by Erin Watt
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 boyfrie
nd!”
“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
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.