by Erin Watt
I snatch her long two-pronged stick right out of her hand, stab a piece of bread and drop it into the cheese.
She finally recovers enough to ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Eating, hopefully. Should we order more food?”
Across from me, Ty settles in next to Vaughn’s brothers, who watch him with wide eyes and half-open mouths. He’s an impressive figure—just a couple inches below my six-two. But he has an air of menace around him that I assume he acquired in the military, where he served ten years before he left to join the bodyguard service. Ty uses it to scare away overzealous groupies and lure the ladies into his bed.
One glance toward Vaughn’s older sister reveals that she’s not immune. She’s pink in the cheeks and keeps sneaking peeks at him while she thinks he doesn’t notice. He notices. But he’s not going to tap anyone on Jim’s payroll because of the whole not-shitting-where-you-eat thing.
“Is this our first date?” Vaughn whispers uncertainly. “I didn’t get any instructions from Claudia.”
I barely manage to keep from rolling my eyes. “Since we’re the ones seeing each other, I think we can make these decisions.”
She nibbles on her lip. Not because she wants me to bite it—which is sorta what I’m thinking about at the moment because her mouth is definitely her best feature—but because she’s worried she’s pissed Claudia off. I don’t mean to be an egotistical ass here, but shouldn’t I be the one she’s worried about pissing off?
A waitress bumps into my side before I can point that out. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were expecting more people. Do you need a different table?”
We all look around at the full restaurant.
“No.” Vaughn sighs as if she’s being asked to negotiate a peace treaty between the Koreans. “I’ll move.”
She scoots over, and I get both cheeks onto the vinyl bench. The waitress sets down new silverware and two glasses of water. I keep my head down. Beside me, Vaughn tenses up.
“I don’t like this,” she protests under her breath as soon as the waitress moves on. “What if someone recognizes you?”
“The waitress didn’t,” I point out.
“You were looking at your feet. Do you plan to eat that way the entire time?”
“Stop worrying.” Vaughn is worse than Jim, I decide. “How do I know when my food is done?”
“It was done five minutes ago,” one of the twins informs me. The other one is taking turns staring at Ty and then me. I’m not sure which one of us is more intriguing to him. I bet it’s Ty. My demographic doesn’t usually include preteen boys.
They look identical, except one’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and the other one is wearing a skate brand. I was paid about a million bucks to roll around on one of their boards a couple of years ago. I still have a half dozen in my garage.
“You like SkateBoiz?” I ask the kid.
He nods and then exchanges a look with his brother. The two have an entire conversation with their eyes before the talky twin turns back. “Yeah. It’s a cool board.”
“I’ve got a stack of them at my house. They need wheels, but you interested?”
His eyes light up. “Yeah, that’d be—” He jerks back, shooting a frown in Vaughn’s direction.
I tilt my head so I can see her better. “Did you just kick your brother?”
“Maybe. So what?” she replies huffily.
“I can’t give my shit away?”
“Don’t say shit,” Paisley interjects.
This time my eye-roll is unpreventable. “How old are they?” I look to the twins. “Twelve? Thirteen?”
“Twelve,” the one in the white shirt says. He nearly vibrates with excitement.
“So, twelve. That means they know more curse words than I can say in one sentence.”
“Maybe, but we don’t use them,” Paisley says.
The boys cover their mouths, and even Vaughn’s mouth takes on a reluctant smile.
“Paisley has a thing about cursing. She’s not a fan,” Vaughn explains. “We have a swear jar and I don’t think Paisley’s had to drop one quarter in it—ever.”
“Whereas you’re losing your shirt to the jar,” Paisley retorts.
“Vaughn has a potty mouth,” one of the twins says.
“I do not,” she protests. “I haven’t had to put anything in the jar for a couple of weeks.”
“A new record for you,” Paisley teases.
“The jar is for a good cause.” Vaughn’s cute nose tips upward. “The twins’ college fund.”
I glance at Ty, who’s stretched a long arm along the back of the booth. He’s wearing a faint grin, the gentle ribbing between the siblings probably reminding him of his own family.
“So back to the skateboard decks,” I say. “I’ve got a bunch of ’em from an old endorsement deal. They’re collecting dust and aren’t even usable because I have no wheels on them. I can give them away to some strangers or...” I spread my hands innocently, leaving the twins to fill in the blanks.
They take the bait. “Yeah, Vaughn. Why can’t he give them to us? They aren’t doing him any good.”
“Fine. What else do you have lying around the house? We could use a new TV. Maybe a car. We only have the one. How many extras do you have?” Vaughn snaps.
“Five, but I don’t think I’ll give you a car until our third or fourth date.”
“You gotta put out for that,” the white-shirt kid says.
“Spencer!” both girls admonish.
They look ready to lay into their brother, but I place a hand in the middle of the table to get everyone’s attention. A scolding from his sisters in front of me? This kid will die.
“Nah. A gift is a gift.” I lean over the table and pin the pipsqueak with a serious stare. “I’m not making you do anything for those skateboards, am I?”
Spencer shrinks back in his chair. “No, sir.”
This kid is trying to show off for me. I get this a lot. Luke does it all the time—trying to appear as bro as bro can be in an effort to make up for whatever he perceives as his own inadequacies. No different than me wearing these stupid-ass pants, I realize in an uncomfortable moment of clarity.
“It doesn’t matter how big the gift is,” I tell Spencer. “No one does anything to deserve presents. You just give them because you want to make the other person feel good.”
I pluck the forgotten bread out of the cheese pot and stick it into my mouth. Like the other twin said, it was done five minutes ago. I eat it, as terrible as it tastes, and then skewer another piece because I’m hungry and the food’s here and I’m not going anywhere.
11
HER
“So if you’re Spencer, what’s your name?” Oakley asks Shane, and I feel bad when I realize I haven’t even introduced them.
“It’s Shane.” Paisley jumps in before I can. “And Shane, Spence, this is Ty and—” She falters and then lowers her voice to a whisper. “Oakley Ford.”
My brothers don’t even blink. “The singer guy?” Spencer asks.
Oakley grins. “Yeah. The singer guy.”
The twins exchange a look and then shrug, completely indifferent. I don’t think either one of them has ever listened to an Oakley Ford album in their short lives. They’re both into heavy metal, which is probably a good thing because if they were huge Ford fans, they might’ve caused a scene.
“But you can call me Oak,” he says cheerfully, popping some of the bread into his mouth without even dipping it into the cheese pot.
“We’re going to need more food,” I whisper to Paisley.
“I know,” she answers. “I think he might eat as much as both the twins.”
“And what about Ty?” I point out.
She blushes. “Oh, yeah, him, too.”
>
Oh, my God! Paisley has a crush on Oakley Ford’s bodyguard. I can’t wait to tease her about this tonight. I’m not sure I blame her, though—the guy is hot. He’s a bit too muscular for me, but his face is Hollywood-pretty with cheekbones like cut glass and dark brown eyes that remind me of melted chocolate.
The waitress shows up, delivering our pots of heated oil and the fresh meats. Ty smiles at her. “Can we have two more platters of those things?”
She nods. “Sure. For you and...?” She turns to Oakley, who’s suddenly taken a deep interest in my phone.
“Yeah, both of us,” Ty says.
Oakley ducks his head again and somehow scoots closer to me. His jean-clad leg brushes up against mine, and my sweater feels too thin with his arm so close to mine. I swear we’re almost sitting on top of each other. I can feel his muscles flex and bunch as he reaches for more food.
“Can you move over?” I wiggle my butt to show him how uncomfortable I am. I need some distance.
“No. I barely have one ass cheek on the bench.”
The twins giggle.
“Oh, shit, how much was that?” Oakley grins.
“Now you’re just doing it on purpose,” I accuse.
“I’m just making a contribution to the twins’ college fund,” he says with a wink at the boys.
They grin back. And then Shane, who never talks to anyone but Spencer, starts grilling Oakley about the types of decks he has. Are they short or longboards? Midsize cruisers? Does he have a favorite wheel?
It’s the most interest I’ve seen the twins show a stranger in the last couple of years. They used to be reckless and crazy, doing wild stunts on their bikes and boards, but Mom and Dad’s deaths made them feel vulnerable and unsafe. They still ride and skate, but not as often and not very far from the house, which is why W’s suggestion to drive to Boyle Heights was a nonstarter.
“Nah, I haven’t boarded in a couple of years,” Oakley admits. “I tried, but the public places are hard for me to keep a low profile at, and if I rent out the park that means kids don’t get to use it during that time. I kind of gave it up when I went on tour.”
Shane nods, but I don’t think he gets it, how limiting Oakley’s life must be. I feel a smidge of sympathy for my fake boyfriend.
“Are you going to have to crawl under the table and hide?” I ask.
“Hope not.” As he stretches past me to dip a loaded skewer into the cooking pot, his arm brushes against my boob.
My body reacts, and somehow, even through his hoodie, he can tell.
He turns to me.
I freeze.
That’s when the flash goes off.
“Time to go, boys and girls,” murmurs Tyrese.
I have never, ever in my life seen anyone move so fast. One second I’m squished in the booth next to Oakley; the next, he and Tyrese are ushering me and my siblings toward the door.
“I swear that’s Oakley Ford’s bodyguard!” a girl squeals from the booth next to the one we were just sitting at. “I recognize him from that concert documentary MTV aired last year—”
I don’t get to hear the rest of that sentence because we’re already on the other side of the room. Tyrese halts only to toss two hundred-dollar bills at the hostess, tells her that “should cover us,” and then pushes everyone out the door.
Oakley, meanwhile, is laughing his ass off. “You!” he sputters to his bodyguard. “They recognized you.”
Tyrese doesn’t even crack a smile. He shoves Oakley toward the passenger side of a sleek silver Mercedes. “Get in,” he barks then glances at the rest of us. “Claudia’s gonna want to have a chat about this. Text me your address and we’ll meet you there.”
Wait. They’re coming to my house? Why?
Tyrese doesn’t give me a chance to protest—he’s already sliding behind the wheel of the Benz and starting the engine.
I turn to my sister, dumbfounded. “What the heck just happened?”
She sighs. “Welcome to the wonderful world of Oakley Ford.”
@1doodlebug1 Someone saw Oakley Ford and his bodyguard at Fondue Heaven w some family! Check out this snap!
Tyrese wasn’t kidding. Not only did Claudia want to have a chat, apparently it was so important she couldn’t even do it over the phone. Oakley’s entire publicity team gets on a helicopter and flies to El Segundo. Then they take a fleet of Escalades to our modest split-level house and park the three huge vehicles at the curb. As if that’s not going to draw attention.
Now we’re all gathered around my living room, which is way too small to accommodate this many people. Tyrese is standing in the doorway. Paisley and the twins sit on one side of the sectional. Oakley and I sit on the other. And Oakley’s PR team looms over us as Claudia rips into her client for his reckless behavior.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she yells in that Mickey Mouse voice of hers. “You are not allowed to make these kinds of decisions without consulting me first!”
Oakley crosses his arms and looks bored.
“Vaughn, get on Twitter!” Claudia snaps, and when I open my mouth to question her, she holds up one hand in warning. “I swear to God, if you ask why, I am going to lose my mind!” Her face is redder than a tomato.
“Pretty sure you already have,” Oakley murmurs under his breath.
I fight hard not to snicker, and rummage around in my canvas bag for my phone. I pull up Twitter and dutifully wait for Claudia’s next command.
“Compose a Tweet to Oak about your sister working at his agency,” she orders before turning to glare at Oakley. “Are you happy with yourself, Oak? You totally screwed up our timeline! The sister Tweet was supposed to happen before the first date!”
One of the assistants—Amy, I think—speaks up soothingly. “It can still work, Claudia. We’ll just spin it to say that Vaughn DM’d Oakley her phone number, they went out and that’s when they realized her sister works at Diamond. Easy fix.”
“It’d better be,” Claudia mutters, and she looks so upset I feel a bit sorry for her.
I quickly send the Tweet before her cheeks can get any redder.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord OMG! Can’t believe my sis works at your agency! #smallworld
One of the phones in Amy’s hand buzzes. She hands her stuff to another of Claudia’s assistants and types something in the phone.
A second later mine beeps. I read her reply and roll my eyes.
Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Small world...or maybe it’s fate.
Claudia glances at her own phone and releases a long breath. “All right. Good. The two of you need to keep Tweeting for a while so it doesn’t look like you were only on there to establish the Paisley connection.”
“But my account is private now,” I remind her. “Why do we have to keep talking online?”
“Because you still have followers and those people will sell these Tweets to the tabloids.”
“No, they won’t.”
Claudia looks at me like I’m dumb. And she doesn’t even bother trying to correct me.
Reality slaps me across the face. Oakley and I are not partners in crime. We’re not sharing a moment of anything here. He doesn’t Tweet me. He never liked my drawing. I don’t even know if he’s seen it. It’s Amy who is behind all those Tweets and likes and favorites.
I scoot over a little so that my leg isn’t so close to his.
He raises his eyebrow and, without looking away from me, holds out his hand. Amy shoots panicked eyes toward Claudia, who purses her lips into a tight frown.
But Oakley wins this round because Amy drops the phone in his hand seconds later.
Mine beeps again, and this time I gasp.
Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn BTW—you looked smoking hot 2nite.
“Really?” I deman
d, gaping at Oakley.
Claudia reads his latest Tweet and groans. “For Pete’s sake, Oakley!”
He blinks innocently. “What? I can’t tell my girl she looks hot?”
My heart rate speeds up. Ugh. All the adrenaline from fleeing the restaurant must finally be catching up to me. That’s the only explanation for why hearing his raspy voice call me “hot” would turn my heart into a stupid dolphin.
“It’s inappropriate,” Claudia says in exasperation. “We want lighthearted flirting, not...” She searches for the right word.
“Perviness,” Amy supplies.
Claudia nods in agreement. “Keep it PG,” she orders.
“How about triple X?” he counters.
“Oakley.”
“Just one X?”
“Oakley.”
“Fine, I’ll stick to R-rated.”
I bite my lip to stop from laughing. This guy is incorrigible.
“All right, what now...” Claudia muses. “Well. Obviously you’re going to have to go out tomorrow night.”
“Two nights in a row?” I balk.
She nods firmly. “Yes, because young love means you can’t wait to see each other. You want to spend every minute together.”
Um, no thanks. I might be entertained by Oakley’s antics right now, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him again so soon.
Claudia notices my unhappy expression and flicks up one eyebrow. “If you wanted space, you shouldn’t have had your first date in public.”
I’m quick to protest. “I was out with my family. He’s the one who decided to crash our dinner.”
Every pair of eyes in the room shifts toward Oakley, who’s flipping through a Cosmo magazine he grabbed off the coffee table.
He looks up and shrugs. “I was hungry.”
12
HIM
BeeBee_OF @OakleyFord_stanNo1 Please take screenshot of her account. It’s private.
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @BeeBee_OF Here u go.
BeeBee_OF @OakleyFord_stanNo1 She’s not even that cute.
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @BeeBee_OF I kno but we gotta respect Oakley’s choices. At least it’s not April Umbrella