupid, but I love him anyway. William Wilkerson isn’t the greatest name to be saddled with, but that’s not his fault. It’s also why we call him W. “There have to be dozens of girls who want to pretend-date Oakley Ford. And why does he need a fake girlfriend anyway? He could probably walk down to the Four Seasons on Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”
“That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the whole fake girlfriend thing with him before, but she fell for him and he broke her heart. I think half of the bad publicity the guy gets is because of her.”
“Are you talking about April Showers?” I gasp. “That was fake? Oh, man, I believed in ShOak. My childhood dreams are crushed.” I’m only half-kidding. Fifteen was a tough year for me, and not just because it was the year my parents died.
Paisley punches me in the shoulder. “You just said you didn’t like him.”
“Well, not after he cheated on April with that Brazilian swimsuit model.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “Fake, really?”
“Really.”
Hmmm. I might have to rethink my opinion of Oakley. Still, doesn’t mean I want to be the next fake girlfriend to be fake dumped and fake cheated on.
“So you’ll do it?”
I stare at her. “I make a couple hundred a night at Sharkey’s. You said before Christmas we were doing fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Last year I found Paisley crying at the dinner table at two in the morning. She admitted that Mom and Dad didn’t leave us in the greatest financial position. The insurance money kept us afloat at the beginning, but last summer she’d had to get a second mortgage to cover all the bills, and she was thinking of leaving college to get a job. Appalled, I sat down and made her go over everything with me, because she was a year away from graduating. I got my diploma early by taking summer courses, online ones to supplement my high school studies, and special permission from the school to take advanced classes. And then I found a job. Serving steak and iceberg lettuce wedges isn’t fancy, but it pays the bills.
Or so I thought.
“No. We’re fine. I mean...” She trails off.
“Then my answer is no.” I’ve never been interested in the other side of LA. It seems so artificial, and I do enough pretending as it is.
I have my hand on the screen door when Paisley drops her next bomb. “They’ll pay you twenty thousand a month.”
I spin around slowly, my mouth hanging open. “Are you effing kidding me?”
“Don’t swear,” she says automatically, but her eyes are bright with excitement. “And that’s for a full year of commitment.”
“That would...”
“Put the boys through college? Pay off both our mortgages? Make everything easier for us? Yes.”
I blow my overgrown bangs out of my face. This proposition is insane. I mean, who pays such an obscene amount of money to some random girl to pretend to be a pop star’s girlfriend for a year? Maybe that’s normal in the entertainment industry, but I grew up with parents who were elementary school teachers.
I suddenly wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive to hear this crazy offer. Would they encourage me to do it, or tell me to run, run for my life? I honestly don’t know. They were all about exploring new opportunities, taking the road less traveled. It was one of my favorite things about them, and I miss my fun-loving, impulsive parents. I miss them a lot.
That said, their love of spontaneity is part of the reason why we’re hurting for money.
“An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, but you don’t have to say yes,” Paisley assures me. Her words say one thing; her strained tone says another.
“How long do I have to think about it?”
“Jim Tolson wants an answer tomorrow morning. And if it’s a yes, he wants you to come to the agency to meet with him and Oakley.”
Oakley. Oakley frickin’ Ford.
This is...nuts.
“Fine, I’ll think about it.” I let out a breath. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.”
Twenty thousand dollars a month, Vaughn...
Yeah. I’m pretty sure we both know what my answer is going to be.
3 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
I said yes.
Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.
Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.
Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.
The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.
Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.
“You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.
“I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”
“Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.
We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.
I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.
A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”
“Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”
As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.
“This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”
Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.
“And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.
Jeez. His assistant has assistants?
Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”
“Um. Okay. Hit me.” My voice sounds unusually loud in this massive conference room. The echo feels endless.
“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?” he suggests.
I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he expect me to recite my life story? Well, I was born in California. I live in El Segundo. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen.
Or maybe he wants trivia-type stuff? My favorite color is green. I’m scared of butterflies. I hate cats.
My confusion must show on my face, because Jim gives me a few prompts. “What are your interests? What do you aspire to do after high school?”
“Oh, I’m done with high school already,” I admit.
“Are you in college?” Claudia, the publicist, twists and frowns at Paisley. “She may need to miss classes. How old are you again?”
“Seventeen.”
“Age of consent in California is eighteen.” This reminder comes from the end of the table, where the lawyers, plural, are sitting.
Claudia waves her hand dismissively. “They’re dating. Nothing more. Besides, Oakley’s audience is mostly young girls. Anyone older and it won’t have the same impact.” She turns to me. “What are you currently doing?”
“I’m working. I took the year off to work to help our family.” I’ve said it so many times, but even the passing mention of Mom and Dad being gone still makes my heart clench.
“Paisley and Vaughn’s parents died a couple of years ago,” Jim explains.
Paisley and I cringe as the entire table gives us pitying looks, except for Claudia, who beams. “Wonderful. An intelligent, plucky orphan,” she says, and her voice is so high and squeaky it hurts my ears. “This backstory gets better and better. She’s just what we’re looking for.”
We? I’m even more confused. I thought this was about me pretending to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend, so why am I in a conference room filled with strangers? Shouldn’t my soon-to-be fake boyfriend be here, too?
“Do you plan on attending college?” Jim asks.
I nod. “I got into USC and Cal State, but I deferred until next fall.” I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans as I trot out my practiced speech about wanting to have real life experience before school but how I eventually plan to go into teaching.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Claudia’s “team” taking diligent notes. My confession that I like to draw triggers several interested looks from the PR section.
“Are you good?” Claudia asks bluntly.
I shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. I mostly do pencil sketches. Usually just faces.”
“She’s being modest,” Paisley speaks up, her voice firm. “Vaughn’s drawings are amazing.”
Claudia’s blue eyes shine with excitement as she turns to her team, and then four voices chime out, “Fan art!”
“I’m sorry...what?” I say in bewilderment.
“That’s how we’ll make first contact. We’ve been brainstorming various online meet-cutes, but they all felt so contrived. But this has potential. Picture this—you Tweet a gorgeous sketch you drew of Oakley, and he’s so blown away he Tweets you back!” Oakley’s high-voiced publicist begins to make rapid hand gestures as she gets more and more excited by the picture she’s painting. “And his followers will take notice, because he so rarely replies to Tweets. Oakley tells you how your piece touched him. It brought tears to his eyes. You Tweet back and forth a few times, and then...” She pauses for effect. “He follows you.”
This prompts simultaneous gasps from her three assistants.
“Yes,” one of them says with a vigorous nod of her head.
“But,” another speaks up hesitantly, “we need to address the sister issue.”
“Right,” Claudia agrees. “Hmmm. Yes.”
Paisley and I exchange flabbergasted looks. It’s like these people are speaking a different language.
Jim sees our faces and quickly clarifies. “The fact that Paisley works for this agency will no doubt come out. Once the press digs that up, they’ll start concocting wild theories about how the relationship is a scam arranged by Oakley’s manager—”
I can’t help but snort.
Jim doesn’t seem to be as amused by the truth as I am. “—who just so happens to be related to the head of this agency. So we need to provide a plausible reason why a Diamond employee’s sister is suddenly involved with one of the agency’s clients.”
“We’ll blame it on coincidence,” Claudia says with total confidence. “One of Vaughn’s Tweets to Oakley will be this—” She moves her fingers through the air like she’s conveying a headline “‘Oh-em-gee! I just realized my big sis works at the same agency that reps you! How cool is that!’”
I try not to roll my eyes.
“That could work,” Jim says thoughtfully. “And then we’ll get Paisley—” he glances at my sister “—to give a short interview about her role in the relationship.”
“My role?” Paisley sounds uncertain.
Claudia can obviously read Jim’s mind, because she starts nodding again. I’m surprised her head is still attached to her neck at this rate. “Yes, you’ll give a statement about how you could not believe it when Oakley’s manager called you into his brother’s office and told you that Oakley wanted your sister’s phone number.”
Paisley starts nodding, too, and I almost reach over to smack her. Why is she feeding into these people’s craziness?
“I have a few more questions for Vaughn,” Jim says. “Your sister said you were dating someone?”
I don’t miss the way Paisley’s lips curl slightly at the reminder of W. Ugh. One of these days she’s going to have to suck it up and accept that I’m in love with the guy.
“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” I reply awkwardly. “And actually, my Twitter and Instagram have lots of pictures of the two of us.”
Jim turns to Claudia, who falls silent. I can see the wheels in her bouncy head turning and turning.
“You’ll announce a breakup on your social media,” she decides. “We’ll spend two—no, three, weeks focusing on the split. First will be your despondent post announcing the end of the relationship, then we’ll document your grieving process, how you’re so upset and—”
“Listening to Oakley Ford’s albums on repeat,” one of the assistants finishes animatedly.
Claudia’s eyes light up. “Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Oakley’s music pulls you from the dark abyss of heartache.”
I almost gag.
“And that’s what inspires you to draw his face, which leads to our social media meet-cute.” She glances at Jim. “It still works.”
He looks pleased. “All right. What about Vaughn’s appearance? How do we feel about that?”
Everyone at the table swings their heads toward me. Their gazes pierce me, assessing me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. My cheeks heat up, and Paisley squeezes my hand again.
All of a sudden, the critiques start pouring in.
“The bangs are too long,” Claudia chirps. “We’ll trim them.”
“Hair itself needs a trim, too. And that shade of brown looks too fake.”
“It’s my real hair color!” I protest, but nobody’s listening to me.
“The honey-brown eyes are nice. I like the gold flecks. We’ll forgo colored contacts.”
“Shirt’s a little too baggy. Are your shirts always this baggy, Vaughn?”
“Isn’t normal what we are going for?” someone disagrees. “If we make her pretty, then the fans won’t be able to relate.”
I have never been more humiliated in my life.
“Oh, one last thing,” Claudia says suddenly. “Are you a virgin?”
Scratch that—it’s possible to be more embarrassed. There are a few coughs from other people at the table. Jim pretends the traffic in the hallway outside the room is fascinating, while the lawyers all stare stone-faced down the length of the table.
“Do I have to answer that?” I cast a dark look at my sister, who shakes her head.
“That can’t be important,” Paisley says to the man who’s more or less her boss.
Jim ignores her. Clearly this question is one he wants the answer to, as well.
I want to hug her for standing up for me. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are officially as red as Claudia’s hair.
“If you’re worried there’s some sort of sex scandal in Vaughn’s past, don’t be,” my sister assures the table. “Vaughn is the definition of good girl.”
I don’t know why, but Paisley’s view of me kind of stings. I mean, I know I’m not Miss Badass, but I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, either.
Claudia shrugs. “We’ll do a thorough background check, nonetheless.”
Background check? My sex status shows up in someone’s report? I’m about to burst in outrage when Jim steps in.
“All right, I think we can all agree that this arrangement shows promise.” He clasps both hands together and glances at the lawyer section of the table. “Nigel, why don’t you and the boys draft a rough contract and jot down any negotiation points you anticipate? Oakley will be here in an hour, so we can get into the finer details then.”
I frown. We’re all just supposed to wait around for an hour until His Majesty gets here? And now that I think about it, do I need a lawyer? I whisper the question to Paisley, who voices the question to her boss.
“The contract will be very straightforward,” Jim assures us. “Basically, it will state that you’ve agreed to enter into a service contract and that should you, at any time, no longer be able to perform your duties, the contract can be terminated. Any goods or monies received up to that time are yours to keep.”
I bite my lip. This is starting to feel exceptionally complicated. But I guess when twenty thousand dollars—a month!—is involved, I should have expected complicated.
“How about this?” Jim suggests. “Why don’t we sit down with Oakley and go over the contract details? Then you can read the agreement Nigel’s firm drafts, and then you can decide where we go from there.”
“Okay,” I answer, because that sounds very reasonable despite the ridiculousness of the situation.
Next to me, Paisley winks and gives me a not-very-subtle thumbs-up of encouragement. I shoot her a wan smile in return.
If I just remember why I’m doing this—so my brothers can go to college, so Paisley can stop worrying about how we’re going to pay the bills... If I can just keep focusing on all that, then maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.
4 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
I’m hungry and my stomach’s been announcing that fact for the last thirty minutes. Still, no one suggests we take a break for lunch, even though it’s close to noon and Oakley Ford still hasn’t appeared. It’s been two hours. Jim and the lawyers have left the room, but everyone else is glued to their chairs.
“Here’s a granola bar. And a Coke.” Paisley sets the snacks on the table in front of me.
“No wonder you like working here,” I joke. “The free lunches are so fancy.”
But since I’m starving, I shove half the bar in my mouth—at the exact same moment that Oakley Ford throws open the door.
Two burly guys with arms like tree trunks follow him inside. One plants himself next to the entrance while the other trails behind the singer. I barely notice Jim and the lawyers entering and closing the door, because I’m too busy staring at Oakley.
He’s taller than I thought he’d be. Everyone in Hollywood is short. Zac Efron is barely taller than my five-six. Same with Daniel Radcliffe. At six-four, Ansel Elgort is a veritable giant. Oakley looks to be Elgort-size, but with way more muscles.
He’s even hotter in person. It’s not the sandy-blond hair spiked up in the front and cut short in the back. Or his moss-green eyes. Or his chiseled jaw. He actually has an aura. You hear of things like that, but until you’ve experienced it in person, you don’t believe it exists.
But he has it.
Everyone in the room is responding. People are sitting up and straightening their clothes. I dimly register Paisley smoothing her perfect hair into place.
And I can’t look away.
Oakley’s jeans are low enough that the brand of underwear he’s wearing is visible as he reaches across the sideboard to grab a bottle of water. His arm muscles are defined enough to be noticeable, and I watch in fascination as the right biceps flexes when he twists the bottle cap off. Those muscles remind me of the shirtless spread he did for Vogue a couple of months ago. It was all over the web because the editorial spread had one shot of him in underwear only, and the size of his crotch got everyone speculating whether he stuffed a sock down his shorts.
I forget I’m eating my granola bar. I forget that I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of lawyers. I forget my own name.
“Sorry. Traffic,” he says before settling in the seat at the very end of the table. The bodyguard stands at his shoulder.
I find myself nodding, because LA does have horrible traffic. Of course this beautiful god wouldn’t make us mere mortals wait for him because he was doing something—is his hair wet? Did he just shower? Is it getting hot in the conference room?
This is Oakley Ford and I did listen to his album on repeat when I was fifteen. And fine, I might have harbored a teeny-tiny crush on him, which was why I was so upset when he cheated on his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend.
Which I’m going to be.
Fake.
I don’t like fake, but I’m good at it. Faking things, that is.
Paisley nudges me.
“What?” Then I realize I still have the stupid granola bar hanging out of my mouth.
A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has noticed this. Claudia wears a worried expression. Jim is resigned. I don’t want to look at Oakley, but I do anyway. His face shows a cross between horror and fascination. The glance he throws his manager definitely says You’ve got to be kidding.
The only thing to do is act like I don’t care. I bite off the bar and start chewing. The health bar, never an appealing item to begin with, tastes like cardboard. Everyone watches me, and I chew even slower. Then I take a big swallow of Coke before wiping my mouth with the napkin that Paisley miraculously produces. I’m certain I’m redder than the receptionist’s lipstick, but I pretend that it’s no big deal. See how good I am at acting like everything is perfect?
“So this is her?” Oakley waves a hand in my general direction. I’ve heard him speak in interviews before, but his voice sounds even better in person. Deep and raspy and hypnotizing.
Jim hesitates and then looks down at his phone. Whatever he sees there stiffens his resolve. He sets the phone down. “Oakley Ford, this is Vaughn Bennett. Vaughn, Oakley.”
I start to rise and hold out my hand, but stop halfway out of my seat when Oakley leans back and clasps his hands behind his head.
Okay then.
Suddenly all my nervousness and embarrassment drain away. Relief settles in their place. I take another sip of my Coke. Surprise, surprise—Mr. Famous is a total jerk.
For a moment there, I felt like I was in danger of being sucked in by his magnetism. That I’d forget W, the money, April Showers, Brazilian supermodels and become caught up in his force field. But a guy who mocks me because I had the nerve to eat a granola bar while we all waited on his late ass? Who doesn’t have the courtesy to shake my hand?
There’s no way I’d ever fall for a guy like that.
I sneak a look at Paisley, who’s smiling slightly. She must have had the same concerns.
“So are we going to talk about terms? Like, what are my work hours?” I ask coolly, cradling the pop can between my hands.
“Work hours?” Claudia echoes, a tiny furrow appearing on her forehead.
“Yeah, since this is my job.”
She titters. “Not a job, more like a...”
“Role?” one of her assistants offers.
“Yes. A role in a long, romantic movie. And you’re the two leads.”
I feel actual bile rise up in my throat.
Oakley grumbles with impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”
Quickly, Claudia outlines our meet-cute with the drawing and the Twitter stuff. When she’s finished, Oakley yawns.
“Sure. Whatever. You’re going to handle it, right?”
“Well, not me, but Amy here will.” Claudia tips her head to the raven-haired woman on her right.
Amy holds up her phone in acknowledgment.
“Great.” He slaps his hands down on the table. “Then we’re done?”
Seriously? I waited over two hours and got only a granola bar and an extra serving of humiliation for this five-minute demonstration of how Oakley Ford isn’t even going to participate in this charade? Instead, I’ll be fake flirting with the assistant of one of his media people.
I turn to Paisley, who gives me a small, rueful shrug.
“No. We’re not done,” Jim barks from the other end of the table. The two of them exchange glares, but whatever power Jim holds over Oakley, it’s enough to get the young star to resettle into his chair.
“Let’s hear the rest of it.” He makes a tired gesture toward Claudia.
She picks up her notepad. “We’ll need the first date. We don’t think you should have any physical contact until after the third—” she looks at her assistants and then at Jim “—fourth date? I mean, we’re trying to sell this as a wholesome romance.”
Everyone starts throwing ideas out about when and how the touching will happen. Someone says he should kiss me on the forehead. Another suggests a hand on the small of my back. There’s another vote for hand-holding.
I’m still struggling with the concept of any touching when Paisley, the traitor, asks, “When did you and W start holding hands?”
Before I can answer, Oakley jumps in, snickering softly. “You dated a guy named W?”
“So what?” Wow. His first words to me are to make fun of my boyfriend’s name? It’s like Oakley’s trying to get me to dislike him.
“Sounds like a pretentious asshat.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. The action makes his biceps flex again.
I drag my eyes away. “Okay, Mr. I-Name-All-My-Albums-After-Me Ford.”
Someone at the end of the table gasps at my audacity, but Oakley’s unfazed by my insult. “Even Madonna has a full collection of letters in her name.”
“W is not pretentious.”
“If you say so.” He smirks.
“I do. He’s awesome. And sweet.”
“So why’d you break up with him?”
“I didn’t,” I say indignantly.
His brow creases. “So he broke up with you?” He sounds...confused. Like that doesn’t make sense to him.
“He hasn’t!”
Oakley shifts to Claudia. “So my down-to-earth, wholesome, normal girlfriend is a cheater?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s gonna go over well.”
“Oh, you mean the fake breakup,” I say. For a minute there, I’d forgotten.
He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.
“He’ll break up with her tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’ll give it approximately two weeks after the breakup, and then she’ll Tweet you the drawing. Then there’ll be a series of dates, but no touching.” Claudia turns to me. “When did you have your first kiss?”
“Ever?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but my mind is stuck on the breaking up with W bit. I haven’t thought this whole thing through. I’ve been so focused on the money and how we’d be able to pay off the mortgage, pay for the twins’ college, allow Paisley to sleep better at night, that I hadn’t given any thought to the actual details of how this whole thing was going to work.
“Yeah, ever,” Oakley says, and this time he does roll his eyes.
These personal questions suck. “When was yours?” I counter, still focused on the W issue. Lately, he’s been pulling away. He says it’s my fault that I don’t act like an adult about our relationship because I’m still refusing to have sex with him.
“With tongue? I think I was eleven. It was with Donna Foster, the daughter of my dad’s side chick.”
My eyes grow wide. He French-kissed at eleven? I still thought boys had cooties at that age. Oakley would probably pee with laughter if he knew I was a virgin.
“You?” he prompts.
“Um...” Jeez, now I’m even more embarrassed, but for another reason. “Sixteen,” I mumble.
“How sweet. Just like the saying.”
I curl my fingers into fists. If Claudia’s team wasn’t sitting between the two of us, I might’ve reached over and smacked his smug smile off his smug face.
Paisley grips my hand, an unspoken gesture for me to get it together.
Even Claudia must sense that my patience is coming to an end. Hurriedly, she says, “Let’s do hand-holding on the third date and then a kiss on the fourth date. We’ll keep the first couple of dates under wraps, but leak the later ones to the paps.”
“Hold up, we’re going to kiss? I have a boyfriend,” I remind the room. “No one said there’d be kissing.”
“We’re gonna have a year-long relationship and we don’t kiss? Why don’t we just announce that it’s fake from the beginning?” Oakley mocks.
“But...but...” Yeah, I definitely didn’t think this through. I quickly turn to Paisley for help.
She grimaces. “They’re right. No one is going to believe that you and Oakley haven’t kissed. Not if you’re serious.” Her tone is apologetic, but her words don’t provide me any relief.
“You don’t expect me to...” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say the words out loud.
“Of course not,” Jim interjects briskly. “We’re not that kind of agency.”
He tries to play it off as a joke, but, um, they kind of are. They’re hiring this guy a girlfriend and they expect us to kiss.
How am I going to explain this to W? Sorry, babe, not willing to have sex with you yet, but I’m going to kiss another guy. In public.
That will go over well.
Claudia leans forward. “This is no different than if you were acting on a television show. Remember, you’re playing a part in a big love story.”
Her assurance doesn’t help, either. I may not know what I want in life. I may just be telling everyone I want to be a teacher because that’s easier than admitting I’m clueless about my future and that I’d rather hide as a waitress for the next five years. But I do know that the entertainment industry doesn’t interest me.
Paisley squeezes my hand again, probably to remind me why I’m doing this. By playing the role of a girlfriend, I get to lift the burden off my big sister’s shoulders and provide for my brothers. It’s not like I’m signing my entire life over. It’s just one year.
“What do I need to do?” I ask, feeling resigned.
“Just a few kisses, some hand-holding. It’s nothing, really.” Claudia waves her hand airily. “And it doesn’t need to be in the contract other than some general terms about physical contact when necessary.”
“Does any of this need to be in the contract?” Oakley sounds annoyed.
“I agree. If this ever got out, it would be terrible for Oak’s image,” Jim points out.
“The terms need to be specific so that the girl can be held to them,” one of the suits replies. Then he and Jim engage in some furious whispering until the lawyer presses his lips together in unhappy surrender. “Fine, it can be general, then. A general contract of employment.”
Once that’s decided, Claudia returns to her list. I wonder how long it is. I glance at the big white clock on the wall. It’s going on three hours and I’m exhausted.
“Let’s talk about her look again.”
“I’m not changing my look,” I mutter. “I like my look.”
I like my comfy skinny jeans, assortment of colorful T-shirts and the Vans that W and I doodled on during morning advisory last spring. The sneakers are filled with details marking our favorite dates. There’s a wizard’s wand along the left sole because we’re both Harry Potter fans. Then there’s the light post to signify the Urban Light display on Wilshire, where W kissed me for the first time. Where there was definitely tongue. His initials are on the back of one shoe and mine are on the other. He has a pair of them, too, but he doesn’t wear his. He says he doesn’t want to ruin them.
“You have a look?” Oakley raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, and it’s better than yours,” I retort, tired of his attitude. “Would it kill you to wear pants that actually fit around your waist? No one wants to see your underwear.”
“Baby, everyone wants to see my underwear. I get paid a hundred grand per pap pic.”
“Baby?” I scoff.
He leans forward, threading his surprisingly elegant fingers together. “Don’t like that one? Pick another, then. You’re my girlfriend,” he reminds me mockingly.
“So you’re into infants?”
“What?” He rears back. “No. Fine. How about—” he pretends to think and then snaps his fingers “—old lady?”
“Great.” I give him my fakest smile. “I’ll call you...dick cheese.”
“Vaughn, gross,” my sister interjects.
Oakley covers his mouth. I swear I see a smile. I wait for his response and I’m not disappointed. “I have no problem with that, crabby patty.”
“All right, that’s enough of that. None of this needs to be in the contract.” Oakley’s lawyer rattles his papers in agitation.
I turn back to Claudia. I’ve given in on the kissing. On the dates. On this made-for-the-media breakup with my boyfriend, but no way am I going to let them change my look. I’ve got to fight for something. “I thought you wanted a normal girl. I’m a normal girl. This is what some normal girls wear.”
When Claudia and Jim exchange a glance, I know I’ve won this one. They agree to keep my look...for now.
“But when we take pictures, at least let us do your makeup. You’ll want us to,” Claudia promises.
Um. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.
The negotiation goes on. When will our first official picture be released? Where will the dates take place? Will I go to an awards show with him? How about fashion week in New York? How often should I be seen with him? Every day? Every other day?
Oh, and I would not get Oakley’s phone number. Like I care.
But I still find it weird, because what nineteen-year-old isn’t allowed to give his number to his own girlfriend? And how does he communicate with his friends? Wait—does he even have friends? Or are they all fake like me?
I peer at him from underneath my lashes and feel a pang of sympathy. Oh, brother. Am I actually starting to feel sorry for him? I think I might be.
But then my stomach growls and reminds me that we’re still mad. And unfed.
“You’ll text Amy or me if you want to get ahold of Oakley,” Claudia says.
“I feel like I need my own people. My people can text your people,” I joke.
No one laughs. Instead, Claudia looks like she’s seriously considering it, but then decides against it. “No, I think two nonteens Tweeting each other and commenting on Instagram would appear too contrived. And your voice, we want to preserve that. Whereas Amy has been running Oak’s page for a couple of years now.”
I have a voice?
“Whatever.” I’m exhausted and hungry. One granola bar wasn’t enough, and my stomach rumbles again to alert everyone to that fact.
“Is the granola bar all you’ve had today?” Oakley asks.
A burst of surprise jolts me. Out of all the people in this room, Oakley’s the one to ask? “I had breakfast, but I like to eat like a normal person.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Jim, we need to eat.”
“Oh, sure.” Jim turns to Paisley. “Run and get us one of everything from the café across the street.”
I see a chance for fresh air and an escape. “I’ll go, too.” Not to mention that I don’t want to be here without Paisley.
“Oh, no, we’ll need you here,” Jim objects.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my sister. She doesn’t need to wait on me.
Paisley laughs. “It’s my job, silly. I’ll be right back.”
She trots out like she’s glad to be out of there, while I watch her exit and wish I could go with her.
On the other side of the table, Oakley leans back, crosses his arms again and looks smug, like he cured world hunger. “Well?” he prompts.
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Why? Paisley’s the one getting the food.”
“You wouldn’t be having lunch without me.”
I point to the clock. “I’ve been sitting in this conference room for five hours. Prisoners in maximum security receive better treatment. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lying on the beach rereading The Handmaid’s Tale and I would have eaten something. But sure, thank you for alerting your manager to send my sister to get me food.”
He doesn’t like my smart-ass response. “It’s too cold for the beach.”
“I never said I was going to swim.” I speak in the same tone I use when I tell my little brothers they’re acting like immature idiots.
“Why are you at the beach, then?”
I gape at him. “Why does anyone go to the beach? Because it’s awesome.”
“If you say so,” he responds, but the smugness he’s previously displayed is dialed down a watt as if my reasons for liking the beach are important...or even interesting. Or he might be confused about why I’d choose to go there rather than sit five feet away from his holy presence.
But I’m not going to tell him.
Instead, I drain the rest of my Coke, slam it on the table with more force than necessary and then sit back and refuse to say another word.
Is it childish?
Oh, yeah.
But it feels really, really good.
5 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
Jim drags me into his office before I can make a run for the elevator bank. My bodyguards, Big D and Tyrese, remain outside the door, but they have a perfect view of us because the office is a big glass cube. I don’t know how he gets any work done with the whole floor being able to see him at all times.
My entire life is a big glass cube. I can’t even remember a time when I had actual privacy.
“Do not run her off,” is the first thing Jim snaps at me.
“Who?”
“Vaughn Bennett. She’s the perfect candidate to play your fake girlfriend. We need her.”
“Yeah, in the way I need an enema. Did you see the mouth on that chick?”
“Oakley. I’m warning you.”
“About what?” I roll my eyes and flop into the huge leather chair behind the massive desk.
He doesn’t say a word about me sitting in his chair. He can’t, because I’m Oakley fuckin’ Ford.
“Number one,” Jim begins, “don’t flirt with her—”
“Isn’t that kind of the point? We’re supposed to be dating.”
“The point is to rehab your image. Vaughn’s going to play a pivotal role in that, which brings me to number two—don’t antagonize her.”
She started it, I almost say, but that would just make me sound like a five-year-old. It’s true, though. Vaughn Bennett was the one acting all rude and giving me lip. All I did was point out that her boyfriend sounds like a pretentious douche. Not my fault some people can’t handle a helpful truth bomb.
“Couldn’t you have hired someone who’s a little less...bitchy?” I grumble.
“You mean someone who’s a little more adoring?” Jim replies, and his knowing smile grates on my nerves.
Fine, so maybe I’m pissed about Vaughn’s total lack of...respect, I guess? I don’t expect every girl I meet to throw herself at my feet and declare her undying love for me, but come on, she could’ve at least said she liked my music or something. Or congratulated me on my last Grammy.
Where does this chick get off, acting like she’s doing me a favor just by sitting in the same conference room as me? I’m Oakley Ford.
“You’ve changed your mind about working with King, then?” Jim asks.
I glare at him. “There’s got to be another way. Let’s call him up again.”
“Sure.” Jim pulls out his phone and tosses it down the desk. It slides to a halt halfway between us. “Call him. He’s number ten on my favorites.”
This feels like a dare. I grab the phone and start to press Dial when I realize I’m looking at Jim’s recent call list. About every fifth call is to King. My eyes flick up to meet Jim’s, and what I see in his gaze doesn’t sit well in my gut. It’s a mix of regret and resignation.
He dips his head. “I’ve tried to call him. He won’t take my calls about you. He’s not interested, not until you show him you’re not a spoiled little jerk who’d rather party at nightclubs than make good music. So if you have a better idea, I’m all ears, but short of taking him to a cabin and going all Misery on his ass, he’s not going to work with you.”
I can’t maintain eye contact anymore, because I don’t have a different idea. I rub my throat and wonder how I lost my mojo.
If pretending to date a girl I don’t know, who doesn’t like me, gets it back, then I’ll be the best boyfriend that this chick has ever had.
Which can’t be hard considering her current one is named W.
* * *
I get home an hour later to find a half-dressed couple making out on my bed.
I stand there in the doorway for a second, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, but the skinny blonde on my California king mattress notices me and unleashes an ear-piercing shriek.
“Oh! My! God! You’re Oakley Ford!”
Then, wearing nothing but a short skirt and skimpy bra, she flies off the bed and launches herself at me.
My man Tyrese appears out of nowhere and steps in her path.
Anger and annoyance swirl in my gut as I peer at the guy on the bed. I vaguely recognize him—I think it’s one of Luke’s friends. But why is he in my bedroom?
He zips up his pants and scrambles off the bed. He’s either drunk or high or both as he slurs, “Oak, bro. You’re home early. Luke said you wouldna be back for a couple hours.”
As if that makes it okay that he’s fooling around on my bed?
I’m so disgusted I can’t even answer. I just jerk my head at Tyrese, who clamps one meaty hand on the girl’s arm and his other meaty hand around the guy’s shoulder.
“Time to go,” my bodyguard announces in his baritone voice.
“No, wait!” the blonde whines. “I just wanna get a picture with Oakley! Oakley, I’m your biggest fan! I love you! Can I please get—”
Her pleas fade away as Tyrese drags the couple down the sweeping marble staircase.
I hear a door click and turn to find a member of my cleaning staff stepping out of one of the guest rooms. “Is everything all right, Mr. Ford?” she asks with a timid expression.
“Everything’s fine.” I hook my thumb at my bedroom. “Burn those sheets,” I say curtly, and then I stalk past her toward the east wing, where Luke has been crashing for the past few days.
I throw his door open without knocking. “Get out,” I snap.
Luke was sprawled on the bed watching TV, but now he bolts to his feet, his panicky gaze finding mine. “Oak,” he says weakly. “You’re back early.”
“Yeah, I am,” I bite out. “And now it’s time for you to go.”
“But...” He’s visibly gulping. “Come on, man, I already told you, I’ve got nowhere else to stay while my place is being fumigated.”
“Not my problem anymore.”
“Oak—”
“Why the hell are there strangers in my room, Luke? We had an agreement. I give you a place to crash, you don’t invite people over without running it by me first.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, bro. But Charlie’s girl is, like, obsessed with you, and it’s her birthday, and Charlie just wanted to show her your room. You know,” he says feebly, “like a birthday present.”
I gape at him. Does he expect me to buy that?
“How much and how many times?” I ask in a flat voice.
Luke gulps again. “Wh-what?”
“How much do you charge ’em for the experience of screwing in Oakley Ford’s bedroom, and how many times have you done it?”
When the tips of his ears turn red, I know I’m right. And now all the disgust I feel is directed at myself. I should’ve known Luke would screw me over eventually. They always do.
I met him a couple years ago at the studio. I was rehearsing with the house band, he was playing bass guitar, and we hit it off instantly. We liked the same music, same video games, same everything. The two of us ran wild in the LA club scene for a while there. I invited him to go on tour with me. But these last few months, Luke’s turned into a leech. Borrowing money from me, getting me to sign stuff he can sell online.
And now this? Yeah. I think this “friendship” has run its course.
“Forget it, don’t answer that,” I mutter. “Just get your stuff and go.”
“Don’t be like that, bro.”
My patience is nonexistent. “D,” I call over my shoulder.
Big D appears behind me. He crosses his enormous arms over his enormous chest then proceeds to glare daggers at Luke until the bassist sighs in defeat and starts gathering up his belongings.
With my bodyguard handling the sitch, I march off and take the stairs two at a time. This day just keeps getting worse and worse, starting with the meeting with my new fake girlfriend, a chick with a smart mouth and a chip on her shoulder, and ending with yet another person I considered a friend showing his true colors.
I’m seething as I burst into the media room on the main floor and grab a beer from the fridge. Yeah, I’m underage, but there’s been booze, drugs and girls at my disposal for as long as I can remember.
I twist open the cap and heave myself onto the leather sectional. It’s only five o’clock and I’m legit ready to call it a day.
Tyrese pokes his shiny shaved head into the room and grunts, “All taken care of, Oak.”
“Thanks, Ty.” I take a swig of beer and click the remote.
“D’s heading out,” he tells me.
I nod. Both my bodyguards stick to me like glue during the day, but only Ty sticks around on the nights I go out or have people over. Big D actually has a wife and kid. Ty’s single.
“Lemme know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
After he disappears, I turn up the volume and do some channel surfing, but nothing holds my interest for very long. I watch ten minutes of a documentary about komodo dragons. Five minutes of some crappy sitcom. A few minutes of sports highlights. A few seconds of the five o’clock news, which is just long enough to bum me out, so I quickly change channels again.
I’m about to turn off the TV altogether when a familiar face catches my eye. The channel I’m on is playing TMI, a mindless show where two asshats watch paparazzi footage and offer color commentary on it. The screen shows a tall, willowy blonde in skintight jeans and a flowy blue top leaving LAX airport.
That blonde is my mother.
“—and not too concerned about her son’s latest scandal,” the male host is saying.
Wait, I have a latest scandal? I scan my brain trying to think of what I’ve done lately, but I come up blank.
A melodic giggle pours out of the surround sound. I know that giggle well.
“Oh, pshaw! My son is a healthy, red-blooded nineteen-year-old. If making out with a pretty and legal-age girl outside a nightclub is a crime—”
Right. That scandal.
“—then go ahead and lock up half the teenage boys in this town,” my mother finishes. Then she pops her oversize sunglasses over her eyes and slides into the waiting limo in the airport pickup area.
“Maybe Oakley is just following his mommy’s example,” remarks the female host with spiky pink hair. “Because obviously Katrina Ford herself has no problems canoodling outside nightclubs. This pic was taken in London last night.”
A picture of my mom locking lips with some silver fox flashes on the screen. I turn off the TV before the commentary kicks in. I’m less concerned about Mom’s London shenanigans and more concerned about the fact that she’s back in LA.
And she didn’t even bother calling me.
Crap, or maybe she did, I realize a second later when I check my phone to discover a missed call from Mom’s LA number. I forgot I put my phone on silent during the conference at Diamond.
I hit the button to return the call then sit through at least ten rings before my mother’s voice chirps in my ear.
“Hi, baby!”
“Hey, Mom. When’d you get back in town?”
“This morning.” There’s a flurry of noise in the background, what sounds like loud hammering and the whir of power tools. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. I’m going upstairs because I can barely hear you. I’m having renovations done on the main floor.”
Again? I swear, that woman renovates her Malibu beach house every other month.
“Okay, I can hear you now. Anyway, I called to make sure you’re still planning to make an appearance at the charity benefit that the studio is hosting this weekend.”
My jaw stiffens. I guess it’s too much to hope that she called to actually talk to her only son.
“What’s the charity again?” I ask woodenly.
“Hmmm, I don’t remember. Cruelty against animals, maybe? No, I think it’s for cancer research.” Mom pauses. “No, that’s not right, either. It definitely has something to do with animals.”
I’m not gonna lie—my mother is an airhead.
She’s not dumb or anything. She can memorize a hundred-page script in less than a day. And when she’s passionate about something, she throws her whole heart and soul into it. Except the thing is...she’s passionate about the dumbest shit. Shoes. Redecorating the multimillion-dollar house she got in the divorce. Whatever new fad diet is making the rounds.
Katrina Ford was the queen of rom coms, vivacious and drop-dead gorgeous, but truth is, she doesn’t have much substance. She’s not winning any Mother of the Year awards, either, but I’m used to living in the background of her self-absorbed bubble.
It’s not like my dad is any better. Mom at least remembers to call me. Sometimes. Dustin Ford is too busy being an Academy Award-winning actor to remember he has a son.
“And sweetheart, please don’t bring a date,” Mom is saying. “If you show up with some girl on your arm, all the focus will be on that and not the charity we’re trying to raise money for.”
The charity whose name and purpose she doesn’t even know.
“I’ll get Bitsy to text you the details. I expect at least an hour of your time.”
“Sure, whatever you want, Mom.”
“That’s my boy.” She pauses again. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”
“Not for a few months,” I admit. “Last I heard, he was in Hawaii with Chloe.”
“Which one is Chloe again? The one with the boob job or the one with the botched Botox?”
“I honestly don’t remember.” Ever since my parents’ divorce two years ago, my father’s love life has been a revolving door of surgically enhanced women. Hell, that was his life even before the divorce.
Hence the divorce.
“Well, when you do speak to him, tell him there’s a box of his stuff that’s been sitting in the foyer closet for almost a year, and if he or one of his people doesn’t pick it up soon, I’m going to burn it in the fire pit out back.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” I grumble.
“Oh, baby, you know your father and I only speak through our lawyers—and mine is out of town at the moment. So be a good boy, Oak, and pass along that message to Dusty.” Her voice goes muffled for a second. “Absolutely not!” she calls to someone who isn’t me. “That paneling must be preserved!” Mom’s voice gets clearer again. “Oakley, baby, I have to go. These contractors are trying to destroy my house! I’ll see you this weekend.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
The silence in the house makes my skin itch. Without Luke and his merry band of leeches, the place feels like a museum. I flick on the television again and crank up the sound.
Great. Now I’m pretending I’m not alone by turning the TV volume up. Mindlessly, I watch a bunch of shows about jacking up cars until I can’t stand the stupid manufactured drama. Hits too close to home, I guess. I grab my phone, and my finger hovers over the screen. I could ask Tyrese to call one of those girls who just want to touch Oakley Ford. That’d be good for an hour or two. I could light up a joint. Drink myself into a stupor. Or I could just go to bed. Because if I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, like I promised Jim, none of those other options fit with the plan.
I turn the television off. In the front room, Tyrese is sitting in an oversize armchair, flipping through something on his phone.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You are?” He looks up in surprise. It’s barely ten. “Alone?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to be a good boy now. Can’t be having honeys over when I’m preparing to romance another girl, right?”
Tyrese shrugs. “I guess not. But Big D’s the family man, not me.”
And we both know where Big D is right now. Not out at the club picking up a random chick. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night, brother.”
“Night.”
6 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
I’m up at dawn the next morning despite getting almost no sleep. In the kitchen, Paisley is in her usual zombie-like precaffeinated state with a buttered bagel on the table and a half-filled coffeepot in her hand. I grab the pot from her before she crashes it into the side of the refrigerator. My sister can’t function without her caffeine fix.
After our parents died, I started drinking the foul stuff with her. It’s part of my routine now, but I always dilute it with milk. Paisley calls my coffee half and half. Half coffee, half milk.
“I heard you get up at three,” she mumbles as she takes a seat at the glass-topped breakfast table. “You okay?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I dump out the tap water and pull a pitcher of water from the fridge. “You seriously think this is the right thing to do?” I ask as I pour the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir and scoop out fresh grounds into the filter. “I kept obsessing about it last night, and it’s not the fake-dating thing that gets me—” I’m a champion at pretending “—it’s the length of time. An entire year, Paisley?”
I take a seat next to her and rip off a piece of her bagel.
“I know it seems like a long time, but unless it’s a serious relationship, there’s no point in even doing this charade.” She sounds tired, too. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. We’ll be fine without the money.”
Guilt rushes through me when I hear the note of defeat in her voice. Paisley’s held our family together with sheer will and grit. When social services wanted to split us up and send the twins into foster care, Paisley was having none of it. She hustled her way through school, taking more classes than I thought you were allowed to cram into one year, and graduated in three years instead of four. She worked two jobs until she landed this one at Diamond. Meanwhile, I ran the household—cooking, cleaning and making sure the twins’ lives remained as stable as possible.
Despite all our efforts, I know we’re barely treading water.
One year is nothing compared to what Paisley has sacrificed.
“I’m doing it,” I say firmly. “That’s why I got up at three. To sign the papers.” And to sweat about how I’m going to sell this idea to W. I turn to watch the coffee drip into the pot. “I mean, it’s not like I have to eat bugs or poop or something gross. There are way worse things to do for money than fake-date Oakley Ford, right?”
“Right.” She smiles with relief. “And he’s not a bad guy. He can be charming when he wants to, and you’ll get to do so many fun things. I’ll make sure your dates are full of stuff you like to do.”
“Great.” I try to summon up some enthusiasm for Paisley’s sake. It’s obvious that the prospect of all that cash is lifting a huge burden from her shoulders, and I would be a terrible, selfish sister to not want that for her. Still, I can’t stop thinking about how much my life is going to change.
“Something is still bothering you,” she says, breaking off another piece of bagel for me.
I stick it in my mouth and chew for a moment before admitting, “It’s W. I don’t know how I’m going to sell this to him.”
Paisley shakes her head. “You can’t tell him all the details. The nondisclosure agreement wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know.” I rub a nonexistent spot on the table. “How strict are those things?”
“The NDA? Very strict,” Paisley says, her eyes wide with alarm. “Do you remember Sarah Hopkins?”
“The nanny who banged Mark Lattimer and broke up his marriage?”
Mark Lattimer is the front man for the rock band Flight. He went through an ugly divorce last year. It was in every online gossip column and every grocery store tabloid for about three months. The scrutiny didn’t die down until the next scandal came along.
“Didn’t she have a drug problem and was turning tricks to pay for it?” I ask.
“Yup, and you know how all the gossip rags got that information?”
I didn’t know before, but I think I do now.
“She signed an NDA, but then decided that she was tired of taking the fall for Mark and Lana’s failed marriage. Everyone inside the circle knew they had an open relationship. She was fine with the nanny until the two of them got caught in public. Afterward, Sarah was paid off but she wouldn’t go quietly. So Jim released all that information to the tabloids. He pretty much ruined her life.”
“So if I break it, Jim will drop a bomb on our house.”
“Our lives,” Paisley corrects grimly. “Oakley Ford is worth millions to Jim. His last tour grossed two hundred and fifty million dollars.”
I gape at her. I didn’t know numbers went up that high in real life. “So what you’re saying is, either I do this one hundred percent, or not at all.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You can only tell W what the agreement says you can tell him. Anything more than that, and Jim will crush us like a bug.”
Us. Not me, but my whole family.
* * *
Paisley drives the twins to school, and I clean the house, prep for dinner and try to force some lunch down before taking the bus to USC to see W. His last class of the day is at 2:00 p.m.
Jim Tolson sent a courier over with another NDA—this one for W’s signature. It’s like he has a million of them on his laptop, ready to spring on the unsuspecting.
With only a week into the new college semester, no one in the dorms seems interested in studying. Several of the doors are open when I arrive, and all sorts of different music and sounds are streaming into the hallway.
Part of me regrets not enrolling this year. W wanted me to, but after watching Paisley bust her ass to make sure all our bills were paid, I wanted to do my part. Taking a year off and making some real money made the most sense. Still...every time I walk into W’s dorm and see all the pretty girls wandering the halls, I’m gripped with a sudden case of nerves.
“Knock, knock,” I announce at the open door.
W and his roommates are lounging on their hand-me-down sofa, playing Madden. Two girls I don’t know are curled up on a love seat in the corner. They always have girls in here. As with everything, I pretend it doesn’t bother me, because the last thing I want to do is look like the jealous, immature girlfriend from high school.
W jumps up immediately. “V, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I texted you.”
He grimaces. “We were playing. Guys, I’m out. My girl’s here.”
“Put a sock on the doorknob,” Mark yells as W slams the door to the bedroom. Mark’s a kid from upstate who’s always asking me how good W is in bed—as if he knows that we’ve never done it and enjoys needling me about it.
W grins at me, hands at his hips. “Do I need to put the sock on?”
“There are people out there,” I remind him.
He laughs and tackles me onto the bed. “So? There’s no one but you and me in here.”
I shiver when his hand tunnels under my T-shirt.
W makes me feel good, but I’m not ready to take that next step yet. And especially not when his roommates are outside the room playing a video game, and two strange girls I don’t know are sitting there.
I push at his hand. “I’m not having my first time with an audience.”
We’ve had this discussion before. He resists at first but then pulls his hand out from under my shirt to rest it on my jean-clad hip. Part of his brown hair falls across his forehead as he rolls onto his side. I push it away so I can see his chocolate-brown eyes. He looks gorgeous, as always. More gorgeous than Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.
Really, scoffs my internal voice. You’ve got to be kidding.
Okay, W isn’t better-looking than Oakley, but he’s nicer and sweeter and I love him and that counts for everything.
“All right.” He smiles, crinkles forming beside his beautiful eyes. “Did the twins look up that skate park I texted you about?”
“The one over in Boyle Heights? That’s, like, in a different country.” Anything that requires someone from LA to get on the freeway is considered a low-scale crime given the congestion. A trip to Boyle Heights might not require a passport, but it would require a huge effort. While I love my brothers, I don’t love them that much.
“Yeah, but if you bring them over here, we can hang out. That’d be nice, hmmm?” His mouth dips down to kiss the side of my neck.
We both know the twins won’t go, but it’s sweet that W’s trying to get us all together. “Actually, yes. I see the wisdom your plan.” I curl into his embrace and meet his wandering lips with my own.
“The benefits of dating a college guy,” he teases.
We kiss some more, and when we break apart for air, the reason why I’ve come today pokes me in the spine.
“Hey, I need to ask you a favor.”
“The answer is yes.” He tickles my belly.
I practiced a little speech on the bus, but it didn’t sound right. I give it anyway. “So you know how I took the year off to help Paisley?”
“Uh-huh.” His lips find my ear.
“I have an opportunity to make some huge money this year. It would set us up for a long time.”
“Sounds good.” He moves from my ear to my neck and then tugs my loose-fitting T-shirt over the curve of my shoulder.
Allowing him to kiss me when I’m about to break the news that I need to fake-date a pop star makes me feel too guilty to enjoy his attention. So I slide off the bed to go stand by the window.
“I need you to not be mad and to understand.”
W frowns and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He leans back on his elbows, his long, lanky frame looking familiar and wonderful, and I question my decision all over again. “This is beginning to sound like the kind of speech Danny Jones gave Karen because he was going to NYU and didn’t want to have a long-distance relationship.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I rub my forehead. “It’s...this job requires me to do something you’re not going to like.”
“Are you starring in a porno?” His eyebrows are all the way to his hairline.
“No, W, God.”
“Just spit it out, V.”
I release a frustrated breath. “I can’t say more until you sign this.” I hand him the one-page contract that states W can be told some but not all of the particulars.
He pushes the paper to the side. “I’m not signing anything. What the hell, Vaughn?”
“Don’t swear,” I say automatically.
“Don’t channel your sister,” he grouses. He and Paisley aren’t fans of each other. She thinks he pressures me, and he thinks she’s too uptight.
“I know this sounds crazy, but if you don’t sign it, I can’t tell you any details and it sounds worse without the details, trust me.”
“Then trust me.” W grabs the paper and tosses it on the bed behind him. “You can tell me anything. You know I’m a vault.”
It’s not that I don’t trust W, but this is my entire family’s future on the line.
“If it was just me, then yeah, I’d tell you, but I already promised the agency I wouldn’t say anything unless you sign this.”
His eyes narrow. “What agency?”
“Where Paisley works. Diamond Tal—”
“Diamond Talent Management?” he exclaims. “They’re the ones giving you this job? Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Of course I’ll sign it. Where do you need my signature?”
I watch as W rushes to his desk to grab a pen. He’s practically buzzing with excitement.
He doesn’t look up as he scrawls his name across all the lines, even the ones I think Jim is supposed to sign on behalf of Oakley. He dots the last i in his last name with a flourish. “All right. Lay it on me.”
I get up and drag W back to the bed so I can sit beside him and hold his hand while I explain this bit of insanity to him. “Okay, this is all I can say—I’m doing something for the agency, sort of like a social media campaign.” It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but that’s all the NDA allows me to reveal. “They know that you and I are dating, and—”
“They know about me?” His eyes are shiny and eager. “Did Paisley tell them about the show? I thought she hated it! Which episode did they like? The one where we rated the end zone celebrations? Or the one where we dressed up and pretended to be the dogs playing poker picture? We got so many hits for that one even though it’s not on brand.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “Uh, no, it’s not about the show.”
“It’s not? But you mentioned it, right?”
“Not exactly.” I wince. It hadn’t occurred to me that W’s first thought would go to his show, and now I feel bad I hadn’t brought it up to Jim Tolson.
“Why not?”
There’s a note of betrayal in his tone. W and his roommates started up a YouTube channel back in September, where they post videos of themselves talking about sports highlights. Their show is called the Bro Hards, and it’s...argh, okay, it’s kind of dumb.
But because I’m a supportive girlfriend, I diligently watch every video and make sure to leave an encouraging comment even though I don’t find it at all entertaining.
“I don’t know. It didn’t come up,” I answer, suddenly wishing I’d bargained for that.
After all, it would’ve been easy enough and it would go a long way toward making W more comfortable with my deal with Oakley. I make a mental note to talk to Jim the next time I see him.
“Anyway, our relationship is a bit of a problem for the agency. It interferes with some of my...duties. I can’t have a boyfriend that people know about, so they want us to break up publicly—” when he frowns, I hurry on “—but not for real. For real, we’ll still date. Except...” I grimace. “We can’t be seen together in public.”
W stares at me blankly. “You want me to break up with you but not really?”
“Yes.” Oh, gosh. It sounds monumentally stupid.
“Is this you wanting to break up with me, V? Because I didn’t even know we were having problems. If you don’t want to go out anymore, just tell me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like breaking up wouldn’t kill him.
It would kill me, though. “Do you want to break up with me?” I blurt out, frantic with worry.
W’s my anchor. We started dating before my parents died, and through that grief-stricken summer, he’d stood by me the whole time, despite my tendency to burst out in tears at random moments. Like when we were at the mall and I saw the Father’s Day advertisement in the Hallmark store window. I’d gone home that night and resolved to be the fun girlfriend again, and I haven’t cried in front of him since.
I was so worried he’d break up with me once he started college without me, but he didn’t. He told me he loved me and that he was going to stick with me, even if it meant dialing back some of the plans he’d made for both of us.
“Of course not.” He pulls me down on his lap, another frown creasing his face. “But how’s this supposed to work?” His hands run up under my shirt. “We’re supposed to be having fun together this year.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “But it’s a lot of money.”
W frowns. “You and Paisley are doing fine. Didn’t you say she earns enough now not to have to work two jobs?”
“Yes, but—”
“And didn’t you delay coming to school this year because you had to work?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you don’t need this one,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s never worried about a bill in his life.
W’s family has money. They even sprang for him to have a dorm room at De Neve Plaza, where he has a two-room suite and a private bathroom he shares with only three other guys. When I looked up how much this suite costs each semester, I nearly swallowed my gum.
“I do, W. I need this job. My family needs it.” I take his hands, the ones he’s using to try to take my shirt off, and press them between mine.
“Is this Paisley’s idea? Because you know she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
W grunts in disbelief. His fingers brush the top of the waistband of my jeans and I force myself not to flinch away. This is W. I love W. Therefore I should love his touch, not tense up when I see it moving toward me.
My sister hasn’t ever flat-out said I shouldn’t have sex with W, but I know she thinks I’m too young. Part of her reluctance comes from her own first time, which she willingly—and vocally—says was terrible. After our parents’ funeral, Paisley was lonely, depressed and worried about how she was going to take care of us. So she ended up sleeping with someone she didn’t know very well because she needed some comfort. And it was so horrible, I found her crying the next day. I’m not saying that scarred me, but I definitely didn’t want to rush into things with W after that.
“Fine, let’s pretend I go along with it,” W says slowly. “Who would be doing the breaking up?”
His complete one-eighty startles me. I guess I should be relieved that W is agreeable to this, but instead, his casual attitude rubs me the wrong way. One of the great things about W is that he’s so easygoing. He never hassles me about my lack of ambition or the fact that I have zero clue what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. If I can’t make a date because I want to be with my family or I’m working extra shifts, he never complains. I tell myself that’s healthy and good. In the months after my parents’ deaths, his laid-back attitude was just what I needed.
And since I need him to be cool with this, it shouldn’t irritate me that he’s asking about how our fake breakup is going to shake down as casually as if he’s checking on the weather.
“How do you want it to happen?” I counter.
He shrugs. “I should probably do it, but I don’t want any of your friends accusing me of cheating. We’ll just say that it wasn’t working out anymore.”
Cheating? Do I tell him now or later that I’m supposed to kiss Oakley Ford? Not that either option is available to me, because I’m forbidden from telling W that Oakley is involved. Obviously he’ll find out soon enough, but the agreement I signed forbids me from saying Oakley’s name.
This is all so screwed up.
“I’ll make sure everyone knows that you didn’t do anything wrong,” I promise, all the while fighting my growing unease.
“Good.” He pauses. “And...we can still see each other in secret?”
I get the feeling that’s not the question he wanted to ask—he hesitated too long before voicing it. But I nod anyway. “It’ll have to be at my house, though. And we’re not allowed to text at all during the breakup. We can talk on the phone, but there can’t be any paper trails. So no texts, Snapchats, Instagram comments, all that stuff.”
“That’s like some real James Bond shit right there.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “So I’ll be having a secret affair with my girlfriend? That’s kinda hot.”
I swallow my relief. This is good. He’s joking about it already, and for some reason, that tells me we’re going to be okay.
“Sneaking around will totally be hot,” I say enticingly.
That gets me a devilish grin in response. “What else?”
Crap. This is the hard part. “I might be photographed with certain celebrities—”
His eyes light up. “Like who?”
“I don’t know yet,” I lie. “But if you do see any pictures of me on the internet, you need to know they’re not real.” I throw in another lie. “Most of them will probably be Photoshopped. Seriously, anything I do this year will not be real. It’ll all be staged, like...think of it as a reality TV show that Diamond is producing.”
He nods. “Speaking of television shows...”
My uneasiness grows as I wait for him to continue.
“If I give you, like, a clip reel of my show, can you pass it along to one of the agents?” he asks hopefully. “I never asked Paisley because we both know she won’t do it, but now her contacts are your contacts, too, right?”
The request rubs me the wrong way, even though I’d already made up my mind to mention it to Jim. I force myself to swallow my annoyance.
“I mean, you’re going to be spending a lot of time with all these Hollywood types, industry people, and you know how hard the boys and I work on this show.” There’s something defiant in his eyes now. “This is a chance for us to get our foot in the door. And you said so yourself—you could totally see us getting our own TV show.”
I rue the day I ever wrote that YouTube comment. “Don’t you want to concentrate on getting your communications degree?” I point out, hoping the reminder will derail him.
But W waves his hand dismissively. “The only reason I’m a comm major is to get into broadcasting. I want to be a sportscaster. You know that. So if I can fast-track that goal, why not?” When I don’t answer, he flattens his lips unhappily. “Are you saying you don’t want to do this for me?”
“That’s not what—”
“I don’t think it’s asking for too much,” he interrupts. “Because if I’m going to be without my girlfriend for a few months—”
“A year,” I whisper.
His jaw falls open. “A year? This fake breakup is going to last a year?” He throws up his hands in astonishment. “See? This is a huge sacrifice on my part! It’ll be way easier to deal with all this if I at least get a career opportunity out of it.”
And knowing you’d be helping me support my family isn’t enough?
I bite my tongue before the angry words can escape. I see his point, I guess. A year is a long time, and I’m pretty sure we’ll both get tired of sneaking around sooner rather than later. Besides, it’s not like Diamond is going to sign him, so maybe if he receives some constructive criticism from an actual authority, he’ll finally realize that this YouTube thing is a total waste of time.
“You’re right,” I agree. “We can’t pass up any career opportunities.”
His expression brightens.
“Email me whatever you want and I’ll give it to the right people.”
“Fuck yeah, baby! You’re the best!” He tugs me into his arms and kisses me until I’m breathless, and we’re both laughing when we finally pull apart.
Well, he’s laughing, and I’m faking it. Story of my life, I guess.
7 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
On Friday night, forty-eight hours after my trip to USC, W and I “break up.” Before I left his dorm that day, he kissed me, said he loved me, and promised to send me his clip reel as soon as possible. While I don’t feel entirely comfortable vouching for W’s stupid show to Jim Tolson, I’m worried that if I don’t, W won’t be on board with this Oakley job anymore and will break up with me for real. And I’m desperate for him to support me on this.
Since we don’t go on Facebook very often, our breakup is fed to the masses in two ways.
1) W removes my Twitter and Instagram handle from his bios. Both used to say “Madly in love with @VeryVaughn.” Now they say nothing.
2) I Tweet thirty-one characters of pure misery:
Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn
Breakups SUCK #heartbroken #fml
Within minutes, Tweets and Instagram DMs come pouring in from our friends. I sit on my bed with a carton of chocolate chip ice cream in my lap and a spoon sticking out the corner of my mouth, fighting back tears as I stare at my laptop screen.
@MandiHunt343 OMG, W! What happened to ur bio?? Did u and V break up??
@CarrieCarebearDawes YOU AND W BROKE UP?
@KikiSimpson omg vaughn. when did this happen?
@Tracyloves1D if that asshole W cheated on you, I am gonna KICK HIS ASSSSSS!
Carrie, Kiki and Tracy are friends of mine from high school. I’m closest with Carrie, so I shoot her a return message confirming that yes, W and I broke up. She instantly responds and offers to come over with some ice cream. I tell her I’m already good on the ice cream front and we agree to meet up for lunch on Sunday.
Since Oakley’s publicist told me I have to respond to any Tweets regarding the breakup, I force myself to answer Kiki and Tracy, but I don’t offer any details. W was adamant that he didn’t want to look (a) weak or (b) like a bad guy. Thus, the breakup was his idea and I’m not allowed to accuse him of any wrongdoing.
Our official story is that he dumped me because he didn’t want to be in a long-term relationship now that he’s in college. I make sure to tell Tracy there was no cheating involved. Then I shove another spoonful of chocolaty goodness in my mouth and force myself not to cry.
It’s not a real breakup, I remind myself, but it doesn’t ease the huge ball of pain in my stomach. I want so badly to text W. No, I want to call him and hear his voice assuring me that all these Tweets are just honest responses to a phony situation.
But I can’t. Claudia forbade any contact between the two of us for at least a week—“to give the breakup time to settle”—so I can’t pick up the phone and call him for reassurance. She claimed she was monitoring us closely. I don’t know what that means, but I’m a little afraid of her and Jim, so I don’t call him even though I’m dying to.
“Vaughn?” My sister knocks softly on my bedroom door.
“Yeah?” I call out in a shaky voice. The fake breakup feels all too real.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Paisley walks inside, takes one look at the ice cream and my teary expression and joins me on the bed. Her brown eyes peer at the computer screen then fill with sympathy.
“I’m so sorry. I know this must be awful for you.” She bites her lip. “It’s not too late to back out.”
“Yeah, it is.” I can’t stop thinking about the money. “But the year will go by fast, right?”
Paisley nods.
I swallow another mouthful of ice cream. “You know what the worst part is? Well, the second worst part, because not being able to talk to W is the first one. But Oakley Ford is such a jerk. He wouldn’t even shake my hand at the meeting. How’s he going to bring himself to touch me in public?”
“He noticed you were hungry and got you food. That’s something. Plus, he’s pretty to look at,” Paisley points out.
Yeah, at least there’s that.
My sister slides off the bed. “I’m taking the twins to see a movie tonight. You wanna come?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m just going to stay home and wallow in my misery. I plan on gaining at least five pounds of ice cream weight.”
“Don’t gain too much,” she teases. “Otherwise Oakley Ford might change his mind about dating you.”
That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Maybe I should open another carton of Ben & Jerry’s.
Paisley leans down to kiss my cheek. “You’re doing a good thing here. Seriously. This is going to help us more than you know.”
I do know. But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend to be happy about it. I miss W already, and it’s only been two days since I spoke to him.
After Paisley leaves I give myself over to ice cream therapy. I eat it slowly. So slowly that it’s sort of a soupy mess by the time I reach the bottom. I swirl the remains around as I rethink this Oakley plan for the hundredth time.
Did Paisley come to me because she knows, deep down, that I’m unprepared to face the real world? That I have no plans for myself? That unlike every other kid I went to school with, I’m hopelessly lost about my future and that playing make-believe with some random celebrity is right up my plastic existence?
The melted ice cream holds no answers. Sighing, I close all my web browsers and open my music library. I can either keep wallowing or I can follow this stupid course I’ve set for myself. I guess the latter is more productive, so I scroll until I find the album I’m looking for, click on the first track and then place the laptop beside me on the bed.
As I rummage through the bottom drawer of my desk for a sketchbook, the intro to one of Oakley Ford’s most popular singles, “Hold On,” wafts out of the computer speakers. The moment it comes on, I’m suddenly transported back to my sophomore year of high school. I was obsessed with this album. Weirdly enough, it doesn’t remind me of Oakley, but of W.
W and I started going out around the time Ford was released. He used to make fun of me for liking it, but then I heard him humming one of the songs once and got him to admit he liked it, too. Then I doodled two hands clasped together on my Vans to capture the moment.
I find a sketchbook and a set of drawing pencils, but I don’t start sketching yet. First I go online again and look up pictures of Oakley, because I’m not sure I can draw him from memory.
Okay, I’ll admit it. This guy is hot. Like ridiculously hot. That mussed-up blond hair, and those piercing green eyes, and his toned, muscular body always covered in ripped jeans and tight T-shirts. Goodness.
I click through picture after picture of him. Live shots from his concerts. Paparazzi shots of him around LA. Shots of him and his mom at her movie premieres. Shots of him on the set of one of his dad’s films.
Oakley Ford lives on a different planet, as far as I’m concerned. He’s a celebrity with a capital C. The only son of Katrina and Dustin Ford, a Hollywood power couple, or at least they used to be before their divorce. He’s won Grammys and People’s Choice Awards and he got green slime dumped on him after he performed at the Nickelodeon awards show when he was fourteen. He’s been on the covers of a zillion magazines, including that super sexy Vogue shoot I’m now looking at.
I decide to pick a photo from that spread, the one where he’s sitting against a black backdrop, just staring at the camera. His gaze is so intense it actually gives me shivers.
I start sketching to the sound of his beautiful, raspy voice singing to me in my bedroom.
* * *
A week after the fake breakup W comes over and we hang out in my bedroom. We fool around on my bed for hours before he reluctantly says he needs to leave.
“It’s late. I should get back,” he announces around ten.
I want to protest that it’s not late at all, but I’m not the one who has class in the morning. “’Kay.”
My reluctance must show because he kisses me gently on the forehead. “At least we’re allowed to see each other, right? This isn’t so bad.”
Not bad? This week without contact has been torture. I hung out with Kiki and Carrie a few times, and, in true BFF fashion, they spent the whole time assuring me that W is a jackass and I’m better off without him. I played along even though trashing the boy I’m still in love with was pure agony. But, again, I don’t want to be the clingy, childish girlfriend so I just smile and nod.
“I hate this,” he mutters as we head downstairs.
Relief wells up inside me. He’s feeling it, too, thank goodness. “Me, too.”
We stand in the front hall and just hug for several moments, his forehead resting against mine, his arms around my waist. I think about all the hugs we’ve exchanged over these past two years. All the inside jokes and the random texts and the fact that I’ve never once gone to bed without W calling me to say goodnight.
“Mark and I decided which episodes we think are the best,” he says, his warm breath tickling my nose. “He’s going to edit it all together this week and then I’ll email you the file.”
I stiffen slightly, and hope he doesn’t notice.
“I can’t wait to hear what that agent thinks about the show.”
“Me, too,” I say with forced cheerfulness. Then I try to distract myself by breathing in the familiar scent of his lemony aftershave.
After one last kiss, I watch with bleak eyes as he walks out to his car. It’s the same older-model SUV he drove in high school, and as he drives away, I think longingly of all the heart-pounding make-out sessions we had in that car.
Upstairs, I flop onto my bed and Tweet about my heartache again.
Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn
Listening to Ford on repeat = best cure for a broken heart.
I’m lying on both counts, because I’m not listening to Ford, and there isn’t a cure for a broken heart. Even a fake one.
* * *
“You need to post the drawing tonight,” Claudia announces when I take the phone from Paisley.
Claudia isn’t calling my number...yet. I’m sure that will change once my relationship with Oakley is front-page news.
It’s been two weeks since my “breakup,” so I’ve been expecting this request since the first deposit hit Paisley’s account, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been looking forward to it.
Since I’m not allowed to quit my job yet, I worked four shifts waiting tables at Sharkey’s and looking suitably depressed about the breakup in front of my coworkers. That’s not a chore at all. Neither is depositing the twenty thousand dollar check—the first of many. It was decided that the checks would be made out to my sister just in case, because if it somehow leaked that Diamond Talent Management was writing me checks, the vultures would immediately start circling. If it’s under Paisley’s name, the agency can claim the payments are part of her salary.
The lies they’re building seem complicated and unnecessary, but I haven’t ever done this before, whereas I get the sense that this is business as usual for Claudia.
“Why tonight?” I grumble, mostly for the sake of being contrary. Since she’s technically my boss, I probably shouldn’t be grumbling at her, but this is the weirdest work relationship ever. A part of me is hoping I’ll get fired.
“Because we need to move this along. Post the drawing. Oak will see it in a couple of hours. After he favorites the Tweet, be prepared for a barrage of messages. Respond only to a few of them.”
“Maybe you should tell me which ones to respond to,” I murmur sarcastically.
“Oh, no. This should all be organic,” Claudia objects, choosing to ignore my snappishness. “But you’re going to be getting so many, you won’t be able to answer them all. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be a social media star! Just remember that not everyone will love you. The fans are possessive of Oak, so ignore the mean ones and focus on the ones that are encouraging. Don’t forget that they all wish they were you, no matter what they post!”
After giving that questionable piece of encouragement, she hangs up. I pull out the drawing I finally got around to finishing a couple of days ago. I wonder what Oakley will think of it. It’s not bad, but I’m not in love with it, and not simply because his face isn’t exactly how I wanted it to be. I worked on his eyes for a long time, but it was hard to capture their liveliness in black-and-white. He has good eyes, I think as I trace my finger over them.
No, it’s not my technical mistakes, but something else that’s missing. Something about Oakley Ford that I can’t put on the page.
I wiggle my lips back and forth in indecision. I don’t like that a piece of my art is going up on social media for millions of people to gawk at and criticize. But this is what I signed up for.
I pick up my phone, snap a quick pic, and then Tweet it out.
Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn
Breakups are a little easier when you’re imagining this face next to yours.
It takes only three hours from the time Oakley faves the drawing before the first response shows up in my stream. Less than a minute later, I get a text from Carrie.
Did u see Oakley Ford faved your pic?!
I play dumb and text back He did??
Yes! Get on Twitter. Your timeline is blowing up! U should get his snap!
I’m not getting his snap bc he liked a pic.
Never know! Slide into his DMs like a pro, girl!
And then I can’t respond to her anymore, because every second—or maybe it’s every millisecond—I get a new notification.
@pledo5514 @1doodlebug1 @caryneo @paulyn_N just followed @VeryVaughn
Did @OakleyFord just fave some girl’s pic @VeryVaughn
@OakleyFord follow me back. Pls. I luv u. @VeryVaughn
@luv_oakley_hands @VeryVaughn This pic is sooooo amazing. Need 1 in my locker.
@VeryVaughn God, basic pic or what? Go back to art school, btch
@OakleyFord_stanNo1 @VeryVaughn Preach. Looked at her history. Not even a fan let alone a stan. Get out.
@VeryVaughn your not even cute. @OakleyFord ur hot af
@selleuni5 @OakFordHeart @unicornio @wammalamma @ magg1e_han50n and 244 more just followed @VeryVaughn
Oh, wow. I racked up more than two hundred new followers in the span of ten seconds. That’s nuts.
Paisley pokes her head in my room. “Claudia called. She thinks you should start replying. Apparently you’re getting hundreds of responses.”
“I know.” I hold up my phone, a tad dazed. “They’re pretty much about how basic and not cute I am and how he can do so much better than me.”
My sister gives me a wry grin. “It’s the internet. People say stupid stuff all the time on the internet. Want some help with that?”
I shake my head. I signed a contract and it’s time to do my part, so I spend the next hour answering random Tweets with the appropriate OMGs and !!!!! while ignoring the “your so ugly” comments. The insulters have one thing in common. They’re not good with homophones and that provides me with the tiniest bit of pleasure.
The last text I get before I go to bed is from W.
What the fuck V! Call me.
8 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
“Why didn’t I see this picture before it went out?” I ask Jim.
It’s past ten, the house is dead again and I’m staring at a pencil sketch of my face on Ty’s phone. He’s in the front room trying to hide his laughter from me.
“You don’t like it?” Jim says, his surprise echoing through the line. “I think it’s good. Actually, it’s better than I thought it was going to be. Your fans are loving it.”
I zoom in on my mouth. Is that how she sees me? Pouty and sullen? I look like a little boy who got his favorite toy taken away. But I’ll sound even more childish complaining about it to Jim, so I latch on to a different excuse.
“Have you seen all the shit that other girls are sending? Doesn’t Twitter have some kind of rules?” I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’m used to getting private naked pics all the time, but some of these girls look...young. Way too young for even me.
When Jim signed me up for Snapchat, I got about a thousand nudes before I uploaded my first snap. I accidentally responded to one of them, which led to a weird stalker experience. Having four fourteen-year-old girls follow you around on their bicycles is scary.
“Ignore them,” Jim advises. “In fact, you can ignore all of this. Claudia will handle your responses.”
Tired of looking at myself, I toss Tyrese’s phone onto the marble kitchen counter. “What’s our timeline on King?” I demand, because getting my music made is the only reason I’m going through with this crap.
“Nothing’s going to happen with him for a while. Put it out of your mind. Why don’t you use this time to write new music? Maybe your new girlfriend will give you some inspiration.”
“Hardeeharhar.” Since Vaughn doesn’t like me much, all my songs would be about irrational girls and their incorrect snap judgments.
And what did I ever do to her, anyway? Traffic in LA is bad, and Jim knows better than to schedule a meeting before noon. I’m a night owl.
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to stay in my house this entire year,” I mutter.
“No, I realize a bored Oak is a dangerous one. Frankly, I don’t care what you do all year, other than keep your nose clean. King will come around. You let me worry about that. Now I’m going home to my pretty wife.”
“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or scolding me.”
“It’s both, kid,” Jim says cheerfully before he hangs up.
The picture on Ty’s phone keeps taunting me. I want to write something back to Vaughn, but I have no idea how to log in to my own Twitter account. Social media is a total time suck. When I first went on, I was shocked by the number of people who sent messages that they’d never have the balls to say to me in person. I argued with a few of them.
That’s when Claudia stepped in and took over my account—all of them. And after the gang of four, as I like to refer to them, I was happy enough to let her take the wheel.
I pick up Ty’s phone when it buzzes. Some girl just snapped him a dirty message. I swipe it away.
“Ty, why do you have a Twitter account?”
“Football, brother.” He wanders into the kitchen, apparently done with his laughing fit. “Lots of pros on Twitter.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, see here.” He pulls the phone out of my hand and taps on something before setting it back in front of me. “I’ve got my fantasy follows and then a bunch of athletes.”
I read his timeline. It’s full of stats, links to football videos and articles. “No wonder you kick my ass in fantasy football.”
“You need a secret Twitter account.”
“Yeah, that’d go over well with Claudia.” I hop off the bar stool and rummage around in the fridge for something to eat. I pass over the veggies, cheese, health drinks, and grab a beer. “Wanna play some FIFA?”
“Sure. You ready for an ass-kicking?”
“Bring it on.”
I toss him a beer and we make our way to the living room. Ty slips on the headset with the mic while I don my headphones. I’m not allowed to have a mic attached to mine. One time I was bellowing out curses and someone figured out that I sounded a helluvalot like Oakley Ford. They recorded me, put the sound bite up on the internet and I got a bunch of people mad because I cursed too much at the age of sixteen.
Hell, do any of these parents even listen to their kids? I swear, ninety-nine percent of the I’m going to bang your mother insults are delivered by preteens.
Ty and I play for a couple of hours, and he does proceed to kick my ass. I soothe my ego by playing some random on the internet and finally log a win.
Once we’re done playing, my eyes stray to his phone again.
“Can you log in?” I ask.
“To your account?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t know your deets. I can call Claudia, though.”
I toss Ty’s phone back and forth between my hands. As far as I can tell, Vaughn hasn’t responded to “my” fave’ing of her picture. She couldn’t be less interested in my attention. She reminds me of my parents.
I scowl. “No.”
I end up going to bed early again.
* * *
When I wake up, it’s morning. I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and flip the switch that turns the glass from opaque to see-through. Outside there are birds chirping and I see a couple of people running on the beach. One of these days I’m going back to that private island Jim booked after the Ford tour. I could leave the house there without a security detail.
I shove away from the windows. Big D isn’t scheduled to arrive until noon, because that’s normally about the time I roll out of bed. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had anyone in this place except me, the housekeeper and my bodyguards.
I kind of miss that asshole Luke. He wasn’t that bad. After all, maybe if I was in his shoes, I’d be doing the same thing...trying to leverage my friend’s success into something more for me.
I’ve never had to do that. I didn’t have to play a thousand gigs on the road before getting some A/R guy to notice me. Mom sent a phone video to her friend, who shared it with a friend, and I was signed to a label at thirteen. My first album was released with a huge marketing push before I turned fifteen. I churned out three more successful albums before I hit my current block.
I wasn’t ever in Luke’s position—or, hell, Vaughn’s—where I had to cozy up to someone in exchange for money.
Gotta admit, my attitude toward Vaughn when we met was kinda shitty. In my defense, I wasn’t exactly open-minded going into that meeting, because I’d already had one made-for-the-media relationship and that was a complete disaster. Only a star-fucker would agree to this nonsense, especially when she already has a boyfriend.
But Vaughn hadn’t come off as stuck-up or fame-obsessed in any way. She was hot, but she wore almost no makeup. She didn’t dress up, and she’d argued hard that she didn’t want a new look. She had a confidence about her appearance that my last fake girlfriend never had.
And she didn’t try to impress me. There were no hair flips, lip bites or eye flutters in my direction. The picture she drew is good, but it looks like it was drawn by someone who thought I was an April Showers—ego-driven and assholic.
Yeah, Vaughn definitely wasn’t impressed with me at the meeting. And while I hate admitting this, her attitude bothers me. I mean, I don’t expect everyone I meet to like me. It’s just that she was so...openly hostile.
I pick up my phone and download the Twitter app. I want to see what she said in reply. Only...crap. I can’t log in without a username and password.
I don’t want to, but I end up calling Jim.
“Have you seen the news?” he crows when he answers.
Our world’s a little sick when what I fave on Twitter is considered news. A mass killing in Africa doesn’t get as many eyeballs as me liking some random girl’s art. “I need to log in to my Twitter account.”
“Why? Are you unhappy with how it’s going? Claudia and I talked this morning. Everyone’s excited. You’re getting the best press you’ve had in months. Hold on, I’ll read some to you.”
I can hear street noise. “Are you texting and driving?”
“Yes. How do you think I get anything done in this town?”
“Forget it. I’ll look it up myself.”
I hang up before he can kill himself trying to read the gossip column headlines.
I hit the most famous celeb site I know and immediately see a smarmy picture of me side-eying a camera.
Oakley Ford’s Tweet Makes a Fan’s Dream Come True!
Ford fangirls take notice!
Last night global superstar Oakley Ford set his saplings on fire when he favorited a fan’s drawing of him. According to the girl’s Twitter account, seventeen-year-old Vaughn just broke up with a longtime boyfriend and she’s been consoling herself by playing Ford’s self-titled release on repeat.
Ford’s been notoriously quiet on Twitter except for the occasional shout-out to a fellow artist, so this activity was definitely out of character! We weren’t the only ones who noticed. Fans jumped all over his fave by Retweeting the picture. The artist’s own account grew from 89 followers to 8000. Her account exploded after Oakley Ford Tweeted her back.
Is this a new romance for Oakley? He hasn’t been linked to anyone—for more than a night—since April Showers. Gossip Central caught up with April outside Nice Guy in LA. April appeared blindsided by the news that Oakley is finally moving on, telling us, “You know more about Oakley’s life than I do.” Ford’s people haven’t commented.
The fan interaction has spurred #Fordfangoals to trend on Twitter. It’s been two years since we’ve had any new Oakley Ford music. Maybe Vaughn will serve as new inspiration!
Christ. I follow the link to the Twitter page to read about my so-called interaction with Vaughn.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn Thanks for sketching my left side. It’s my best.
I scroll through what seems like a thousand Tweets before I get to her response.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Haha! U don’t have a bad side.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn Do you have a red pencil? I’m blushing.
Excuse me while I vomit. I’m blushing? What a lame-ass response. I’m Oakley Ford. I don’t blush. What do I have to be embarrassed about?
@jelly_bean1984 @ OakleyFord Please Oak I luv u. Please fave my tweet!!!!!
@cassandra.vega.5 @ OakleyFord ur soooooo bbbbeeutiful. I
u so much! Ur my bae!
@OakleyFord_stanNo1 @ OakleyFord Love you Oakley. Can’t wait for another album.
This is frickin’ impossible. I tap on Vaughn’s stream and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s so much easier to read.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord I don’t believe u blush. But I do have a red pencil.
She Tweeted another picture of just a cheek and some lightly shaded red on the upper curve. Nice. Even though it’s not an accurate representation, I can’t deny her talent.
I swipe past dozens of people replying to her, and find mine.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn So you’re taking requests. I’d like to see a self-portrait.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Like this?
I eagerly scroll. Shit, did she send me a—it’s a sketch of her phone.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn Modern and sleek. I like it.
These responses are terrible. If I were replying, I’d have said something like—
I dial Jim again. “I want access to my Twitter account. If I’m dating this chick, I should be able to respond to her directly.”
“What? Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I do. So do I get access or do I make up a different account?”
“Hold on.” He sighs then barks to some assistant. “Get Claudia on the phone and find out how to get Oak on Twitter.”
9 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
“Are you supposed to be dating Oakley Ford?!”
W’s loud, angry voice hurts my eardrums, but I don’t ask him to calm down. This is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk on the phone since my online conversation with Oakley began. My boyfriend has clearly saved up his frustration from these past twenty-four hours and it all comes pouring out now.
“I can’t confirm or deny that,” I answer with a sigh.
“Bull! You don’t know how many of our friends called and texted to tell me you’re flirting online with Oakley Ford!”
My guard snaps up. “I hope you didn’t say anything about my job. You signed an NDA, W. If you break it, Diamond will—”
“Ruin my life,” he finishes sourly. “Yeah, I know.”
Ugh, this is not about W’s life, but I know from past experience that I’m going to have to listen to him bitch and moan until he gets it out of his system. “So what did you tell everyone?”
“That we’re both upset about our breakup and that flirting with some celebredouche is your way of trying to get over me.”
I wince at his word choice, but only say, “Thank you.”
There’s a long pause.
“What exactly are you doing with Ford?” W mutters.
“Not much.” I hesitate. “We’re just going to be hanging out—for the cameras—a few times. And there might be a kiss. No, a peck. And none of it is real, remember?”
“It better not be.” My heart flips a little over his jealousy, only to die a quick death at his next words. “I’m not happy looking like a loser here.”
A whiny voice sounds from my bedroom doorway. “Vaughn! We need our phone back!”
I hold up one finger to silence Shane. “I promise, it’s all a show,” I assure my boyfriend. “Just like reality TV.”
“We need to call Kenny!” Spencer shouts, coming up to stand beside his twin. They both glare at me, the gold in their hazel eyes sparking angrily. At twelve, the two are already taller than my five feet six inches and could easily wrestle the phone away.
I sigh. “I have to go. The twins need their phone. I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”
“Okay.” He hesitates again. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I answer, and the twins release simultaneous groans and then proceed to make gagging noises, their light brown hair flopping all over the place.
I hang up and toss the phone to Spencer. “Here, you brats. Go call your precious Kenny.”
After they dart off, I collapse on the bed and curse the day I let Paisley convince me to meet with Jim Tolson and his entourage.
Claudia believes that someone could pull our phone records, so for two months I can’t call W on my own phone or my sister’s, which means I’m at the mercy of two twelve-year-old boys.
And I actually had to ask Claudia’s permission before I could make the call. And then she had to hold a stupid brainstorming session with her PR team to determine if it makes sense for W to keep in touch with his ex-girlfriend’s little brothers. I reminded her that W was a part of my family for two years, so of course he would be close with my brothers.
“Phone,” my sister’s voice says, jolting me out of my thoughts. Paisley walks into my room and holds out her iPhone. “Claudia.”
A silent scream goes off inside me. Oh, my God. I cannot deal with another one of Claudia’s dumb requests right now.
“You’re going to make your account private today,” Claudia says instead of hello.
“Why? Because of all my new followers?” I woke up this morning to discover I have twenty-five thousand new followers on Twitter. I almost died from shock.
“Because we want to fuel the fire even more. If you suddenly go private, Oakley’s fangirls won’t be able to follow you and it will drive them crazy. They’ll start gossiping on their own feeds and speculating about why you’re private, and the ones who are already following you will start screen-shotting your Tweets and turn you into an even hotter commodity.”
I don’t bother to argue. I’ve given up on trying to figure out the logic of a publicist.
“Fine,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Amy’s emailing you an archive of your Twitter account. Start deleting all the pictures with your ex-boyfriend.”
I’m outraged. “How did you get an archive of my account? And how did you get my email address?”
“From Jim. Don’t ask how he got it. He’ll never tell,” Claudia chirps. “Anyway, we’d like all traces of your ex-boyfriend gone from your account by tomorrow. You did it, of course, to erase him from your life.”
Bitterness climbs up my throat. “If you have access to my archive, why don’t you delete them?”
“Oh, of course. We’d be happy to do it for you. We just thought you might like to do it yourself. Getting over an ex is a difficult process for a teenage girl.”
I imagine some stranger going through my pictures of W and clicking the little trash can button, and I realize she has a point. “Forget it. I’ll do it. And he’s not my ex, Claudia!”
“He is in the eyes of the world.” She’s starting to sound annoyed with me. “One last thing. We need you to go out to dinner with your family tonight.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Why?”
“Lord, Vaughn, is that your favorite word—‘why’? Careful, sweetie, or I’m going to start answering with ‘because I said so.’”
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw twitches. “Why do I need to go out for dinner, Claudia?”
“Because it’s family night. As of right now, you and your siblings go out once a week for family night.”
I respond with her favorite word. “Why?”
“Because that’s what wholesome people do!” There’s a loud, frustrated huff in my ear, and then her voice softens. “Is your Instagram linked to your Twitter?”
“Yeah. Wh—” I halt before the rest of the question slips out. She’s already pissed off at me as it is.
“Good. At dinner tonight, post a picture of you and your family. It doesn’t matter if the brothers are in it. But your sister has to be.”
“I assume you know what I’m going to ask.”
She heaves out an exasperated sigh. “It’ll be an organic way to reveal that your sister works at Diamond. Oakley will comment on the picture, and then that bit of information will come out.”
“Fine. I’ll post something tonight.”
I hang up without saying goodbye then holler at the door, “Paisley, get in here.”
She appears within seconds. “What’s up?”
“Tell the twins to put on some nice clothes,” I say as I toss her cell phone over. “We’re going out to dinner.”
“Why?”
“It’s family night.”
My sister arches a brow. “Why?”
Oh, wow. That word really is annoying. “Because that’s what wholesome people do!” I shout, and then I march to my closet to find something to wear.
10 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
#squadgoals #dinnertime #whyisthewaitsolong
I stare at the picture of Vaughn’s family on Instagram. They’re all squeezed together as they wait to be seated at some random restaurant I don’t think I’ve ever heard of before. I can’t remember the last time I ate with my mom and dad. Hmmm. The last time I sat down at the same table with Mom and had a fork in my hand was...the Golden Globe Awards last year?
Holy shit. I almost laugh at the sad absurdity of the situation. Dad, on the other hand, I haven’t eaten with in years. Old man can hold a grudge like nobody’s business.
I feel a strange tightness in my chest. That isn’t...nah...it isn’t envy. I flick the app closed and stare out the windows. What I need to do is get out of the damn house. I’ve been stuck inside these walls and the studio—where nothing but garbage is getting recorded—for too long.
Purposefully, I stride to the kitchen where I find Tyrese. “Let’s get some grub.”
He tucks away his phone. “What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. How about—” A wicked idea pops into my head.
“Uh-uh.” Ty rocks back on his heels. “I’m not liking the look of that smile on your face. It says we’re about to get into trouble.”
“How about fondue?” I reply innocently.
I need to figure out what to wear. A hat and sunglasses aren’t going to be enough.
“Sure. There’s a place over on La Cienega Boulevard,” he says.
Ty’s a foodie. Man knows all of the good places, but I don’t want to go to Restaurant Row.
“I was thinking about Fondue Heaven over on—” I open the app, and sure enough, Vaughn has her Instagram geo-location on. “El Segundo. It’s on Main Street.”
Ty looks offended and faintly disgusted as he trails after me into my room. “A chain, brother? In El Segundo? That’s an hour away.”
I ignore him as I rifle through my walk-in closet. I should wear my lowest slung pants. The ones that hover around my ass crack. I wonder if I got rid of those? I dig around in the back of the closet.
“Those folks are gonna be gone before you get there,” Ty says from behind me. He’s not slow.
“Not if we take a chopper. That’s fifteen minutes. The apps are probably being served at that time.” I find the pair of ratty jeans that I hate in a pile under an old pair of sneaks. I lift the denim to my nose. They smell clean. Musty but clean.
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Erin Watt
Wealth, fame and a real-life romance she never expected–seventeen-year-old Vaughn Bennett lands it all when she agrees to become a pop star's fake girlfriend in this smart, utterly addictive novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author duo Erin WattUnder ordinary circumstances, Oakley Ford and Vaughn Bennett would never even cross paths.There's nothing ordinary about Oakley. This bad-boy pop star's got Grammy Awards, millions of fangirls and a reputation as a restless, too-charming troublemaker. But with his home life disintegrating, his music well suddenly running dry and the tabloids having a field day over his outrageous exploits, Oakley needs to show the world he's settling down–and who better to help him than Vaughn, a part-time waitress trying to help her family get by? The very definition of ordinary.Posing as his girlfriend, Vaughn will overhaul Oakley's image from troublemaker to serious artist. In return for enough money to put her brothers through college, she can endure outlandish Hollywood parties and carefully orchestrated Twitter exchanges. She'll fool the paparazzi and the groupies. She might even start fooling herself a little.Because when ordinary rules no longer apply, there's no telling what your heart will do…
Wealth, fame and a real-life romance she never expected—seventeen-year-old Vaughn Bennett lands it all when she agrees to become a pop star’s fake girlfriend in this smart, utterly addictive novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author duo Erin Watt
Under ordinary circumstances, Oakley Ford and Vaughn Bennett would never even cross paths.
There’s nothing ordinary about Oakley. This bad-boy pop star’s got Grammy Awards, millions of fangirls and a reputation as a restless, too-charming troublemaker. But with his home life disintegrating, his music well suddenly running dry and the tabloids having a field day over his outrageous exploits, Oakley needs to show the world he’s settling down—and who better to help him than Vaughn, a part-time waitress trying to help her family get by? The very definition of ordinary.
Posing as his girlfriend, Vaughn will overhaul Oakley’s image from troublemaker to serious artist. In return for enough money to put her brothers through college, she can endure outlandish Hollywood parties and carefully orchestrated Twitter exchanges. She’ll fool the paparazzi and the groupies. She might even start fooling herself a little.
Because when ordinary rules no longer apply, there’s no telling what your heart will do...
When It’s Real
Erin Watt
ERIN WATT is the brainchild of two bestselling authors linked together through their love of great books and an addiction to writing.
They share one creative imagination.
Their greatest love (after their families and pets, of course)? Coming up with fun—and sometimes crazy—ideas.
Their greatest fear? Breaking up.
To Margo.
We loved you before you bought this book, and we love you even more after you helped us polish this manuscript into the gem it is. Thank you for being our editor, our cheerleader, our friend.
Contents
Cover (#ueb813bb6-442d-52d0-b07e-67a1ab6f36de)
Back Cover Text (#ue3407956-9394-540c-833c-247a144f408f)
Title Page (#u870342b7-2a61-5aca-b071-59393240ec84)
About the Author (#u70d7ab06-6421-58b8-a064-a4dac319f409)
Dedication (#u2ab43a80-1236-5228-9afe-a1a727890e27)
CHAPTER 1 (#udb6618f1-25b9-53dd-94b6-c6584c2c6c17)
CHAPTER 2 (#ue803cc3d-498c-5d11-ac6c-9abadf725beb)
CHAPTER 3 (#u3140f2f7-df39-58c0-b64c-5bd1a9ed3aec)
CHAPTER 4 (#ud0139383-89bd-55ca-9bad-4e734da3a531)
CHAPTER 5 (#u74022381-f97f-558d-9e52-58c7f15a22b5)
CHAPTER 6 (#ua0640ba2-2036-5314-ae1d-58e3ec8f75b6)
CHAPTER 7 (#u01ab5200-5428-5f7f-ae1c-caca0aea4b63)
CHAPTER 8 (#ub7273d64-8e06-511f-a8e8-ee0f7ad2a28d)
CHAPTER 9 (#uc3c0c403-879b-5c5b-87b2-3e4e788222d7)
CHAPTER 10 (#u0713128a-8167-504e-801d-84331f0a34a7)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
“Please tell me every girl in there is of legal age.”
“Every girl in there is of legal age,” I dutifully repeat to my manager, Jim Tolson.
Truth is, I have no clue if everyone’s legal. When I came home last night from the studio, the party was already raging. I didn’t take the time to card anyone before grabbing a beer and chatting up some eager girls who proclaimed that they were so in love with my music that they sang it in their sleep. It sounded vaguely like an invitation, but I wasn’t interested. My buddy Luke took them off my hands and then I wandered around trying to figure out if I knew even a quarter of the people in my house.
I ended up counting seven, tops, that I actually recognized.
Jim presses his already thin lips together before taking a seat in the lounger across from me. There’s a girl passed out on it, so he’s forced to perch on the end. Jim once told me that the biggest hazard of working with a young rock star is the age of his groupies. Sitting this close to a bikini-clad teenager makes him visibly edgy.
“Keep that line in mind in case TMI asks you about it on the street today,” Jim warns.
“Noted.” Also noted? Avoid any celeb hot spots today. I have zero desire to be papped.
“How was the studio last night?”
I roll my eyes. As if Jim didn’t have the studio tech on the phone immediately after I left, replaying the track. “You know exactly how it was. Crappy. Worse than crappy. I think a barking Chihuahua could lay down better vocals than me right now.”
I lean back and stroke my throat. Nothing’s wrong with my vocal cords. Jim and I got that checked out with a doctor a few months ago. But the notes that were coming out yesterday lacked...something. All my music seems flat these days.
I haven’t recorded anything decent since my last album. I can’t pinpoint the problem. It could be the lyrics or the rhythm or the melody. It’s everything and nothing, and no amount of tweaking has helped me.
I run my fingers over the six strings of my Gibson, knowing my frustration must show on my face.
“Come on, let’s walk a little.” Jim dips his head toward the girl. She looks passed out, but she could be faking it.
With a sigh, I set the guitar on the cushion and rise to my feet.
“Didn’t know you liked walks on the beach, Jim. Should we start quoting poetry to each other before you propose?” I joke. But he’s probably right about putting some distance between us and the groupie. We don’t need some yappy fan talking about my music block to the tabloids. I give them enough to talk about already.
“Did you see the latest social media numbers?” He holds his phone up.
“Is that an actual question?”
We stop at the railing on my wraparound deck. I wish we could walk down to the beach, but it’s public, and the last time I tried setting foot on the sand in the back of my house, I came away with my swim trunks torn off and a bloody nose. That was three years ago. The tabloids turned it into a story about me getting into a fight with my ex and terrorizing young children.
“You’re losing followers at a rate of a thousand a week.”
“Sounds dire.” Sounds awesome, actually. Maybe I’ll finally be able take advantage of my beachfront property.
His perfectly unlined face, courtesy of some of the best Swiss knives money can buy, is marred by irritation. “This is serious, Oakley.”
“So what? Who cares if I lose followers?”
“Do you want to be taken seriously as an artist?”
This lecture again? I’ve heard it from Jim a million frickin’ times since he signed me when I was fourteen. “You know I do.”
“Then you have to shape up,” he huffs.
“Why?” What does shaping up have to do with making great music? If anything, maybe I need to be wilder, really stretch the limits of everything in life.
But...haven’t I done that already? I feel like I’ve drunk, smoked, ingested and experienced nearly everything the world has to offer in the past five years. Am I already the washed-up pop star before I hit my twenties?
A tinge of fear scrapes down my spine at the thought.
“Because your label is on the verge of dropping you,” Jim warns.
I practically clap like a child at this news. We’ve been at odds for months. “So let them.”
“How do you think you’re going to have your next album made? The studio’s already rejected your last two attempts. You want to experiment with your sound? Use poetry as lyrics? Write about things other than heartache and pretty girls who don’t love you back?”
I stare sullenly at the water.
He grabs my arm. “Pay attention, Oak.”
I give him a what the hell are you doing look, and he lets go of my arm. We both know I don’t like being touched.
“They aren’t going to let you cut the record you want if you keep alienating your audience.”
“Exactly,” I say smugly. “So why do I care if the label drops me?”
“Because labels exist to make money, and they won’t produce your next album unless it’s one they can actually market. If you want to win another Grammy, if you want to be taken seriously by your peers, then your only chance is to rehabilitate your image. You haven’t had a record out since you were seventeen. That was two years ago. It’s like a decade in the music business.”
“Adele released at nineteen and twenty-five.”
“You aren’t fuckin’ Adele.”
“I’m bigger,” I say, and it’s not a boast. We both know it’s true.
Since I released my first album at fourteen, I’ve had unreal success. Every album has gone double platinum, with my self-titled Ford reaching the rare Diamond. That year I did thirty international tour stops, all stadium tours, all sellouts. There are fewer than ten artists in the world who do stadium tours. Everyone else is relegated to arenas, auditoriums, halls and clubs.
“Were bigger,” Jim says bluntly. “In fact, you’re on the verge of being a has-been at nineteen.”
I tense up as he voices my earlier fear.
“Congratulations, kid. Twenty years from now, you’ll be sitting in a chair on Hollywood Squares and some kid will ask their mother, ‘who’s Oakley Ford?’ and the mom will say—”
“I get it,” I say tightly.
“No. You don’t get it. Your existence will have been so fleeting that even that parent will turn to her kid and say, ‘I have no idea who that is.’” Jim’s tone turns pleading. “Look, Oak, I want you to be successful with the music you want to make, but you have to work with me. The industry is run by a bunch of old white men who are high on coke and power. They love knocking you artists around. They get off on it. Don’t give them any more reason to decide that you’re the fall guy. You’re better than that. I believe in you, but you gotta start believing in yourself, too.”
“I do believe in myself.”
Does it sound as fake to Jim’s ears as it does to mine?
“Then act like it.”
Translation? Grow up.
I reach over and take the phone from his hand. The social media number beside my name is still in the eight digits. Millions of people follow me and eat up all the ridiculous things my PR team posts daily. My shoes. My hands. Man, the hands post got over a million likes and launched an equal number of fictional stories. Those girls have very vivid imaginations. Vivid, dirty imaginations.
“So what’s your suggestion?” I mutter.
Jim sighs with relief. “I have a plan. I want you to date someone.”
“No way. We already tried the girlfriend thing.”
During the launch of Ford, management hooked me up with April Showers. Yup, that’s her real name—I saw it on her driver’s license. April was an up-and-coming reality television star and we all thought she’d know the score. A fake relationship to keep both our names on magazine covers and headlining every gossip site on the web. Yes, there’d be hate from certain corners, but the nonstop media attention and speculation would drive our visibility through the roof. Our names would be on everyone’s lips from here to China and back again.
The press strategy worked like a charm. We couldn’t sneeze without someone taking our picture. We dominated celebrity gossip for six months, and the Ford tour was a smashing success. April sat in the front row of more fashion shows than I knew actually existed and went on to sign a huge two-year modeling contract with a major agency.
Everything was great until the end of the tour. What everyone, including me, had failed to recognize was that if they threw two teenagers together and told them to act like they were in love, stuff was going to happen. Stuff did happen. The only problem? April thought stuff would continue to happen after the tour was over. When I told her it wouldn’t, she wasn’t happy—and she had a big enough platform to tell the world exactly how unhappy she was.
“This won’t be another April thing,” Jim assures me. “We want to appeal to all the girls out there who dream of walking down the red carpet but think it’s out of reach. We don’t want a model or a star. We want your fans to think you’re attainable.”
Against my better judgment, I ask, “And how do we do that?”
“We conjure up a normal. She starts posting to you on your social media accounts. Flirting with you online. People see you interact. Then you invite her to a concert. You meet, fall in love and boom. Serious heartthrob status again.”
“My fans hated April,” I remind him.
“Some did, but millions loved her. Millions more will love you if you fall for an ordinary girl, because each and every one of those girls is going to think that she’s their stand-in.”
I clench my teeth. “No.”
If Jim was trying to think up a way to torture me, this is absolutely it, because I hate social media. I grew up having my baby steps photographed and sold to the highest bidder. For charity, my mom later claimed. The public gets a ton of me. I want to keep some parts of my life private, which is why I pay a couple of people a fortune so I don’t have to touch that stuff.
“If you do this...” Jim pauses enticingly. “King will produce your album.”
My head swivels around so fast that Jim jumps back in surprise. “You serious?”
Donovan King is the best producer in the country. He’s worked on everything from rap to country to rock albums, turning artists into legends. I once read an interview where he said he’d never work with a pop star and their soulless commercial music, no matter how much anyone paid him. Working with King is a dream of mine, but he’s turned down every overture I’ve ever made.
If he wasn’t interested in producing Ford, then why this latest album? Why now?
Jim grins. Well, as much as his plastic face allows him to smile. “Yes. He said if you were serious, then he’d be interested, but he needs a show of faith.”
“And a girlfriend is that show of faith?” I ask incredulously.
“Not a girlfriend. It’s what dating a nonfamous, ordinary girl signifies. That you’re down-to-earth, making music for the sake of music, not for the sake of money and fame.”
“I am down-to-earth,” I protest.
Jim responds with a snort. He jerks his thumb at the French doors behind us. “Tell me something—what’s the name of that girl who’s passed out in there?”
I try not to cringe. “I...don’t know,” I mumble.
“That’s what I thought.” He frowns now. “Do you want to know what Nicky Novak was photographed doing last night?”
My head is starting to spin. “What the hell does Novak have to do with anything?” Nicky Novak is a sixteen-year-old pop star I’ve never even met. His boy band just released their debut album, and apparently it’s topping the charts. The group is giving 1D a run for their money.
“Ask me what Novak was doing,” Jim prompts.
“Fine. Whatever. What was Novak doing?”
“Bowling.” My manager crosses his arms over his chest. “He got papped on a bowling date with his girlfriend—some girl he’s been dating since middle school.”
“Well, good for him.” I give another eye roll. “You want me to go bowling, is that it? You think that will convince King to work with me? Seeing me roll some gutter balls?” It’s hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I just told you what I want,” Jim grumbles. “If you want King to produce your album, you need to show him you’re serious, that you’re ready to stop partying with girls whose names you don’t know and settle down with someone who will ground you.”
“I can tell him that.”
“He needs proof.”
My gaze shifts back to the ocean, and I stand there for a moment, watching the surf crash against the beach. This album I’ve been working on these past two years—no, the one I’m trying to work on and failing—suddenly feels as if it’s actually within my reach. A producer like King could help me move past this creative block and make the kind of music I’ve always wanted.
And all I have to do in return is date a normal? I guess I can do that. I mean, every artist has to make sacrifices for his art at one point in his life.
Right?
2 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard what I want,” my sister objects.
“I don’t need to. You have that look in your eye.” I pull the bacon out of the microwave and dump four slices on each plate.
“What look?” Paisley checks her reflection on the back of the spoon I used to stir the eggs.
“The one that says I’m not going to like what you have to say.” I pause as I dish up the rest of the twins’ breakfast. “Or that I’m too young to understand.”
“Ha. Everyone knows you’re more together than most adults. I wish you were more impulsive, actually. It’d make this easier.”
“Breakfast is ready!” I shout.
The clatter of shoes on the staircase makes Paisley sigh. Our little brothers are incredibly loud, eat an incredible amount of food and are getting incredibly expensive. All I can say is, thank goodness for Paisley’s new job. We’re barely keeping our heads above water, even though Paisley has performed miracles with what little insurance money our parents left us. I’m adding to the family account with my waitressing job at Sharkey’s, but we don’t have much extra left over. Spencer and Shane insist that we don’t need to worry about college tuition for them because they plan on full-ride athletic scholarships. But unless it’s for competitive eating, I’m not going to count on it.
As the twins practically fall face-first into their breakfast, Paisley pours their milk and shoves a paper towel next to their plates. Hopefully they’ll use it instead of the kitchen towel. Again, I’m not holding my breath.
I drink my coffee-infused milk, watching my twelve-year-old brothers inhale the first of what will likely be their six meals of the day. As they grumble about the shortness of Christmas break, I think about how glorious it is that I haven’t had one class this year, unlike them.
“Vaughn,” Paisley says urgently. “I still need to talk to you.”
“I already told you no.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh, fine. Talk.”
“Outside.” She jerks her head toward the back door.
“We’re not listening,” says Spencer.
Shane nods in agreement because that’s their shtick. Spencer talks and Shane backs up everything his brother says, even if he disagrees.
“Outside.” Paisley’s head jerk looks painful this time, so I take pity on her.
“Lead the way.”
The screen door slams shut behind us. I take another sip of my rapidly cooling drink as I watch Paisley search for words, which is worrisome because Paisley is never at a loss for words.
“Okay, so I want you to hear me out. Don’t say anything until the very end.”
“Did you drink one too many Red Bulls this morning?” I ask. We both know Paisley kind of has a caffeine addiction.
“Vaughn!”
“Okay. Okay.” I zip my lips shut. “Not another word.”
She rolls her eyes. “You do the lip-zipping after the last word, not before.”
“Details, shmetails. Now talk. I promise not to interrupt.”
She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you know how they finally gave me my own cubicle, so I don’t have to share with that other assistant anymore?”
I nod. “They” are her bosses at Diamond Talent Management. Paisley’s official job title is Brand Coverage Assistant, but technically she’s a glorified gofer—she goes on coffee runs, makes a zillion photocopies and spends an insane amount of time scheduling meetings. I swear, the people she works for hold more meetings than the UN.
“Well, my cube has this little bulletin board on the wall. I’m allowed to put up pictures, so yesterday I brought in a few photos. You know, like the one of Mom and Dad that we love, where they’re kissing on the boardwalk? And one of the twins at baseball camp. And then I put up the one I took of you at the beach bonfire we had for your birthday last month.”
I have to fight the urge not to make a waving motion with my hand to tell her to speed up. Paisley takes forever to get to the point.
“Anyway, so get this! Jim Tolson is walking by my cube—”
“Who’s Jim Tolson?” I ask, breaking my vow of silence.
“He’s my boss’s brother. He manages some of the biggest musicians in the world.” Paisley is so excited her cheeks are flushed. “So he’s walking by, and he sees the picture of you on my bulletin board and asks if he could borrow it for a minute—”
“Ew! I do not like where this story is going.”
She shoots me a dirty look. “I’m not done. You promised to be quiet until I was done.”
I swallow a sigh. “Sorry.”
“So I’m, like, sure, go ahead, but just make sure to bring it back because that’s my favorite picture of my little sister. So he takes the photo and disappears into his brother’s office for a while. He’s got all these assistants in there and they’re all talking about your picture—”
Okay, now I really don’t like where this is heading.
“Something major is going down at the agency,” Paisley adds. “I have no idea what, because I’m a lowly assistant, but Mr. Tolson has been in and out, arguing with his brother all week, and they keep having these secret meetings in the conference room.”
I swear, if she doesn’t get to the point soon, I’m going to lose my mind.
“So at the end of the day, my boss—Leo—calls me into Jim’s office and they start asking me all these questions about you.” She must see my worried look, because she’s quick to reassure me. “Nothing too personal. Jim wanted to know how old you are, what your interests are, if you’ve ever been in trouble with the law—”
“Um, what?”
Paisley huffs in annoyance. “He just wants to make sure you’re not a criminal.”
Forget this vow of silence. I’m too confused to stick to it. “Why does this agent—”
“Manager,” she corrects.
“Manager...” I roll my eyes. “Why does this manager care so much about me? And you said he manages musicians—is he trying to sign me as a client or something? You told him I can’t carry a tune, right?”
“Oh, totally. That was one of his questions, if you had any ‘musical aspirations.’” She air-quotes that. “He was pretty happy when I told him you’re (a) not musical and (b) interested in becoming a teacher.”
“Is it a matchmaking thing then? Because, gross. How old is this dude?” I ask skeptically.
She waves a hand. “In his thirties, I think. And that’s not it.”
“Is there an it? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”
Paisley pauses for a beat. Then she blurts out her next words in one breath. “They want you to pretend to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend this year.”
I spray the concrete steps with lukewarm coffee mixed with spit. “What?”
“I promise you it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
She runs a hand through her ordinarily perfectly styled black bob, and I notice for the first time that her hair is sticking up on the sides. Paisley’s usually so polished, from the top of her shiny head to the tips of the flats that she buffs every night.
“Mr. Tolson thinks you’re perfect for the job,” she tells me. “He said you’re pretty but not in an over-the-top way. More like a natural, girl-next-door type. I described you as down-to-earth, and he thinks that will complement Oakley, because Oakley can be really intense sometimes—”
“Okay, let’s back up,” I cut in. “Are you talking about Oakley Ford, pop icon? Oakley Ford, the guy with so many girls’ names tattooed on his body he’s like a phone directory of former Victoria’s Secret models? Oakley Ford, who tried to depants a monk in Angkor Wat and nearly caused an international incident? That Oakley Ford?”
“Yeah, him.” She scrunches up her nose. “And he’s only got one tattoo of a woman’s name and it’s his mom’s.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that or did you make a personal inspection?”
Oakley’s nineteen and Paisley’s twenty-three, so I guess it could happen, but that’s kinda disgusting. Not because he’s younger, but because Paisley’s too awesome to be some celebrejerk’s castoff.
“Ew, Vaughn.”
“Look, if you’re serious, the answer is still no. In fact, there are so many reasons for me to say no that I don’t know if we have time for me to list them all. But here’s one—I don’t even like Oakley Ford.”
“You played his album on repeat for, like, three months.”
“When I was fifteen!” Oakley Ford was a phase. Like BFF necklaces and Hannah Montana. Plus, his antics got really unappealing. After the tenth or so picture of him making out with some random girl at a club, he got kind of slimy in my eyes.
Paisley runs her hand through her hair again. “I know this is your year off. And I want you to have that, I swear. But this thing isn’t going to take up very much of your time. An hour or two maybe every other day. A couple nights. A couple weekends. It’s the same as if you were waiting tables at Sharkey’s.”
“Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”
She blinks. “What?”
“I have a boyfriend!”
“W?”
“Yes, W.” For some reason, Paisley hates W. She says his name is stupid and that he’s stupid, but I love him anyway. William Wilkerson isn’t the greatest name to be saddled with, but that’s not his fault. It’s also why we call him W. “There have to be dozens of girls who want to pretend-date Oakley Ford. And why does he need a fake girlfriend anyway? He could probably walk down to the Four Seasons on Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”
“That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the whole fake girlfriend thing with him before, but she fell for him and he broke her heart. I think half of the bad publicity the guy gets is because of her.”
“Are you talking about April Showers?” I gasp. “That was fake? Oh, man, I believed in ShOak. My childhood dreams are crushed.” I’m only half-kidding. Fifteen was a tough year for me, and not just because it was the year my parents died.
Paisley punches me in the shoulder. “You just said you didn’t like him.”
“Well, not after he cheated on April with that Brazilian swimsuit model.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “Fake, really?”
“Really.”
Hmmm. I might have to rethink my opinion of Oakley. Still, doesn’t mean I want to be the next fake girlfriend to be fake dumped and fake cheated on.
“So you’ll do it?”
I stare at her. “I make a couple hundred a night at Sharkey’s. You said before Christmas we were doing fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Last year I found Paisley crying at the dinner table at two in the morning. She admitted that Mom and Dad didn’t leave us in the greatest financial position. The insurance money kept us afloat at the beginning, but last summer she’d had to get a second mortgage to cover all the bills, and she was thinking of leaving college to get a job. Appalled, I sat down and made her go over everything with me, because she was a year away from graduating. I got my diploma early by taking summer courses, online ones to supplement my high school studies, and special permission from the school to take advanced classes. And then I found a job. Serving steak and iceberg lettuce wedges isn’t fancy, but it pays the bills.
Or so I thought.
“No. We’re fine. I mean...” She trails off.
“Then my answer is no.” I’ve never been interested in the other side of LA. It seems so artificial, and I do enough pretending as it is.
I have my hand on the screen door when Paisley drops her next bomb. “They’ll pay you twenty thousand a month.”
I spin around slowly, my mouth hanging open. “Are you effing kidding me?”
“Don’t swear,” she says automatically, but her eyes are bright with excitement. “And that’s for a full year of commitment.”
“That would...”
“Put the boys through college? Pay off both our mortgages? Make everything easier for us? Yes.”
I blow my overgrown bangs out of my face. This proposition is insane. I mean, who pays such an obscene amount of money to some random girl to pretend to be a pop star’s girlfriend for a year? Maybe that’s normal in the entertainment industry, but I grew up with parents who were elementary school teachers.
I suddenly wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive to hear this crazy offer. Would they encourage me to do it, or tell me to run, run for my life? I honestly don’t know. They were all about exploring new opportunities, taking the road less traveled. It was one of my favorite things about them, and I miss my fun-loving, impulsive parents. I miss them a lot.
That said, their love of spontaneity is part of the reason why we’re hurting for money.
“An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, but you don’t have to say yes,” Paisley assures me. Her words say one thing; her strained tone says another.
“How long do I have to think about it?”
“Jim Tolson wants an answer tomorrow morning. And if it’s a yes, he wants you to come to the agency to meet with him and Oakley.”
Oakley. Oakley frickin’ Ford.
This is...nuts.
“Fine, I’ll think about it.” I let out a breath. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.”
Twenty thousand dollars a month, Vaughn...
Yeah. I’m pretty sure we both know what my answer is going to be.
3 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
I said yes.
Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.
Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.
Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.
The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.
Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.
“You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.
“I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”
“Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.
We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.
I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.
A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”
“Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”
As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.
“This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”
Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.
“And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.
Jeez. His assistant has assistants?
Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”
“Um. Okay. Hit me.” My voice sounds unusually loud in this massive conference room. The echo feels endless.
“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?” he suggests.
I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he expect me to recite my life story? Well, I was born in California. I live in El Segundo. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen.
Or maybe he wants trivia-type stuff? My favorite color is green. I’m scared of butterflies. I hate cats.
My confusion must show on my face, because Jim gives me a few prompts. “What are your interests? What do you aspire to do after high school?”
“Oh, I’m done with high school already,” I admit.
“Are you in college?” Claudia, the publicist, twists and frowns at Paisley. “She may need to miss classes. How old are you again?”
“Seventeen.”
“Age of consent in California is eighteen.” This reminder comes from the end of the table, where the lawyers, plural, are sitting.
Claudia waves her hand dismissively. “They’re dating. Nothing more. Besides, Oakley’s audience is mostly young girls. Anyone older and it won’t have the same impact.” She turns to me. “What are you currently doing?”
“I’m working. I took the year off to work to help our family.” I’ve said it so many times, but even the passing mention of Mom and Dad being gone still makes my heart clench.
“Paisley and Vaughn’s parents died a couple of years ago,” Jim explains.
Paisley and I cringe as the entire table gives us pitying looks, except for Claudia, who beams. “Wonderful. An intelligent, plucky orphan,” she says, and her voice is so high and squeaky it hurts my ears. “This backstory gets better and better. She’s just what we’re looking for.”
We? I’m even more confused. I thought this was about me pretending to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend, so why am I in a conference room filled with strangers? Shouldn’t my soon-to-be fake boyfriend be here, too?
“Do you plan on attending college?” Jim asks.
I nod. “I got into USC and Cal State, but I deferred until next fall.” I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans as I trot out my practiced speech about wanting to have real life experience before school but how I eventually plan to go into teaching.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Claudia’s “team” taking diligent notes. My confession that I like to draw triggers several interested looks from the PR section.
“Are you good?” Claudia asks bluntly.
I shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. I mostly do pencil sketches. Usually just faces.”
“She’s being modest,” Paisley speaks up, her voice firm. “Vaughn’s drawings are amazing.”
Claudia’s blue eyes shine with excitement as she turns to her team, and then four voices chime out, “Fan art!”
“I’m sorry...what?” I say in bewilderment.
“That’s how we’ll make first contact. We’ve been brainstorming various online meet-cutes, but they all felt so contrived. But this has potential. Picture this—you Tweet a gorgeous sketch you drew of Oakley, and he’s so blown away he Tweets you back!” Oakley’s high-voiced publicist begins to make rapid hand gestures as she gets more and more excited by the picture she’s painting. “And his followers will take notice, because he so rarely replies to Tweets. Oakley tells you how your piece touched him. It brought tears to his eyes. You Tweet back and forth a few times, and then...” She pauses for effect. “He follows you.”
This prompts simultaneous gasps from her three assistants.
“Yes,” one of them says with a vigorous nod of her head.
“But,” another speaks up hesitantly, “we need to address the sister issue.”
“Right,” Claudia agrees. “Hmmm. Yes.”
Paisley and I exchange flabbergasted looks. It’s like these people are speaking a different language.
Jim sees our faces and quickly clarifies. “The fact that Paisley works for this agency will no doubt come out. Once the press digs that up, they’ll start concocting wild theories about how the relationship is a scam arranged by Oakley’s manager—”
I can’t help but snort.
Jim doesn’t seem to be as amused by the truth as I am. “—who just so happens to be related to the head of this agency. So we need to provide a plausible reason why a Diamond employee’s sister is suddenly involved with one of the agency’s clients.”
“We’ll blame it on coincidence,” Claudia says with total confidence. “One of Vaughn’s Tweets to Oakley will be this—” She moves her fingers through the air like she’s conveying a headline “‘Oh-em-gee! I just realized my big sis works at the same agency that reps you! How cool is that!’”
I try not to roll my eyes.
“That could work,” Jim says thoughtfully. “And then we’ll get Paisley—” he glances at my sister “—to give a short interview about her role in the relationship.”
“My role?” Paisley sounds uncertain.
Claudia can obviously read Jim’s mind, because she starts nodding again. I’m surprised her head is still attached to her neck at this rate. “Yes, you’ll give a statement about how you could not believe it when Oakley’s manager called you into his brother’s office and told you that Oakley wanted your sister’s phone number.”
Paisley starts nodding, too, and I almost reach over to smack her. Why is she feeding into these people’s craziness?
“I have a few more questions for Vaughn,” Jim says. “Your sister said you were dating someone?”
I don’t miss the way Paisley’s lips curl slightly at the reminder of W. Ugh. One of these days she’s going to have to suck it up and accept that I’m in love with the guy.
“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” I reply awkwardly. “And actually, my Twitter and Instagram have lots of pictures of the two of us.”
Jim turns to Claudia, who falls silent. I can see the wheels in her bouncy head turning and turning.
“You’ll announce a breakup on your social media,” she decides. “We’ll spend two—no, three, weeks focusing on the split. First will be your despondent post announcing the end of the relationship, then we’ll document your grieving process, how you’re so upset and—”
“Listening to Oakley Ford’s albums on repeat,” one of the assistants finishes animatedly.
Claudia’s eyes light up. “Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Oakley’s music pulls you from the dark abyss of heartache.”
I almost gag.
“And that’s what inspires you to draw his face, which leads to our social media meet-cute.” She glances at Jim. “It still works.”
He looks pleased. “All right. What about Vaughn’s appearance? How do we feel about that?”
Everyone at the table swings their heads toward me. Their gazes pierce me, assessing me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. My cheeks heat up, and Paisley squeezes my hand again.
All of a sudden, the critiques start pouring in.
“The bangs are too long,” Claudia chirps. “We’ll trim them.”
“Hair itself needs a trim, too. And that shade of brown looks too fake.”
“It’s my real hair color!” I protest, but nobody’s listening to me.
“The honey-brown eyes are nice. I like the gold flecks. We’ll forgo colored contacts.”
“Shirt’s a little too baggy. Are your shirts always this baggy, Vaughn?”
“Isn’t normal what we are going for?” someone disagrees. “If we make her pretty, then the fans won’t be able to relate.”
I have never been more humiliated in my life.
“Oh, one last thing,” Claudia says suddenly. “Are you a virgin?”
Scratch that—it’s possible to be more embarrassed. There are a few coughs from other people at the table. Jim pretends the traffic in the hallway outside the room is fascinating, while the lawyers all stare stone-faced down the length of the table.
“Do I have to answer that?” I cast a dark look at my sister, who shakes her head.
“That can’t be important,” Paisley says to the man who’s more or less her boss.
Jim ignores her. Clearly this question is one he wants the answer to, as well.
I want to hug her for standing up for me. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are officially as red as Claudia’s hair.
“If you’re worried there’s some sort of sex scandal in Vaughn’s past, don’t be,” my sister assures the table. “Vaughn is the definition of good girl.”
I don’t know why, but Paisley’s view of me kind of stings. I mean, I know I’m not Miss Badass, but I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, either.
Claudia shrugs. “We’ll do a thorough background check, nonetheless.”
Background check? My sex status shows up in someone’s report? I’m about to burst in outrage when Jim steps in.
“All right, I think we can all agree that this arrangement shows promise.” He clasps both hands together and glances at the lawyer section of the table. “Nigel, why don’t you and the boys draft a rough contract and jot down any negotiation points you anticipate? Oakley will be here in an hour, so we can get into the finer details then.”
I frown. We’re all just supposed to wait around for an hour until His Majesty gets here? And now that I think about it, do I need a lawyer? I whisper the question to Paisley, who voices the question to her boss.
“The contract will be very straightforward,” Jim assures us. “Basically, it will state that you’ve agreed to enter into a service contract and that should you, at any time, no longer be able to perform your duties, the contract can be terminated. Any goods or monies received up to that time are yours to keep.”
I bite my lip. This is starting to feel exceptionally complicated. But I guess when twenty thousand dollars—a month!—is involved, I should have expected complicated.
“How about this?” Jim suggests. “Why don’t we sit down with Oakley and go over the contract details? Then you can read the agreement Nigel’s firm drafts, and then you can decide where we go from there.”
“Okay,” I answer, because that sounds very reasonable despite the ridiculousness of the situation.
Next to me, Paisley winks and gives me a not-very-subtle thumbs-up of encouragement. I shoot her a wan smile in return.
If I just remember why I’m doing this—so my brothers can go to college, so Paisley can stop worrying about how we’re going to pay the bills... If I can just keep focusing on all that, then maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.
4 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
I’m hungry and my stomach’s been announcing that fact for the last thirty minutes. Still, no one suggests we take a break for lunch, even though it’s close to noon and Oakley Ford still hasn’t appeared. It’s been two hours. Jim and the lawyers have left the room, but everyone else is glued to their chairs.
“Here’s a granola bar. And a Coke.” Paisley sets the snacks on the table in front of me.
“No wonder you like working here,” I joke. “The free lunches are so fancy.”
But since I’m starving, I shove half the bar in my mouth—at the exact same moment that Oakley Ford throws open the door.
Two burly guys with arms like tree trunks follow him inside. One plants himself next to the entrance while the other trails behind the singer. I barely notice Jim and the lawyers entering and closing the door, because I’m too busy staring at Oakley.
He’s taller than I thought he’d be. Everyone in Hollywood is short. Zac Efron is barely taller than my five-six. Same with Daniel Radcliffe. At six-four, Ansel Elgort is a veritable giant. Oakley looks to be Elgort-size, but with way more muscles.
He’s even hotter in person. It’s not the sandy-blond hair spiked up in the front and cut short in the back. Or his moss-green eyes. Or his chiseled jaw. He actually has an aura. You hear of things like that, but until you’ve experienced it in person, you don’t believe it exists.
But he has it.
Everyone in the room is responding. People are sitting up and straightening their clothes. I dimly register Paisley smoothing her perfect hair into place.
And I can’t look away.
Oakley’s jeans are low enough that the brand of underwear he’s wearing is visible as he reaches across the sideboard to grab a bottle of water. His arm muscles are defined enough to be noticeable, and I watch in fascination as the right biceps flexes when he twists the bottle cap off. Those muscles remind me of the shirtless spread he did for Vogue a couple of months ago. It was all over the web because the editorial spread had one shot of him in underwear only, and the size of his crotch got everyone speculating whether he stuffed a sock down his shorts.
I forget I’m eating my granola bar. I forget that I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of lawyers. I forget my own name.
“Sorry. Traffic,” he says before settling in the seat at the very end of the table. The bodyguard stands at his shoulder.
I find myself nodding, because LA does have horrible traffic. Of course this beautiful god wouldn’t make us mere mortals wait for him because he was doing something—is his hair wet? Did he just shower? Is it getting hot in the conference room?
This is Oakley Ford and I did listen to his album on repeat when I was fifteen. And fine, I might have harbored a teeny-tiny crush on him, which was why I was so upset when he cheated on his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend.
Which I’m going to be.
Fake.
I don’t like fake, but I’m good at it. Faking things, that is.
Paisley nudges me.
“What?” Then I realize I still have the stupid granola bar hanging out of my mouth.
A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has noticed this. Claudia wears a worried expression. Jim is resigned. I don’t want to look at Oakley, but I do anyway. His face shows a cross between horror and fascination. The glance he throws his manager definitely says You’ve got to be kidding.
The only thing to do is act like I don’t care. I bite off the bar and start chewing. The health bar, never an appealing item to begin with, tastes like cardboard. Everyone watches me, and I chew even slower. Then I take a big swallow of Coke before wiping my mouth with the napkin that Paisley miraculously produces. I’m certain I’m redder than the receptionist’s lipstick, but I pretend that it’s no big deal. See how good I am at acting like everything is perfect?
“So this is her?” Oakley waves a hand in my general direction. I’ve heard him speak in interviews before, but his voice sounds even better in person. Deep and raspy and hypnotizing.
Jim hesitates and then looks down at his phone. Whatever he sees there stiffens his resolve. He sets the phone down. “Oakley Ford, this is Vaughn Bennett. Vaughn, Oakley.”
I start to rise and hold out my hand, but stop halfway out of my seat when Oakley leans back and clasps his hands behind his head.
Okay then.
Suddenly all my nervousness and embarrassment drain away. Relief settles in their place. I take another sip of my Coke. Surprise, surprise—Mr. Famous is a total jerk.
For a moment there, I felt like I was in danger of being sucked in by his magnetism. That I’d forget W, the money, April Showers, Brazilian supermodels and become caught up in his force field. But a guy who mocks me because I had the nerve to eat a granola bar while we all waited on his late ass? Who doesn’t have the courtesy to shake my hand?
There’s no way I’d ever fall for a guy like that.
I sneak a look at Paisley, who’s smiling slightly. She must have had the same concerns.
“So are we going to talk about terms? Like, what are my work hours?” I ask coolly, cradling the pop can between my hands.
“Work hours?” Claudia echoes, a tiny furrow appearing on her forehead.
“Yeah, since this is my job.”
She titters. “Not a job, more like a...”
“Role?” one of her assistants offers.
“Yes. A role in a long, romantic movie. And you’re the two leads.”
I feel actual bile rise up in my throat.
Oakley grumbles with impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”
Quickly, Claudia outlines our meet-cute with the drawing and the Twitter stuff. When she’s finished, Oakley yawns.
“Sure. Whatever. You’re going to handle it, right?”
“Well, not me, but Amy here will.” Claudia tips her head to the raven-haired woman on her right.
Amy holds up her phone in acknowledgment.
“Great.” He slaps his hands down on the table. “Then we’re done?”
Seriously? I waited over two hours and got only a granola bar and an extra serving of humiliation for this five-minute demonstration of how Oakley Ford isn’t even going to participate in this charade? Instead, I’ll be fake flirting with the assistant of one of his media people.
I turn to Paisley, who gives me a small, rueful shrug.
“No. We’re not done,” Jim barks from the other end of the table. The two of them exchange glares, but whatever power Jim holds over Oakley, it’s enough to get the young star to resettle into his chair.
“Let’s hear the rest of it.” He makes a tired gesture toward Claudia.
She picks up her notepad. “We’ll need the first date. We don’t think you should have any physical contact until after the third—” she looks at her assistants and then at Jim “—fourth date? I mean, we’re trying to sell this as a wholesome romance.”
Everyone starts throwing ideas out about when and how the touching will happen. Someone says he should kiss me on the forehead. Another suggests a hand on the small of my back. There’s another vote for hand-holding.
I’m still struggling with the concept of any touching when Paisley, the traitor, asks, “When did you and W start holding hands?”
Before I can answer, Oakley jumps in, snickering softly. “You dated a guy named W?”
“So what?” Wow. His first words to me are to make fun of my boyfriend’s name? It’s like Oakley’s trying to get me to dislike him.
“Sounds like a pretentious asshat.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. The action makes his biceps flex again.
I drag my eyes away. “Okay, Mr. I-Name-All-My-Albums-After-Me Ford.”
Someone at the end of the table gasps at my audacity, but Oakley’s unfazed by my insult. “Even Madonna has a full collection of letters in her name.”
“W is not pretentious.”
“If you say so.” He smirks.
“I do. He’s awesome. And sweet.”
“So why’d you break up with him?”
“I didn’t,” I say indignantly.
His brow creases. “So he broke up with you?” He sounds...confused. Like that doesn’t make sense to him.
“He hasn’t!”
Oakley shifts to Claudia. “So my down-to-earth, wholesome, normal girlfriend is a cheater?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s gonna go over well.”
“Oh, you mean the fake breakup,” I say. For a minute there, I’d forgotten.
He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.
“He’ll break up with her tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’ll give it approximately two weeks after the breakup, and then she’ll Tweet you the drawing. Then there’ll be a series of dates, but no touching.” Claudia turns to me. “When did you have your first kiss?”
“Ever?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but my mind is stuck on the breaking up with W bit. I haven’t thought this whole thing through. I’ve been so focused on the money and how we’d be able to pay off the mortgage, pay for the twins’ college, allow Paisley to sleep better at night, that I hadn’t given any thought to the actual details of how this whole thing was going to work.
“Yeah, ever,” Oakley says, and this time he does roll his eyes.
These personal questions suck. “When was yours?” I counter, still focused on the W issue. Lately, he’s been pulling away. He says it’s my fault that I don’t act like an adult about our relationship because I’m still refusing to have sex with him.
“With tongue? I think I was eleven. It was with Donna Foster, the daughter of my dad’s side chick.”
My eyes grow wide. He French-kissed at eleven? I still thought boys had cooties at that age. Oakley would probably pee with laughter if he knew I was a virgin.
“You?” he prompts.
“Um...” Jeez, now I’m even more embarrassed, but for another reason. “Sixteen,” I mumble.
“How sweet. Just like the saying.”
I curl my fingers into fists. If Claudia’s team wasn’t sitting between the two of us, I might’ve reached over and smacked his smug smile off his smug face.
Paisley grips my hand, an unspoken gesture for me to get it together.
Even Claudia must sense that my patience is coming to an end. Hurriedly, she says, “Let’s do hand-holding on the third date and then a kiss on the fourth date. We’ll keep the first couple of dates under wraps, but leak the later ones to the paps.”
“Hold up, we’re going to kiss? I have a boyfriend,” I remind the room. “No one said there’d be kissing.”
“We’re gonna have a year-long relationship and we don’t kiss? Why don’t we just announce that it’s fake from the beginning?” Oakley mocks.
“But...but...” Yeah, I definitely didn’t think this through. I quickly turn to Paisley for help.
She grimaces. “They’re right. No one is going to believe that you and Oakley haven’t kissed. Not if you’re serious.” Her tone is apologetic, but her words don’t provide me any relief.
“You don’t expect me to...” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say the words out loud.
“Of course not,” Jim interjects briskly. “We’re not that kind of agency.”
He tries to play it off as a joke, but, um, they kind of are. They’re hiring this guy a girlfriend and they expect us to kiss.
How am I going to explain this to W? Sorry, babe, not willing to have sex with you yet, but I’m going to kiss another guy. In public.
That will go over well.
Claudia leans forward. “This is no different than if you were acting on a television show. Remember, you’re playing a part in a big love story.”
Her assurance doesn’t help, either. I may not know what I want in life. I may just be telling everyone I want to be a teacher because that’s easier than admitting I’m clueless about my future and that I’d rather hide as a waitress for the next five years. But I do know that the entertainment industry doesn’t interest me.
Paisley squeezes my hand again, probably to remind me why I’m doing this. By playing the role of a girlfriend, I get to lift the burden off my big sister’s shoulders and provide for my brothers. It’s not like I’m signing my entire life over. It’s just one year.
“What do I need to do?” I ask, feeling resigned.
“Just a few kisses, some hand-holding. It’s nothing, really.” Claudia waves her hand airily. “And it doesn’t need to be in the contract other than some general terms about physical contact when necessary.”
“Does any of this need to be in the contract?” Oakley sounds annoyed.
“I agree. If this ever got out, it would be terrible for Oak’s image,” Jim points out.
“The terms need to be specific so that the girl can be held to them,” one of the suits replies. Then he and Jim engage in some furious whispering until the lawyer presses his lips together in unhappy surrender. “Fine, it can be general, then. A general contract of employment.”
Once that’s decided, Claudia returns to her list. I wonder how long it is. I glance at the big white clock on the wall. It’s going on three hours and I’m exhausted.
“Let’s talk about her look again.”
“I’m not changing my look,” I mutter. “I like my look.”
I like my comfy skinny jeans, assortment of colorful T-shirts and the Vans that W and I doodled on during morning advisory last spring. The sneakers are filled with details marking our favorite dates. There’s a wizard’s wand along the left sole because we’re both Harry Potter fans. Then there’s the light post to signify the Urban Light display on Wilshire, where W kissed me for the first time. Where there was definitely tongue. His initials are on the back of one shoe and mine are on the other. He has a pair of them, too, but he doesn’t wear his. He says he doesn’t want to ruin them.
“You have a look?” Oakley raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, and it’s better than yours,” I retort, tired of his attitude. “Would it kill you to wear pants that actually fit around your waist? No one wants to see your underwear.”
“Baby, everyone wants to see my underwear. I get paid a hundred grand per pap pic.”
“Baby?” I scoff.
He leans forward, threading his surprisingly elegant fingers together. “Don’t like that one? Pick another, then. You’re my girlfriend,” he reminds me mockingly.
“So you’re into infants?”
“What?” He rears back. “No. Fine. How about—” he pretends to think and then snaps his fingers “—old lady?”
“Great.” I give him my fakest smile. “I’ll call you...dick cheese.”
“Vaughn, gross,” my sister interjects.
Oakley covers his mouth. I swear I see a smile. I wait for his response and I’m not disappointed. “I have no problem with that, crabby patty.”
“All right, that’s enough of that. None of this needs to be in the contract.” Oakley’s lawyer rattles his papers in agitation.
I turn back to Claudia. I’ve given in on the kissing. On the dates. On this made-for-the-media breakup with my boyfriend, but no way am I going to let them change my look. I’ve got to fight for something. “I thought you wanted a normal girl. I’m a normal girl. This is what some normal girls wear.”
When Claudia and Jim exchange a glance, I know I’ve won this one. They agree to keep my look...for now.
“But when we take pictures, at least let us do your makeup. You’ll want us to,” Claudia promises.
Um. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.
The negotiation goes on. When will our first official picture be released? Where will the dates take place? Will I go to an awards show with him? How about fashion week in New York? How often should I be seen with him? Every day? Every other day?
Oh, and I would not get Oakley’s phone number. Like I care.
But I still find it weird, because what nineteen-year-old isn’t allowed to give his number to his own girlfriend? And how does he communicate with his friends? Wait—does he even have friends? Or are they all fake like me?
I peer at him from underneath my lashes and feel a pang of sympathy. Oh, brother. Am I actually starting to feel sorry for him? I think I might be.
But then my stomach growls and reminds me that we’re still mad. And unfed.
“You’ll text Amy or me if you want to get ahold of Oakley,” Claudia says.
“I feel like I need my own people. My people can text your people,” I joke.
No one laughs. Instead, Claudia looks like she’s seriously considering it, but then decides against it. “No, I think two nonteens Tweeting each other and commenting on Instagram would appear too contrived. And your voice, we want to preserve that. Whereas Amy has been running Oak’s page for a couple of years now.”
I have a voice?
“Whatever.” I’m exhausted and hungry. One granola bar wasn’t enough, and my stomach rumbles again to alert everyone to that fact.
“Is the granola bar all you’ve had today?” Oakley asks.
A burst of surprise jolts me. Out of all the people in this room, Oakley’s the one to ask? “I had breakfast, but I like to eat like a normal person.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Jim, we need to eat.”
“Oh, sure.” Jim turns to Paisley. “Run and get us one of everything from the café across the street.”
I see a chance for fresh air and an escape. “I’ll go, too.” Not to mention that I don’t want to be here without Paisley.
“Oh, no, we’ll need you here,” Jim objects.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my sister. She doesn’t need to wait on me.
Paisley laughs. “It’s my job, silly. I’ll be right back.”
She trots out like she’s glad to be out of there, while I watch her exit and wish I could go with her.
On the other side of the table, Oakley leans back, crosses his arms again and looks smug, like he cured world hunger. “Well?” he prompts.
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Why? Paisley’s the one getting the food.”
“You wouldn’t be having lunch without me.”
I point to the clock. “I’ve been sitting in this conference room for five hours. Prisoners in maximum security receive better treatment. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lying on the beach rereading The Handmaid’s Tale and I would have eaten something. But sure, thank you for alerting your manager to send my sister to get me food.”
He doesn’t like my smart-ass response. “It’s too cold for the beach.”
“I never said I was going to swim.” I speak in the same tone I use when I tell my little brothers they’re acting like immature idiots.
“Why are you at the beach, then?”
I gape at him. “Why does anyone go to the beach? Because it’s awesome.”
“If you say so,” he responds, but the smugness he’s previously displayed is dialed down a watt as if my reasons for liking the beach are important...or even interesting. Or he might be confused about why I’d choose to go there rather than sit five feet away from his holy presence.
But I’m not going to tell him.
Instead, I drain the rest of my Coke, slam it on the table with more force than necessary and then sit back and refuse to say another word.
Is it childish?
Oh, yeah.
But it feels really, really good.
5 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
Jim drags me into his office before I can make a run for the elevator bank. My bodyguards, Big D and Tyrese, remain outside the door, but they have a perfect view of us because the office is a big glass cube. I don’t know how he gets any work done with the whole floor being able to see him at all times.
My entire life is a big glass cube. I can’t even remember a time when I had actual privacy.
“Do not run her off,” is the first thing Jim snaps at me.
“Who?”
“Vaughn Bennett. She’s the perfect candidate to play your fake girlfriend. We need her.”
“Yeah, in the way I need an enema. Did you see the mouth on that chick?”
“Oakley. I’m warning you.”
“About what?” I roll my eyes and flop into the huge leather chair behind the massive desk.
He doesn’t say a word about me sitting in his chair. He can’t, because I’m Oakley fuckin’ Ford.
“Number one,” Jim begins, “don’t flirt with her—”
“Isn’t that kind of the point? We’re supposed to be dating.”
“The point is to rehab your image. Vaughn’s going to play a pivotal role in that, which brings me to number two—don’t antagonize her.”
She started it, I almost say, but that would just make me sound like a five-year-old. It’s true, though. Vaughn Bennett was the one acting all rude and giving me lip. All I did was point out that her boyfriend sounds like a pretentious douche. Not my fault some people can’t handle a helpful truth bomb.
“Couldn’t you have hired someone who’s a little less...bitchy?” I grumble.
“You mean someone who’s a little more adoring?” Jim replies, and his knowing smile grates on my nerves.
Fine, so maybe I’m pissed about Vaughn’s total lack of...respect, I guess? I don’t expect every girl I meet to throw herself at my feet and declare her undying love for me, but come on, she could’ve at least said she liked my music or something. Or congratulated me on my last Grammy.
Where does this chick get off, acting like she’s doing me a favor just by sitting in the same conference room as me? I’m Oakley Ford.
“You’ve changed your mind about working with King, then?” Jim asks.
I glare at him. “There’s got to be another way. Let’s call him up again.”
“Sure.” Jim pulls out his phone and tosses it down the desk. It slides to a halt halfway between us. “Call him. He’s number ten on my favorites.”
This feels like a dare. I grab the phone and start to press Dial when I realize I’m looking at Jim’s recent call list. About every fifth call is to King. My eyes flick up to meet Jim’s, and what I see in his gaze doesn’t sit well in my gut. It’s a mix of regret and resignation.
He dips his head. “I’ve tried to call him. He won’t take my calls about you. He’s not interested, not until you show him you’re not a spoiled little jerk who’d rather party at nightclubs than make good music. So if you have a better idea, I’m all ears, but short of taking him to a cabin and going all Misery on his ass, he’s not going to work with you.”
I can’t maintain eye contact anymore, because I don’t have a different idea. I rub my throat and wonder how I lost my mojo.
If pretending to date a girl I don’t know, who doesn’t like me, gets it back, then I’ll be the best boyfriend that this chick has ever had.
Which can’t be hard considering her current one is named W.
* * *
I get home an hour later to find a half-dressed couple making out on my bed.
I stand there in the doorway for a second, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, but the skinny blonde on my California king mattress notices me and unleashes an ear-piercing shriek.
“Oh! My! God! You’re Oakley Ford!”
Then, wearing nothing but a short skirt and skimpy bra, she flies off the bed and launches herself at me.
My man Tyrese appears out of nowhere and steps in her path.
Anger and annoyance swirl in my gut as I peer at the guy on the bed. I vaguely recognize him—I think it’s one of Luke’s friends. But why is he in my bedroom?
He zips up his pants and scrambles off the bed. He’s either drunk or high or both as he slurs, “Oak, bro. You’re home early. Luke said you wouldna be back for a couple hours.”
As if that makes it okay that he’s fooling around on my bed?
I’m so disgusted I can’t even answer. I just jerk my head at Tyrese, who clamps one meaty hand on the girl’s arm and his other meaty hand around the guy’s shoulder.
“Time to go,” my bodyguard announces in his baritone voice.
“No, wait!” the blonde whines. “I just wanna get a picture with Oakley! Oakley, I’m your biggest fan! I love you! Can I please get—”
Her pleas fade away as Tyrese drags the couple down the sweeping marble staircase.
I hear a door click and turn to find a member of my cleaning staff stepping out of one of the guest rooms. “Is everything all right, Mr. Ford?” she asks with a timid expression.
“Everything’s fine.” I hook my thumb at my bedroom. “Burn those sheets,” I say curtly, and then I stalk past her toward the east wing, where Luke has been crashing for the past few days.
I throw his door open without knocking. “Get out,” I snap.
Luke was sprawled on the bed watching TV, but now he bolts to his feet, his panicky gaze finding mine. “Oak,” he says weakly. “You’re back early.”
“Yeah, I am,” I bite out. “And now it’s time for you to go.”
“But...” He’s visibly gulping. “Come on, man, I already told you, I’ve got nowhere else to stay while my place is being fumigated.”
“Not my problem anymore.”
“Oak—”
“Why the hell are there strangers in my room, Luke? We had an agreement. I give you a place to crash, you don’t invite people over without running it by me first.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, bro. But Charlie’s girl is, like, obsessed with you, and it’s her birthday, and Charlie just wanted to show her your room. You know,” he says feebly, “like a birthday present.”
I gape at him. Does he expect me to buy that?
“How much and how many times?” I ask in a flat voice.
Luke gulps again. “Wh-what?”
“How much do you charge ’em for the experience of screwing in Oakley Ford’s bedroom, and how many times have you done it?”
When the tips of his ears turn red, I know I’m right. And now all the disgust I feel is directed at myself. I should’ve known Luke would screw me over eventually. They always do.
I met him a couple years ago at the studio. I was rehearsing with the house band, he was playing bass guitar, and we hit it off instantly. We liked the same music, same video games, same everything. The two of us ran wild in the LA club scene for a while there. I invited him to go on tour with me. But these last few months, Luke’s turned into a leech. Borrowing money from me, getting me to sign stuff he can sell online.
And now this? Yeah. I think this “friendship” has run its course.
“Forget it, don’t answer that,” I mutter. “Just get your stuff and go.”
“Don’t be like that, bro.”
My patience is nonexistent. “D,” I call over my shoulder.
Big D appears behind me. He crosses his enormous arms over his enormous chest then proceeds to glare daggers at Luke until the bassist sighs in defeat and starts gathering up his belongings.
With my bodyguard handling the sitch, I march off and take the stairs two at a time. This day just keeps getting worse and worse, starting with the meeting with my new fake girlfriend, a chick with a smart mouth and a chip on her shoulder, and ending with yet another person I considered a friend showing his true colors.
I’m seething as I burst into the media room on the main floor and grab a beer from the fridge. Yeah, I’m underage, but there’s been booze, drugs and girls at my disposal for as long as I can remember.
I twist open the cap and heave myself onto the leather sectional. It’s only five o’clock and I’m legit ready to call it a day.
Tyrese pokes his shiny shaved head into the room and grunts, “All taken care of, Oak.”
“Thanks, Ty.” I take a swig of beer and click the remote.
“D’s heading out,” he tells me.
I nod. Both my bodyguards stick to me like glue during the day, but only Ty sticks around on the nights I go out or have people over. Big D actually has a wife and kid. Ty’s single.
“Lemme know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
After he disappears, I turn up the volume and do some channel surfing, but nothing holds my interest for very long. I watch ten minutes of a documentary about komodo dragons. Five minutes of some crappy sitcom. A few minutes of sports highlights. A few seconds of the five o’clock news, which is just long enough to bum me out, so I quickly change channels again.
I’m about to turn off the TV altogether when a familiar face catches my eye. The channel I’m on is playing TMI, a mindless show where two asshats watch paparazzi footage and offer color commentary on it. The screen shows a tall, willowy blonde in skintight jeans and a flowy blue top leaving LAX airport.
That blonde is my mother.
“—and not too concerned about her son’s latest scandal,” the male host is saying.
Wait, I have a latest scandal? I scan my brain trying to think of what I’ve done lately, but I come up blank.
A melodic giggle pours out of the surround sound. I know that giggle well.
“Oh, pshaw! My son is a healthy, red-blooded nineteen-year-old. If making out with a pretty and legal-age girl outside a nightclub is a crime—”
Right. That scandal.
“—then go ahead and lock up half the teenage boys in this town,” my mother finishes. Then she pops her oversize sunglasses over her eyes and slides into the waiting limo in the airport pickup area.
“Maybe Oakley is just following his mommy’s example,” remarks the female host with spiky pink hair. “Because obviously Katrina Ford herself has no problems canoodling outside nightclubs. This pic was taken in London last night.”
A picture of my mom locking lips with some silver fox flashes on the screen. I turn off the TV before the commentary kicks in. I’m less concerned about Mom’s London shenanigans and more concerned about the fact that she’s back in LA.
And she didn’t even bother calling me.
Crap, or maybe she did, I realize a second later when I check my phone to discover a missed call from Mom’s LA number. I forgot I put my phone on silent during the conference at Diamond.
I hit the button to return the call then sit through at least ten rings before my mother’s voice chirps in my ear.
“Hi, baby!”
“Hey, Mom. When’d you get back in town?”
“This morning.” There’s a flurry of noise in the background, what sounds like loud hammering and the whir of power tools. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. I’m going upstairs because I can barely hear you. I’m having renovations done on the main floor.”
Again? I swear, that woman renovates her Malibu beach house every other month.
“Okay, I can hear you now. Anyway, I called to make sure you’re still planning to make an appearance at the charity benefit that the studio is hosting this weekend.”
My jaw stiffens. I guess it’s too much to hope that she called to actually talk to her only son.
“What’s the charity again?” I ask woodenly.
“Hmmm, I don’t remember. Cruelty against animals, maybe? No, I think it’s for cancer research.” Mom pauses. “No, that’s not right, either. It definitely has something to do with animals.”
I’m not gonna lie—my mother is an airhead.
She’s not dumb or anything. She can memorize a hundred-page script in less than a day. And when she’s passionate about something, she throws her whole heart and soul into it. Except the thing is...she’s passionate about the dumbest shit. Shoes. Redecorating the multimillion-dollar house she got in the divorce. Whatever new fad diet is making the rounds.
Katrina Ford was the queen of rom coms, vivacious and drop-dead gorgeous, but truth is, she doesn’t have much substance. She’s not winning any Mother of the Year awards, either, but I’m used to living in the background of her self-absorbed bubble.
It’s not like my dad is any better. Mom at least remembers to call me. Sometimes. Dustin Ford is too busy being an Academy Award-winning actor to remember he has a son.
“And sweetheart, please don’t bring a date,” Mom is saying. “If you show up with some girl on your arm, all the focus will be on that and not the charity we’re trying to raise money for.”
The charity whose name and purpose she doesn’t even know.
“I’ll get Bitsy to text you the details. I expect at least an hour of your time.”
“Sure, whatever you want, Mom.”
“That’s my boy.” She pauses again. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”
“Not for a few months,” I admit. “Last I heard, he was in Hawaii with Chloe.”
“Which one is Chloe again? The one with the boob job or the one with the botched Botox?”
“I honestly don’t remember.” Ever since my parents’ divorce two years ago, my father’s love life has been a revolving door of surgically enhanced women. Hell, that was his life even before the divorce.
Hence the divorce.
“Well, when you do speak to him, tell him there’s a box of his stuff that’s been sitting in the foyer closet for almost a year, and if he or one of his people doesn’t pick it up soon, I’m going to burn it in the fire pit out back.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” I grumble.
“Oh, baby, you know your father and I only speak through our lawyers—and mine is out of town at the moment. So be a good boy, Oak, and pass along that message to Dusty.” Her voice goes muffled for a second. “Absolutely not!” she calls to someone who isn’t me. “That paneling must be preserved!” Mom’s voice gets clearer again. “Oakley, baby, I have to go. These contractors are trying to destroy my house! I’ll see you this weekend.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
The silence in the house makes my skin itch. Without Luke and his merry band of leeches, the place feels like a museum. I flick on the television again and crank up the sound.
Great. Now I’m pretending I’m not alone by turning the TV volume up. Mindlessly, I watch a bunch of shows about jacking up cars until I can’t stand the stupid manufactured drama. Hits too close to home, I guess. I grab my phone, and my finger hovers over the screen. I could ask Tyrese to call one of those girls who just want to touch Oakley Ford. That’d be good for an hour or two. I could light up a joint. Drink myself into a stupor. Or I could just go to bed. Because if I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, like I promised Jim, none of those other options fit with the plan.
I turn the television off. In the front room, Tyrese is sitting in an oversize armchair, flipping through something on his phone.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You are?” He looks up in surprise. It’s barely ten. “Alone?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to be a good boy now. Can’t be having honeys over when I’m preparing to romance another girl, right?”
Tyrese shrugs. “I guess not. But Big D’s the family man, not me.”
And we both know where Big D is right now. Not out at the club picking up a random chick. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night, brother.”
“Night.”
6 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
I’m up at dawn the next morning despite getting almost no sleep. In the kitchen, Paisley is in her usual zombie-like precaffeinated state with a buttered bagel on the table and a half-filled coffeepot in her hand. I grab the pot from her before she crashes it into the side of the refrigerator. My sister can’t function without her caffeine fix.
After our parents died, I started drinking the foul stuff with her. It’s part of my routine now, but I always dilute it with milk. Paisley calls my coffee half and half. Half coffee, half milk.
“I heard you get up at three,” she mumbles as she takes a seat at the glass-topped breakfast table. “You okay?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I dump out the tap water and pull a pitcher of water from the fridge. “You seriously think this is the right thing to do?” I ask as I pour the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir and scoop out fresh grounds into the filter. “I kept obsessing about it last night, and it’s not the fake-dating thing that gets me—” I’m a champion at pretending “—it’s the length of time. An entire year, Paisley?”
I take a seat next to her and rip off a piece of her bagel.
“I know it seems like a long time, but unless it’s a serious relationship, there’s no point in even doing this charade.” She sounds tired, too. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. We’ll be fine without the money.”
Guilt rushes through me when I hear the note of defeat in her voice. Paisley’s held our family together with sheer will and grit. When social services wanted to split us up and send the twins into foster care, Paisley was having none of it. She hustled her way through school, taking more classes than I thought you were allowed to cram into one year, and graduated in three years instead of four. She worked two jobs until she landed this one at Diamond. Meanwhile, I ran the household—cooking, cleaning and making sure the twins’ lives remained as stable as possible.
Despite all our efforts, I know we’re barely treading water.
One year is nothing compared to what Paisley has sacrificed.
“I’m doing it,” I say firmly. “That’s why I got up at three. To sign the papers.” And to sweat about how I’m going to sell this idea to W. I turn to watch the coffee drip into the pot. “I mean, it’s not like I have to eat bugs or poop or something gross. There are way worse things to do for money than fake-date Oakley Ford, right?”
“Right.” She smiles with relief. “And he’s not a bad guy. He can be charming when he wants to, and you’ll get to do so many fun things. I’ll make sure your dates are full of stuff you like to do.”
“Great.” I try to summon up some enthusiasm for Paisley’s sake. It’s obvious that the prospect of all that cash is lifting a huge burden from her shoulders, and I would be a terrible, selfish sister to not want that for her. Still, I can’t stop thinking about how much my life is going to change.
“Something is still bothering you,” she says, breaking off another piece of bagel for me.
I stick it in my mouth and chew for a moment before admitting, “It’s W. I don’t know how I’m going to sell this to him.”
Paisley shakes her head. “You can’t tell him all the details. The nondisclosure agreement wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know.” I rub a nonexistent spot on the table. “How strict are those things?”
“The NDA? Very strict,” Paisley says, her eyes wide with alarm. “Do you remember Sarah Hopkins?”
“The nanny who banged Mark Lattimer and broke up his marriage?”
Mark Lattimer is the front man for the rock band Flight. He went through an ugly divorce last year. It was in every online gossip column and every grocery store tabloid for about three months. The scrutiny didn’t die down until the next scandal came along.
“Didn’t she have a drug problem and was turning tricks to pay for it?” I ask.
“Yup, and you know how all the gossip rags got that information?”
I didn’t know before, but I think I do now.
“She signed an NDA, but then decided that she was tired of taking the fall for Mark and Lana’s failed marriage. Everyone inside the circle knew they had an open relationship. She was fine with the nanny until the two of them got caught in public. Afterward, Sarah was paid off but she wouldn’t go quietly. So Jim released all that information to the tabloids. He pretty much ruined her life.”
“So if I break it, Jim will drop a bomb on our house.”
“Our lives,” Paisley corrects grimly. “Oakley Ford is worth millions to Jim. His last tour grossed two hundred and fifty million dollars.”
I gape at her. I didn’t know numbers went up that high in real life. “So what you’re saying is, either I do this one hundred percent, or not at all.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You can only tell W what the agreement says you can tell him. Anything more than that, and Jim will crush us like a bug.”
Us. Not me, but my whole family.
* * *
Paisley drives the twins to school, and I clean the house, prep for dinner and try to force some lunch down before taking the bus to USC to see W. His last class of the day is at 2:00 p.m.
Jim Tolson sent a courier over with another NDA—this one for W’s signature. It’s like he has a million of them on his laptop, ready to spring on the unsuspecting.
With only a week into the new college semester, no one in the dorms seems interested in studying. Several of the doors are open when I arrive, and all sorts of different music and sounds are streaming into the hallway.
Part of me regrets not enrolling this year. W wanted me to, but after watching Paisley bust her ass to make sure all our bills were paid, I wanted to do my part. Taking a year off and making some real money made the most sense. Still...every time I walk into W’s dorm and see all the pretty girls wandering the halls, I’m gripped with a sudden case of nerves.
“Knock, knock,” I announce at the open door.
W and his roommates are lounging on their hand-me-down sofa, playing Madden. Two girls I don’t know are curled up on a love seat in the corner. They always have girls in here. As with everything, I pretend it doesn’t bother me, because the last thing I want to do is look like the jealous, immature girlfriend from high school.
W jumps up immediately. “V, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I texted you.”
He grimaces. “We were playing. Guys, I’m out. My girl’s here.”
“Put a sock on the doorknob,” Mark yells as W slams the door to the bedroom. Mark’s a kid from upstate who’s always asking me how good W is in bed—as if he knows that we’ve never done it and enjoys needling me about it.
W grins at me, hands at his hips. “Do I need to put the sock on?”
“There are people out there,” I remind him.
He laughs and tackles me onto the bed. “So? There’s no one but you and me in here.”
I shiver when his hand tunnels under my T-shirt.
W makes me feel good, but I’m not ready to take that next step yet. And especially not when his roommates are outside the room playing a video game, and two strange girls I don’t know are sitting there.
I push at his hand. “I’m not having my first time with an audience.”
We’ve had this discussion before. He resists at first but then pulls his hand out from under my shirt to rest it on my jean-clad hip. Part of his brown hair falls across his forehead as he rolls onto his side. I push it away so I can see his chocolate-brown eyes. He looks gorgeous, as always. More gorgeous than Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.
Really, scoffs my internal voice. You’ve got to be kidding.
Okay, W isn’t better-looking than Oakley, but he’s nicer and sweeter and I love him and that counts for everything.
“All right.” He smiles, crinkles forming beside his beautiful eyes. “Did the twins look up that skate park I texted you about?”
“The one over in Boyle Heights? That’s, like, in a different country.” Anything that requires someone from LA to get on the freeway is considered a low-scale crime given the congestion. A trip to Boyle Heights might not require a passport, but it would require a huge effort. While I love my brothers, I don’t love them that much.
“Yeah, but if you bring them over here, we can hang out. That’d be nice, hmmm?” His mouth dips down to kiss the side of my neck.
We both know the twins won’t go, but it’s sweet that W’s trying to get us all together. “Actually, yes. I see the wisdom your plan.” I curl into his embrace and meet his wandering lips with my own.
“The benefits of dating a college guy,” he teases.
We kiss some more, and when we break apart for air, the reason why I’ve come today pokes me in the spine.
“Hey, I need to ask you a favor.”
“The answer is yes.” He tickles my belly.
I practiced a little speech on the bus, but it didn’t sound right. I give it anyway. “So you know how I took the year off to help Paisley?”
“Uh-huh.” His lips find my ear.
“I have an opportunity to make some huge money this year. It would set us up for a long time.”
“Sounds good.” He moves from my ear to my neck and then tugs my loose-fitting T-shirt over the curve of my shoulder.
Allowing him to kiss me when I’m about to break the news that I need to fake-date a pop star makes me feel too guilty to enjoy his attention. So I slide off the bed to go stand by the window.
“I need you to not be mad and to understand.”
W frowns and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He leans back on his elbows, his long, lanky frame looking familiar and wonderful, and I question my decision all over again. “This is beginning to sound like the kind of speech Danny Jones gave Karen because he was going to NYU and didn’t want to have a long-distance relationship.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I rub my forehead. “It’s...this job requires me to do something you’re not going to like.”
“Are you starring in a porno?” His eyebrows are all the way to his hairline.
“No, W, God.”
“Just spit it out, V.”
I release a frustrated breath. “I can’t say more until you sign this.” I hand him the one-page contract that states W can be told some but not all of the particulars.
He pushes the paper to the side. “I’m not signing anything. What the hell, Vaughn?”
“Don’t swear,” I say automatically.
“Don’t channel your sister,” he grouses. He and Paisley aren’t fans of each other. She thinks he pressures me, and he thinks she’s too uptight.
“I know this sounds crazy, but if you don’t sign it, I can’t tell you any details and it sounds worse without the details, trust me.”
“Then trust me.” W grabs the paper and tosses it on the bed behind him. “You can tell me anything. You know I’m a vault.”
It’s not that I don’t trust W, but this is my entire family’s future on the line.
“If it was just me, then yeah, I’d tell you, but I already promised the agency I wouldn’t say anything unless you sign this.”
His eyes narrow. “What agency?”
“Where Paisley works. Diamond Tal—”
“Diamond Talent Management?” he exclaims. “They’re the ones giving you this job? Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Of course I’ll sign it. Where do you need my signature?”
I watch as W rushes to his desk to grab a pen. He’s practically buzzing with excitement.
He doesn’t look up as he scrawls his name across all the lines, even the ones I think Jim is supposed to sign on behalf of Oakley. He dots the last i in his last name with a flourish. “All right. Lay it on me.”
I get up and drag W back to the bed so I can sit beside him and hold his hand while I explain this bit of insanity to him. “Okay, this is all I can say—I’m doing something for the agency, sort of like a social media campaign.” It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but that’s all the NDA allows me to reveal. “They know that you and I are dating, and—”
“They know about me?” His eyes are shiny and eager. “Did Paisley tell them about the show? I thought she hated it! Which episode did they like? The one where we rated the end zone celebrations? Or the one where we dressed up and pretended to be the dogs playing poker picture? We got so many hits for that one even though it’s not on brand.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “Uh, no, it’s not about the show.”
“It’s not? But you mentioned it, right?”
“Not exactly.” I wince. It hadn’t occurred to me that W’s first thought would go to his show, and now I feel bad I hadn’t brought it up to Jim Tolson.
“Why not?”
There’s a note of betrayal in his tone. W and his roommates started up a YouTube channel back in September, where they post videos of themselves talking about sports highlights. Their show is called the Bro Hards, and it’s...argh, okay, it’s kind of dumb.
But because I’m a supportive girlfriend, I diligently watch every video and make sure to leave an encouraging comment even though I don’t find it at all entertaining.
“I don’t know. It didn’t come up,” I answer, suddenly wishing I’d bargained for that.
After all, it would’ve been easy enough and it would go a long way toward making W more comfortable with my deal with Oakley. I make a mental note to talk to Jim the next time I see him.
“Anyway, our relationship is a bit of a problem for the agency. It interferes with some of my...duties. I can’t have a boyfriend that people know about, so they want us to break up publicly—” when he frowns, I hurry on “—but not for real. For real, we’ll still date. Except...” I grimace. “We can’t be seen together in public.”
W stares at me blankly. “You want me to break up with you but not really?”
“Yes.” Oh, gosh. It sounds monumentally stupid.
“Is this you wanting to break up with me, V? Because I didn’t even know we were having problems. If you don’t want to go out anymore, just tell me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like breaking up wouldn’t kill him.
It would kill me, though. “Do you want to break up with me?” I blurt out, frantic with worry.
W’s my anchor. We started dating before my parents died, and through that grief-stricken summer, he’d stood by me the whole time, despite my tendency to burst out in tears at random moments. Like when we were at the mall and I saw the Father’s Day advertisement in the Hallmark store window. I’d gone home that night and resolved to be the fun girlfriend again, and I haven’t cried in front of him since.
I was so worried he’d break up with me once he started college without me, but he didn’t. He told me he loved me and that he was going to stick with me, even if it meant dialing back some of the plans he’d made for both of us.
“Of course not.” He pulls me down on his lap, another frown creasing his face. “But how’s this supposed to work?” His hands run up under my shirt. “We’re supposed to be having fun together this year.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “But it’s a lot of money.”
W frowns. “You and Paisley are doing fine. Didn’t you say she earns enough now not to have to work two jobs?”
“Yes, but—”
“And didn’t you delay coming to school this year because you had to work?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you don’t need this one,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s never worried about a bill in his life.
W’s family has money. They even sprang for him to have a dorm room at De Neve Plaza, where he has a two-room suite and a private bathroom he shares with only three other guys. When I looked up how much this suite costs each semester, I nearly swallowed my gum.
“I do, W. I need this job. My family needs it.” I take his hands, the ones he’s using to try to take my shirt off, and press them between mine.
“Is this Paisley’s idea? Because you know she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
W grunts in disbelief. His fingers brush the top of the waistband of my jeans and I force myself not to flinch away. This is W. I love W. Therefore I should love his touch, not tense up when I see it moving toward me.
My sister hasn’t ever flat-out said I shouldn’t have sex with W, but I know she thinks I’m too young. Part of her reluctance comes from her own first time, which she willingly—and vocally—says was terrible. After our parents’ funeral, Paisley was lonely, depressed and worried about how she was going to take care of us. So she ended up sleeping with someone she didn’t know very well because she needed some comfort. And it was so horrible, I found her crying the next day. I’m not saying that scarred me, but I definitely didn’t want to rush into things with W after that.
“Fine, let’s pretend I go along with it,” W says slowly. “Who would be doing the breaking up?”
His complete one-eighty startles me. I guess I should be relieved that W is agreeable to this, but instead, his casual attitude rubs me the wrong way. One of the great things about W is that he’s so easygoing. He never hassles me about my lack of ambition or the fact that I have zero clue what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. If I can’t make a date because I want to be with my family or I’m working extra shifts, he never complains. I tell myself that’s healthy and good. In the months after my parents’ deaths, his laid-back attitude was just what I needed.
And since I need him to be cool with this, it shouldn’t irritate me that he’s asking about how our fake breakup is going to shake down as casually as if he’s checking on the weather.
“How do you want it to happen?” I counter.
He shrugs. “I should probably do it, but I don’t want any of your friends accusing me of cheating. We’ll just say that it wasn’t working out anymore.”
Cheating? Do I tell him now or later that I’m supposed to kiss Oakley Ford? Not that either option is available to me, because I’m forbidden from telling W that Oakley is involved. Obviously he’ll find out soon enough, but the agreement I signed forbids me from saying Oakley’s name.
This is all so screwed up.
“I’ll make sure everyone knows that you didn’t do anything wrong,” I promise, all the while fighting my growing unease.
“Good.” He pauses. “And...we can still see each other in secret?”
I get the feeling that’s not the question he wanted to ask—he hesitated too long before voicing it. But I nod anyway. “It’ll have to be at my house, though. And we’re not allowed to text at all during the breakup. We can talk on the phone, but there can’t be any paper trails. So no texts, Snapchats, Instagram comments, all that stuff.”
“That’s like some real James Bond shit right there.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “So I’ll be having a secret affair with my girlfriend? That’s kinda hot.”
I swallow my relief. This is good. He’s joking about it already, and for some reason, that tells me we’re going to be okay.
“Sneaking around will totally be hot,” I say enticingly.
That gets me a devilish grin in response. “What else?”
Crap. This is the hard part. “I might be photographed with certain celebrities—”
His eyes light up. “Like who?”
“I don’t know yet,” I lie. “But if you do see any pictures of me on the internet, you need to know they’re not real.” I throw in another lie. “Most of them will probably be Photoshopped. Seriously, anything I do this year will not be real. It’ll all be staged, like...think of it as a reality TV show that Diamond is producing.”
He nods. “Speaking of television shows...”
My uneasiness grows as I wait for him to continue.
“If I give you, like, a clip reel of my show, can you pass it along to one of the agents?” he asks hopefully. “I never asked Paisley because we both know she won’t do it, but now her contacts are your contacts, too, right?”
The request rubs me the wrong way, even though I’d already made up my mind to mention it to Jim. I force myself to swallow my annoyance.
“I mean, you’re going to be spending a lot of time with all these Hollywood types, industry people, and you know how hard the boys and I work on this show.” There’s something defiant in his eyes now. “This is a chance for us to get our foot in the door. And you said so yourself—you could totally see us getting our own TV show.”
I rue the day I ever wrote that YouTube comment. “Don’t you want to concentrate on getting your communications degree?” I point out, hoping the reminder will derail him.
But W waves his hand dismissively. “The only reason I’m a comm major is to get into broadcasting. I want to be a sportscaster. You know that. So if I can fast-track that goal, why not?” When I don’t answer, he flattens his lips unhappily. “Are you saying you don’t want to do this for me?”
“That’s not what—”
“I don’t think it’s asking for too much,” he interrupts. “Because if I’m going to be without my girlfriend for a few months—”
“A year,” I whisper.
His jaw falls open. “A year? This fake breakup is going to last a year?” He throws up his hands in astonishment. “See? This is a huge sacrifice on my part! It’ll be way easier to deal with all this if I at least get a career opportunity out of it.”
And knowing you’d be helping me support my family isn’t enough?
I bite my tongue before the angry words can escape. I see his point, I guess. A year is a long time, and I’m pretty sure we’ll both get tired of sneaking around sooner rather than later. Besides, it’s not like Diamond is going to sign him, so maybe if he receives some constructive criticism from an actual authority, he’ll finally realize that this YouTube thing is a total waste of time.
“You’re right,” I agree. “We can’t pass up any career opportunities.”
His expression brightens.
“Email me whatever you want and I’ll give it to the right people.”
“Fuck yeah, baby! You’re the best!” He tugs me into his arms and kisses me until I’m breathless, and we’re both laughing when we finally pull apart.
Well, he’s laughing, and I’m faking it. Story of my life, I guess.
7 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
On Friday night, forty-eight hours after my trip to USC, W and I “break up.” Before I left his dorm that day, he kissed me, said he loved me, and promised to send me his clip reel as soon as possible. While I don’t feel entirely comfortable vouching for W’s stupid show to Jim Tolson, I’m worried that if I don’t, W won’t be on board with this Oakley job anymore and will break up with me for real. And I’m desperate for him to support me on this.
Since we don’t go on Facebook very often, our breakup is fed to the masses in two ways.
1) W removes my Twitter and Instagram handle from his bios. Both used to say “Madly in love with @VeryVaughn.” Now they say nothing.
2) I Tweet thirty-one characters of pure misery:
Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn
Breakups SUCK #heartbroken #fml
Within minutes, Tweets and Instagram DMs come pouring in from our friends. I sit on my bed with a carton of chocolate chip ice cream in my lap and a spoon sticking out the corner of my mouth, fighting back tears as I stare at my laptop screen.
@MandiHunt343 OMG, W! What happened to ur bio?? Did u and V break up??
@CarrieCarebearDawes YOU AND W BROKE UP?
@KikiSimpson omg vaughn. when did this happen?
@Tracyloves1D if that asshole W cheated on you, I am gonna KICK HIS ASSSSSS!
Carrie, Kiki and Tracy are friends of mine from high school. I’m closest with Carrie, so I shoot her a return message confirming that yes, W and I broke up. She instantly responds and offers to come over with some ice cream. I tell her I’m already good on the ice cream front and we agree to meet up for lunch on Sunday.
Since Oakley’s publicist told me I have to respond to any Tweets regarding the breakup, I force myself to answer Kiki and Tracy, but I don’t offer any details. W was adamant that he didn’t want to look (a) weak or (b) like a bad guy. Thus, the breakup was his idea and I’m not allowed to accuse him of any wrongdoing.
Our official story is that he dumped me because he didn’t want to be in a long-term relationship now that he’s in college. I make sure to tell Tracy there was no cheating involved. Then I shove another spoonful of chocolaty goodness in my mouth and force myself not to cry.
It’s not a real breakup, I remind myself, but it doesn’t ease the huge ball of pain in my stomach. I want so badly to text W. No, I want to call him and hear his voice assuring me that all these Tweets are just honest responses to a phony situation.
But I can’t. Claudia forbade any contact between the two of us for at least a week—“to give the breakup time to settle”—so I can’t pick up the phone and call him for reassurance. She claimed she was monitoring us closely. I don’t know what that means, but I’m a little afraid of her and Jim, so I don’t call him even though I’m dying to.
“Vaughn?” My sister knocks softly on my bedroom door.
“Yeah?” I call out in a shaky voice. The fake breakup feels all too real.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Paisley walks inside, takes one look at the ice cream and my teary expression and joins me on the bed. Her brown eyes peer at the computer screen then fill with sympathy.
“I’m so sorry. I know this must be awful for you.” She bites her lip. “It’s not too late to back out.”
“Yeah, it is.” I can’t stop thinking about the money. “But the year will go by fast, right?”
Paisley nods.
I swallow another mouthful of ice cream. “You know what the worst part is? Well, the second worst part, because not being able to talk to W is the first one. But Oakley Ford is such a jerk. He wouldn’t even shake my hand at the meeting. How’s he going to bring himself to touch me in public?”
“He noticed you were hungry and got you food. That’s something. Plus, he’s pretty to look at,” Paisley points out.
Yeah, at least there’s that.
My sister slides off the bed. “I’m taking the twins to see a movie tonight. You wanna come?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m just going to stay home and wallow in my misery. I plan on gaining at least five pounds of ice cream weight.”
“Don’t gain too much,” she teases. “Otherwise Oakley Ford might change his mind about dating you.”
That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Maybe I should open another carton of Ben & Jerry’s.
Paisley leans down to kiss my cheek. “You’re doing a good thing here. Seriously. This is going to help us more than you know.”
I do know. But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend to be happy about it. I miss W already, and it’s only been two days since I spoke to him.
After Paisley leaves I give myself over to ice cream therapy. I eat it slowly. So slowly that it’s sort of a soupy mess by the time I reach the bottom. I swirl the remains around as I rethink this Oakley plan for the hundredth time.
Did Paisley come to me because she knows, deep down, that I’m unprepared to face the real world? That I have no plans for myself? That unlike every other kid I went to school with, I’m hopelessly lost about my future and that playing make-believe with some random celebrity is right up my plastic existence?
The melted ice cream holds no answers. Sighing, I close all my web browsers and open my music library. I can either keep wallowing or I can follow this stupid course I’ve set for myself. I guess the latter is more productive, so I scroll until I find the album I’m looking for, click on the first track and then place the laptop beside me on the bed.
As I rummage through the bottom drawer of my desk for a sketchbook, the intro to one of Oakley Ford’s most popular singles, “Hold On,” wafts out of the computer speakers. The moment it comes on, I’m suddenly transported back to my sophomore year of high school. I was obsessed with this album. Weirdly enough, it doesn’t remind me of Oakley, but of W.
W and I started going out around the time Ford was released. He used to make fun of me for liking it, but then I heard him humming one of the songs once and got him to admit he liked it, too. Then I doodled two hands clasped together on my Vans to capture the moment.
I find a sketchbook and a set of drawing pencils, but I don’t start sketching yet. First I go online again and look up pictures of Oakley, because I’m not sure I can draw him from memory.
Okay, I’ll admit it. This guy is hot. Like ridiculously hot. That mussed-up blond hair, and those piercing green eyes, and his toned, muscular body always covered in ripped jeans and tight T-shirts. Goodness.
I click through picture after picture of him. Live shots from his concerts. Paparazzi shots of him around LA. Shots of him and his mom at her movie premieres. Shots of him on the set of one of his dad’s films.
Oakley Ford lives on a different planet, as far as I’m concerned. He’s a celebrity with a capital C. The only son of Katrina and Dustin Ford, a Hollywood power couple, or at least they used to be before their divorce. He’s won Grammys and People’s Choice Awards and he got green slime dumped on him after he performed at the Nickelodeon awards show when he was fourteen. He’s been on the covers of a zillion magazines, including that super sexy Vogue shoot I’m now looking at.
I decide to pick a photo from that spread, the one where he’s sitting against a black backdrop, just staring at the camera. His gaze is so intense it actually gives me shivers.
I start sketching to the sound of his beautiful, raspy voice singing to me in my bedroom.
* * *
A week after the fake breakup W comes over and we hang out in my bedroom. We fool around on my bed for hours before he reluctantly says he needs to leave.
“It’s late. I should get back,” he announces around ten.
I want to protest that it’s not late at all, but I’m not the one who has class in the morning. “’Kay.”
My reluctance must show because he kisses me gently on the forehead. “At least we’re allowed to see each other, right? This isn’t so bad.”
Not bad? This week without contact has been torture. I hung out with Kiki and Carrie a few times, and, in true BFF fashion, they spent the whole time assuring me that W is a jackass and I’m better off without him. I played along even though trashing the boy I’m still in love with was pure agony. But, again, I don’t want to be the clingy, childish girlfriend so I just smile and nod.
“I hate this,” he mutters as we head downstairs.
Relief wells up inside me. He’s feeling it, too, thank goodness. “Me, too.”
We stand in the front hall and just hug for several moments, his forehead resting against mine, his arms around my waist. I think about all the hugs we’ve exchanged over these past two years. All the inside jokes and the random texts and the fact that I’ve never once gone to bed without W calling me to say goodnight.
“Mark and I decided which episodes we think are the best,” he says, his warm breath tickling my nose. “He’s going to edit it all together this week and then I’ll email you the file.”
I stiffen slightly, and hope he doesn’t notice.
“I can’t wait to hear what that agent thinks about the show.”
“Me, too,” I say with forced cheerfulness. Then I try to distract myself by breathing in the familiar scent of his lemony aftershave.
After one last kiss, I watch with bleak eyes as he walks out to his car. It’s the same older-model SUV he drove in high school, and as he drives away, I think longingly of all the heart-pounding make-out sessions we had in that car.
Upstairs, I flop onto my bed and Tweet about my heartache again.
Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn
Listening to Ford on repeat = best cure for a broken heart.
I’m lying on both counts, because I’m not listening to Ford, and there isn’t a cure for a broken heart. Even a fake one.
* * *
“You need to post the drawing tonight,” Claudia announces when I take the phone from Paisley.
Claudia isn’t calling my number...yet. I’m sure that will change once my relationship with Oakley is front-page news.
It’s been two weeks since my “breakup,” so I’ve been expecting this request since the first deposit hit Paisley’s account, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been looking forward to it.
Since I’m not allowed to quit my job yet, I worked four shifts waiting tables at Sharkey’s and looking suitably depressed about the breakup in front of my coworkers. That’s not a chore at all. Neither is depositing the twenty thousand dollar check—the first of many. It was decided that the checks would be made out to my sister just in case, because if it somehow leaked that Diamond Talent Management was writing me checks, the vultures would immediately start circling. If it’s under Paisley’s name, the agency can claim the payments are part of her salary.
The lies they’re building seem complicated and unnecessary, but I haven’t ever done this before, whereas I get the sense that this is business as usual for Claudia.
“Why tonight?” I grumble, mostly for the sake of being contrary. Since she’s technically my boss, I probably shouldn’t be grumbling at her, but this is the weirdest work relationship ever. A part of me is hoping I’ll get fired.
“Because we need to move this along. Post the drawing. Oak will see it in a couple of hours. After he favorites the Tweet, be prepared for a barrage of messages. Respond only to a few of them.”
“Maybe you should tell me which ones to respond to,” I murmur sarcastically.
“Oh, no. This should all be organic,” Claudia objects, choosing to ignore my snappishness. “But you’re going to be getting so many, you won’t be able to answer them all. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be a social media star! Just remember that not everyone will love you. The fans are possessive of Oak, so ignore the mean ones and focus on the ones that are encouraging. Don’t forget that they all wish they were you, no matter what they post!”
After giving that questionable piece of encouragement, she hangs up. I pull out the drawing I finally got around to finishing a couple of days ago. I wonder what Oakley will think of it. It’s not bad, but I’m not in love with it, and not simply because his face isn’t exactly how I wanted it to be. I worked on his eyes for a long time, but it was hard to capture their liveliness in black-and-white. He has good eyes, I think as I trace my finger over them.
No, it’s not my technical mistakes, but something else that’s missing. Something about Oakley Ford that I can’t put on the page.
I wiggle my lips back and forth in indecision. I don’t like that a piece of my art is going up on social media for millions of people to gawk at and criticize. But this is what I signed up for.
I pick up my phone, snap a quick pic, and then Tweet it out.
Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn
Breakups are a little easier when you’re imagining this face next to yours.
It takes only three hours from the time Oakley faves the drawing before the first response shows up in my stream. Less than a minute later, I get a text from Carrie.
Did u see Oakley Ford faved your pic?!
I play dumb and text back He did??
Yes! Get on Twitter. Your timeline is blowing up! U should get his snap!
I’m not getting his snap bc he liked a pic.
Never know! Slide into his DMs like a pro, girl!
And then I can’t respond to her anymore, because every second—or maybe it’s every millisecond—I get a new notification.
@pledo5514 @1doodlebug1 @caryneo @paulyn_N just followed @VeryVaughn
Did @OakleyFord just fave some girl’s pic @VeryVaughn
@OakleyFord follow me back. Pls. I luv u. @VeryVaughn
@luv_oakley_hands @VeryVaughn This pic is sooooo amazing. Need 1 in my locker.
@VeryVaughn God, basic pic or what? Go back to art school, btch
@OakleyFord_stanNo1 @VeryVaughn Preach. Looked at her history. Not even a fan let alone a stan. Get out.
@VeryVaughn your not even cute. @OakleyFord ur hot af
@selleuni5 @OakFordHeart @unicornio @wammalamma @ magg1e_han50n and 244 more just followed @VeryVaughn
Oh, wow. I racked up more than two hundred new followers in the span of ten seconds. That’s nuts.
Paisley pokes her head in my room. “Claudia called. She thinks you should start replying. Apparently you’re getting hundreds of responses.”
“I know.” I hold up my phone, a tad dazed. “They’re pretty much about how basic and not cute I am and how he can do so much better than me.”
My sister gives me a wry grin. “It’s the internet. People say stupid stuff all the time on the internet. Want some help with that?”
I shake my head. I signed a contract and it’s time to do my part, so I spend the next hour answering random Tweets with the appropriate OMGs and !!!!! while ignoring the “your so ugly” comments. The insulters have one thing in common. They’re not good with homophones and that provides me with the tiniest bit of pleasure.
The last text I get before I go to bed is from W.
What the fuck V! Call me.
8 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
“Why didn’t I see this picture before it went out?” I ask Jim.
It’s past ten, the house is dead again and I’m staring at a pencil sketch of my face on Ty’s phone. He’s in the front room trying to hide his laughter from me.
“You don’t like it?” Jim says, his surprise echoing through the line. “I think it’s good. Actually, it’s better than I thought it was going to be. Your fans are loving it.”
I zoom in on my mouth. Is that how she sees me? Pouty and sullen? I look like a little boy who got his favorite toy taken away. But I’ll sound even more childish complaining about it to Jim, so I latch on to a different excuse.
“Have you seen all the shit that other girls are sending? Doesn’t Twitter have some kind of rules?” I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’m used to getting private naked pics all the time, but some of these girls look...young. Way too young for even me.
When Jim signed me up for Snapchat, I got about a thousand nudes before I uploaded my first snap. I accidentally responded to one of them, which led to a weird stalker experience. Having four fourteen-year-old girls follow you around on their bicycles is scary.
“Ignore them,” Jim advises. “In fact, you can ignore all of this. Claudia will handle your responses.”
Tired of looking at myself, I toss Tyrese’s phone onto the marble kitchen counter. “What’s our timeline on King?” I demand, because getting my music made is the only reason I’m going through with this crap.
“Nothing’s going to happen with him for a while. Put it out of your mind. Why don’t you use this time to write new music? Maybe your new girlfriend will give you some inspiration.”
“Hardeeharhar.” Since Vaughn doesn’t like me much, all my songs would be about irrational girls and their incorrect snap judgments.
And what did I ever do to her, anyway? Traffic in LA is bad, and Jim knows better than to schedule a meeting before noon. I’m a night owl.
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to stay in my house this entire year,” I mutter.
“No, I realize a bored Oak is a dangerous one. Frankly, I don’t care what you do all year, other than keep your nose clean. King will come around. You let me worry about that. Now I’m going home to my pretty wife.”
“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or scolding me.”
“It’s both, kid,” Jim says cheerfully before he hangs up.
The picture on Ty’s phone keeps taunting me. I want to write something back to Vaughn, but I have no idea how to log in to my own Twitter account. Social media is a total time suck. When I first went on, I was shocked by the number of people who sent messages that they’d never have the balls to say to me in person. I argued with a few of them.
That’s when Claudia stepped in and took over my account—all of them. And after the gang of four, as I like to refer to them, I was happy enough to let her take the wheel.
I pick up Ty’s phone when it buzzes. Some girl just snapped him a dirty message. I swipe it away.
“Ty, why do you have a Twitter account?”
“Football, brother.” He wanders into the kitchen, apparently done with his laughing fit. “Lots of pros on Twitter.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, see here.” He pulls the phone out of my hand and taps on something before setting it back in front of me. “I’ve got my fantasy follows and then a bunch of athletes.”
I read his timeline. It’s full of stats, links to football videos and articles. “No wonder you kick my ass in fantasy football.”
“You need a secret Twitter account.”
“Yeah, that’d go over well with Claudia.” I hop off the bar stool and rummage around in the fridge for something to eat. I pass over the veggies, cheese, health drinks, and grab a beer. “Wanna play some FIFA?”
“Sure. You ready for an ass-kicking?”
“Bring it on.”
I toss him a beer and we make our way to the living room. Ty slips on the headset with the mic while I don my headphones. I’m not allowed to have a mic attached to mine. One time I was bellowing out curses and someone figured out that I sounded a helluvalot like Oakley Ford. They recorded me, put the sound bite up on the internet and I got a bunch of people mad because I cursed too much at the age of sixteen.
Hell, do any of these parents even listen to their kids? I swear, ninety-nine percent of the I’m going to bang your mother insults are delivered by preteens.
Ty and I play for a couple of hours, and he does proceed to kick my ass. I soothe my ego by playing some random on the internet and finally log a win.
Once we’re done playing, my eyes stray to his phone again.
“Can you log in?” I ask.
“To your account?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t know your deets. I can call Claudia, though.”
I toss Ty’s phone back and forth between my hands. As far as I can tell, Vaughn hasn’t responded to “my” fave’ing of her picture. She couldn’t be less interested in my attention. She reminds me of my parents.
I scowl. “No.”
I end up going to bed early again.
* * *
When I wake up, it’s morning. I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and flip the switch that turns the glass from opaque to see-through. Outside there are birds chirping and I see a couple of people running on the beach. One of these days I’m going back to that private island Jim booked after the Ford tour. I could leave the house there without a security detail.
I shove away from the windows. Big D isn’t scheduled to arrive until noon, because that’s normally about the time I roll out of bed. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had anyone in this place except me, the housekeeper and my bodyguards.
I kind of miss that asshole Luke. He wasn’t that bad. After all, maybe if I was in his shoes, I’d be doing the same thing...trying to leverage my friend’s success into something more for me.
I’ve never had to do that. I didn’t have to play a thousand gigs on the road before getting some A/R guy to notice me. Mom sent a phone video to her friend, who shared it with a friend, and I was signed to a label at thirteen. My first album was released with a huge marketing push before I turned fifteen. I churned out three more successful albums before I hit my current block.
I wasn’t ever in Luke’s position—or, hell, Vaughn’s—where I had to cozy up to someone in exchange for money.
Gotta admit, my attitude toward Vaughn when we met was kinda shitty. In my defense, I wasn’t exactly open-minded going into that meeting, because I’d already had one made-for-the-media relationship and that was a complete disaster. Only a star-fucker would agree to this nonsense, especially when she already has a boyfriend.
But Vaughn hadn’t come off as stuck-up or fame-obsessed in any way. She was hot, but she wore almost no makeup. She didn’t dress up, and she’d argued hard that she didn’t want a new look. She had a confidence about her appearance that my last fake girlfriend never had.
And she didn’t try to impress me. There were no hair flips, lip bites or eye flutters in my direction. The picture she drew is good, but it looks like it was drawn by someone who thought I was an April Showers—ego-driven and assholic.
Yeah, Vaughn definitely wasn’t impressed with me at the meeting. And while I hate admitting this, her attitude bothers me. I mean, I don’t expect everyone I meet to like me. It’s just that she was so...openly hostile.
I pick up my phone and download the Twitter app. I want to see what she said in reply. Only...crap. I can’t log in without a username and password.
I don’t want to, but I end up calling Jim.
“Have you seen the news?” he crows when he answers.
Our world’s a little sick when what I fave on Twitter is considered news. A mass killing in Africa doesn’t get as many eyeballs as me liking some random girl’s art. “I need to log in to my Twitter account.”
“Why? Are you unhappy with how it’s going? Claudia and I talked this morning. Everyone’s excited. You’re getting the best press you’ve had in months. Hold on, I’ll read some to you.”
I can hear street noise. “Are you texting and driving?”
“Yes. How do you think I get anything done in this town?”
“Forget it. I’ll look it up myself.”
I hang up before he can kill himself trying to read the gossip column headlines.
I hit the most famous celeb site I know and immediately see a smarmy picture of me side-eying a camera.
Oakley Ford’s Tweet Makes a Fan’s Dream Come True!
Ford fangirls take notice!
Last night global superstar Oakley Ford set his saplings on fire when he favorited a fan’s drawing of him. According to the girl’s Twitter account, seventeen-year-old Vaughn just broke up with a longtime boyfriend and she’s been consoling herself by playing Ford’s self-titled release on repeat.
Ford’s been notoriously quiet on Twitter except for the occasional shout-out to a fellow artist, so this activity was definitely out of character! We weren’t the only ones who noticed. Fans jumped all over his fave by Retweeting the picture. The artist’s own account grew from 89 followers to 8000. Her account exploded after Oakley Ford Tweeted her back.
Is this a new romance for Oakley? He hasn’t been linked to anyone—for more than a night—since April Showers. Gossip Central caught up with April outside Nice Guy in LA. April appeared blindsided by the news that Oakley is finally moving on, telling us, “You know more about Oakley’s life than I do.” Ford’s people haven’t commented.
The fan interaction has spurred #Fordfangoals to trend on Twitter. It’s been two years since we’ve had any new Oakley Ford music. Maybe Vaughn will serve as new inspiration!
Christ. I follow the link to the Twitter page to read about my so-called interaction with Vaughn.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn Thanks for sketching my left side. It’s my best.
I scroll through what seems like a thousand Tweets before I get to her response.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Haha! U don’t have a bad side.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn Do you have a red pencil? I’m blushing.
Excuse me while I vomit. I’m blushing? What a lame-ass response. I’m Oakley Ford. I don’t blush. What do I have to be embarrassed about?
@jelly_bean1984 @ OakleyFord Please Oak I luv u. Please fave my tweet!!!!!
@cassandra.vega.5 @ OakleyFord ur soooooo bbbbeeutiful. I
u so much! Ur my bae!
@OakleyFord_stanNo1 @ OakleyFord Love you Oakley. Can’t wait for another album.
This is frickin’ impossible. I tap on Vaughn’s stream and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s so much easier to read.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord I don’t believe u blush. But I do have a red pencil.
She Tweeted another picture of just a cheek and some lightly shaded red on the upper curve. Nice. Even though it’s not an accurate representation, I can’t deny her talent.
I swipe past dozens of people replying to her, and find mine.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn So you’re taking requests. I’d like to see a self-portrait.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Like this?
I eagerly scroll. Shit, did she send me a—it’s a sketch of her phone.
Oakley Ford
Verified @VeryVaughn Modern and sleek. I like it.
These responses are terrible. If I were replying, I’d have said something like—
I dial Jim again. “I want access to my Twitter account. If I’m dating this chick, I should be able to respond to her directly.”
“What? Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I do. So do I get access or do I make up a different account?”
“Hold on.” He sighs then barks to some assistant. “Get Claudia on the phone and find out how to get Oak on Twitter.”
9 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HER
“Are you supposed to be dating Oakley Ford?!”
W’s loud, angry voice hurts my eardrums, but I don’t ask him to calm down. This is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk on the phone since my online conversation with Oakley began. My boyfriend has clearly saved up his frustration from these past twenty-four hours and it all comes pouring out now.
“I can’t confirm or deny that,” I answer with a sigh.
“Bull! You don’t know how many of our friends called and texted to tell me you’re flirting online with Oakley Ford!”
My guard snaps up. “I hope you didn’t say anything about my job. You signed an NDA, W. If you break it, Diamond will—”
“Ruin my life,” he finishes sourly. “Yeah, I know.”
Ugh, this is not about W’s life, but I know from past experience that I’m going to have to listen to him bitch and moan until he gets it out of his system. “So what did you tell everyone?”
“That we’re both upset about our breakup and that flirting with some celebredouche is your way of trying to get over me.”
I wince at his word choice, but only say, “Thank you.”
There’s a long pause.
“What exactly are you doing with Ford?” W mutters.
“Not much.” I hesitate. “We’re just going to be hanging out—for the cameras—a few times. And there might be a kiss. No, a peck. And none of it is real, remember?”
“It better not be.” My heart flips a little over his jealousy, only to die a quick death at his next words. “I’m not happy looking like a loser here.”
A whiny voice sounds from my bedroom doorway. “Vaughn! We need our phone back!”
I hold up one finger to silence Shane. “I promise, it’s all a show,” I assure my boyfriend. “Just like reality TV.”
“We need to call Kenny!” Spencer shouts, coming up to stand beside his twin. They both glare at me, the gold in their hazel eyes sparking angrily. At twelve, the two are already taller than my five feet six inches and could easily wrestle the phone away.
I sigh. “I have to go. The twins need their phone. I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”
“Okay.” He hesitates again. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I answer, and the twins release simultaneous groans and then proceed to make gagging noises, their light brown hair flopping all over the place.
I hang up and toss the phone to Spencer. “Here, you brats. Go call your precious Kenny.”
After they dart off, I collapse on the bed and curse the day I let Paisley convince me to meet with Jim Tolson and his entourage.
Claudia believes that someone could pull our phone records, so for two months I can’t call W on my own phone or my sister’s, which means I’m at the mercy of two twelve-year-old boys.
And I actually had to ask Claudia’s permission before I could make the call. And then she had to hold a stupid brainstorming session with her PR team to determine if it makes sense for W to keep in touch with his ex-girlfriend’s little brothers. I reminded her that W was a part of my family for two years, so of course he would be close with my brothers.
“Phone,” my sister’s voice says, jolting me out of my thoughts. Paisley walks into my room and holds out her iPhone. “Claudia.”
A silent scream goes off inside me. Oh, my God. I cannot deal with another one of Claudia’s dumb requests right now.
“You’re going to make your account private today,” Claudia says instead of hello.
“Why? Because of all my new followers?” I woke up this morning to discover I have twenty-five thousand new followers on Twitter. I almost died from shock.
“Because we want to fuel the fire even more. If you suddenly go private, Oakley’s fangirls won’t be able to follow you and it will drive them crazy. They’ll start gossiping on their own feeds and speculating about why you’re private, and the ones who are already following you will start screen-shotting your Tweets and turn you into an even hotter commodity.”
I don’t bother to argue. I’ve given up on trying to figure out the logic of a publicist.
“Fine,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Amy’s emailing you an archive of your Twitter account. Start deleting all the pictures with your ex-boyfriend.”
I’m outraged. “How did you get an archive of my account? And how did you get my email address?”
“From Jim. Don’t ask how he got it. He’ll never tell,” Claudia chirps. “Anyway, we’d like all traces of your ex-boyfriend gone from your account by tomorrow. You did it, of course, to erase him from your life.”
Bitterness climbs up my throat. “If you have access to my archive, why don’t you delete them?”
“Oh, of course. We’d be happy to do it for you. We just thought you might like to do it yourself. Getting over an ex is a difficult process for a teenage girl.”
I imagine some stranger going through my pictures of W and clicking the little trash can button, and I realize she has a point. “Forget it. I’ll do it. And he’s not my ex, Claudia!”
“He is in the eyes of the world.” She’s starting to sound annoyed with me. “One last thing. We need you to go out to dinner with your family tonight.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Why?”
“Lord, Vaughn, is that your favorite word—‘why’? Careful, sweetie, or I’m going to start answering with ‘because I said so.’”
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw twitches. “Why do I need to go out for dinner, Claudia?”
“Because it’s family night. As of right now, you and your siblings go out once a week for family night.”
I respond with her favorite word. “Why?”
“Because that’s what wholesome people do!” There’s a loud, frustrated huff in my ear, and then her voice softens. “Is your Instagram linked to your Twitter?”
“Yeah. Wh—” I halt before the rest of the question slips out. She’s already pissed off at me as it is.
“Good. At dinner tonight, post a picture of you and your family. It doesn’t matter if the brothers are in it. But your sister has to be.”
“I assume you know what I’m going to ask.”
She heaves out an exasperated sigh. “It’ll be an organic way to reveal that your sister works at Diamond. Oakley will comment on the picture, and then that bit of information will come out.”
“Fine. I’ll post something tonight.”
I hang up without saying goodbye then holler at the door, “Paisley, get in here.”
She appears within seconds. “What’s up?”
“Tell the twins to put on some nice clothes,” I say as I toss her cell phone over. “We’re going out to dinner.”
“Why?”
“It’s family night.”
My sister arches a brow. “Why?”
Oh, wow. That word really is annoying. “Because that’s what wholesome people do!” I shout, and then I march to my closet to find something to wear.
10 (#u0cadb7c1-5e5e-506f-8b57-3805a66acae1)
HIM
#squadgoals #dinnertime #whyisthewaitsolong
I stare at the picture of Vaughn’s family on Instagram. They’re all squeezed together as they wait to be seated at some random restaurant I don’t think I’ve ever heard of before. I can’t remember the last time I ate with my mom and dad. Hmmm. The last time I sat down at the same table with Mom and had a fork in my hand was...the Golden Globe Awards last year?
Holy shit. I almost laugh at the sad absurdity of the situation. Dad, on the other hand, I haven’t eaten with in years. Old man can hold a grudge like nobody’s business.
I feel a strange tightness in my chest. That isn’t...nah...it isn’t envy. I flick the app closed and stare out the windows. What I need to do is get out of the damn house. I’ve been stuck inside these walls and the studio—where nothing but garbage is getting recorded—for too long.
Purposefully, I stride to the kitchen where I find Tyrese. “Let’s get some grub.”
He tucks away his phone. “What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. How about—” A wicked idea pops into my head.
“Uh-uh.” Ty rocks back on his heels. “I’m not liking the look of that smile on your face. It says we’re about to get into trouble.”
“How about fondue?” I reply innocently.
I need to figure out what to wear. A hat and sunglasses aren’t going to be enough.
“Sure. There’s a place over on La Cienega Boulevard,” he says.
Ty’s a foodie. Man knows all of the good places, but I don’t want to go to Restaurant Row.
“I was thinking about Fondue Heaven over on—” I open the app, and sure enough, Vaughn has her Instagram geo-location on. “El Segundo. It’s on Main Street.”
Ty looks offended and faintly disgusted as he trails after me into my room. “A chain, brother? In El Segundo? That’s an hour away.”
I ignore him as I rifle through my walk-in closet. I should wear my lowest slung pants. The ones that hover around my ass crack. I wonder if I got rid of those? I dig around in the back of the closet.
“Those folks are gonna be gone before you get there,” Ty says from behind me. He’s not slow.
“Not if we take a chopper. That’s fifteen minutes. The apps are probably being served at that time.” I find the pair of ratty jeans that I hate in a pile under an old pair of sneaks. I lift the denim to my nose. They smell clean. Musty but clean.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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Erin Watt
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Книги для подростков
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Wealth, fame and a real-life romance she never expected–seventeen-year-old Vaughn Bennett lands it all when she agrees to become a pop star′s fake girlfriend in this smart, utterly addictive novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author duo Erin WattUnder ordinary circumstances, Oakley Ford and Vaughn Bennett would never even cross paths.There′s nothing ordinary about Oakley. This bad-boy pop star′s got Grammy Awards, millions of fangirls and a reputation as a restless, too-charming troublemaker. But with his home life disintegrating, his music well suddenly running dry and the tabloids having a field day over his outrageous exploits, Oakley needs to show the world he′s settling down–and who better to help him than Vaughn, a part-time waitress trying to help her family get by? The very definition of ordinary.Posing as his girlfriend, Vaughn will overhaul Oakley′s image from troublemaker to serious artist. In return for enough money to put her brothers through college, she can endure outlandish Hollywood parties and carefully orchestrated Twitter exchanges. She′ll fool the paparazzi and the groupies. She might even start fooling herself a little.Because when ordinary rules no longer apply, there′s no telling what your heart will do…