by Erin Watt
Gritting my teeth, I grab my phone off the side table and dial Big D. “Hey,” I say when he picks up. “Get Vaughn on the line for me, will ya?”
“Gotcha.”
I end the call then sit there impatiently until Big D’s heavy footsteps finally sound on the stairs. He strides into the studio and holds out his cell.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problemo. Shout when you’re done.”
He ducks out of the room, and I take a breath before speaking into the phone. “Morning,” I say lightly.
Vaughn is nowhere near as friendly as I’m trying to be. “Do we have another date today?” she asks without saying hello.
She sounds alert for how early it is. I wonder why she didn’t sleep in. She’s taking the year off from school and she’s not waiting tables anymore. I mean, she’s pretty much just on call for me, so there’s no reason for her to get up before noon.
On call for you?
Guilt weighs me down. Okay, that’s kind of a raw deal for her, being forced to sit around and wait until Claudia decides what she’s doing and when.
Then again, she’s getting paid a lot of money to be on standby.
“Nah, we don’t have a date,” I answer. “Claudia wants us to wait a few days before we see each other again.”
“So what do you want?”
Yeah, she’s not happy with me. But the apology gets stuck in my throat. “Did you see the TMI pics?”
“What do you think? I’ve been answering Tweets about it all morning.” Her annoyance ripples over the line. “Not to mention getting yelled at by Claudia.”
I swallow another dose of remorse. The guitar is still in my lap, so I try to distract myself from the guilt by strumming the Gibson.
“Oakley? Did you hear me?”
I clear my throat. “Uh. Yeah.” I strum again. An idea occurs to me. “I’m putting you on speaker. Hold on.”
I click the speaker button then set the phone beside me and readjust my grip on the guitar.
“You still there?” I ask.
“Yes.” She sounds confused. “Are you playing guitar?”
“Yeah. Hold on another sec.” I do a quick tuning of the high E string. “Sorry, back. Anyway, about last night... I’m, ah, not good at apologizing, so...just listen, okay?”
Before she can question me, I sweep the guitar pick over the strings and strum the intro of the song I’d been playing around with. Then I start to sing, a total freestyle of nonsense that I probably couldn’t recreate if I tried. The lyrics aren’t great. I apologize for snapping at her at the club. I sing about forgiveness being good for your soul. I even say something about how the word sorry is as meaningless as the wind but when there’s emotion behind it, it sets your heart free.
The song is mushy and ridiculous and my cheeks are burning with each note that leaves my mouth.
When the last chord fades into nothingness, I’m greeted with total silence.
“Vaughn? You there?”
She gives a slight cough. “Yeah...that was...”
My face is scorching. “I know. It sucked. I sort of wrote it on the fly.”
“No,” she interjects. “It didn’t suck. Not at all. It was really...sweet. And catchy.”
Soft laughter floats over the line, and for some reason it makes my heart beat a little faster. “Yeah? So you finally admit you’re an Oakley Ford fan?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said I liked your song,” she jokes. At least I hope she’s joking. It’s the first time she’s ever said a thing about my music.
“It’s the same. Love me, love my music.”
“How about I accept your apology? No one’s ever sung they’re sorry to me before.”
Not even W? My lips twitch before a smile breaks free.
“So, yesterday,” she starts, sounding awkward. “That producer...you really want to work with him, huh?”
My mood immediately sours. “I really do.” I put the guitar aside and take Vaughn off speaker then lean back on the cushion and balance Big D’s phone on my shoulder. “But he doesn’t want to work with me.”
“I kind of got that,” she says wryly. “He said you have, what was it? Incompatible sounds?”
“Yeah.” What he was saying is that he’s making unique stuff while I sound like the band on stage and a thousand other voices. “That, and the image thing.”
“What image thing?”
“Oh, come on. Why do you think I’m paying a chick to date me, babe? No, why do you think I’m paying a chick like you to date me?”
“Like me?”
I can practically taste her annoyance and hurriedly try to explain. “Yeah. Nice. Sweet.”
“You picked the wrong girl, then. Because I’m not very sweet.”
“You’re sweeter than anyone else I’ve been with,” I admit. “Jim and Claudia think you’re good for my image. I need everyone else to think that, too, King especially.”
“Since when do you care about your image? You didn’t seem too concerned about it when you went skinny-dipping with those socialites in Monte Carlo. Or when you were streaking down Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras last year.”
I grin to myself. “Someone’s been cyber-stalking me.”
“No, I just can’t turn on the TV without seeing something about your latest screwup.”
I bristle. “Screwup? It’s called having fun.” Then I grimace, because that’s the problem. I was having too much fun. So much fun that one of the best producers in the world refuses to work with me because he doesn’t think I’m serious about my music.
But he couldn’t be more wrong. I am serious about it. When I was little, everyone assumed I’d get the acting bug like my parents, but I was born with music in my blood. I was writing my own songs by the time I turned seven. Recording them before I hit my preteens. At the beginning of my career, there were all these bullshit accusations that I only got a record deal because of who my parents are, but those whispers died off once the haters realized I could actually sing.
Vaughn’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. “Well, if you’re having fun then why change? You’re rich, famous, can have all the fun you want. Why not just keep doing that?”
“Because it’s affecting where I want to go with my music.” Because it ain’t fun anymore.
I listen to her breathe while I pluck at the same string, moving up and down the frets wishing I could change King’s tune as easily as I can the melody of a song.
The silence lingers and I begin to think about how I’ve treated her. Not well. And why? I force myself to give an honest answer. I’m sometimes capable of those moments.
The honest answer is because Vaughn’s doing something unselfish and that makes me uncomfortable. It’s easier to deal with the sycophants, but just because she won’t do everything I say doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole. I stop plucking and slam my hand against the strings.
“Next Friday I’m playing at a club for a benefit. I’m going to do a couple of songs. Maybe an entire set as a favor to a friend of mine.” Although that’s not completely true, either. I’m doing it for my own self-promotion. I have to stay in the news, in front of people’s eyes, so they don’t forget about me while I’m pissing away my life in the studio. Still... “Want to come? You can bring some friends if you want.”
“Is this my next date with you?” she asks.
I want to tell her no, that it’s just me inviting her to an event where she can watch an actual performance instead of listening to me fumble through a song I’d made up on the fly. I want her to see Oakley Ford, not the douche she thinks is making her life miserable. Again, completely selfish.
But because I don’t know if she’ll come if I simply invited her, I say, “Yeah, it’s our next date.”
16
HIM
Is Oakley Ford officially off the market? The singer and his alleged girlfriend were seen at a private event last night. Insiders exclusively told Gossip Central that Ford and his girl were inseparable. Even more exciting are reports that Ford was seen chatting up mega-producer King. Is a new album in the works? We hope so!
The rumored couple left before the party broke up. Click thru to see Ford and his new gal pal display some PDA! It definitely looks like they’re more than friends!
“I thought date number four was supposed to be the club,” Vaughn remarks. She keeps frowning at me, and she looks as confused as she sounded on the phone earlier when I informed her we were meeting up.
We haven’t had any contact in three days, not since I apology-sang to her. Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to see her today, either, but my publicist had other ideas.
“Not wholesome enough according to Claudia,” I answer with a sigh. “We need some daylight outings before you’re allowed to hold hands with me in the dark.”
Which is why we’re currently standing in line at a soft-serve ice cream food truck parked at Melrose Trading Post. I guess Claudia wanted to make damn sure every tourist in West Hollywood that possibly wanders off the strip could take a memento photo of Oakley Ford being normal.
“Well, this ice cream better be the best thing that milk and sugar ever created. It took me nearly two hours by bus to get here,” Vaughn grumbles under her breath.
Ty, Big D and two other hardbodies stand behind us, creating an obvious bubble between us and the crowd. I tug my hat lower.
“Shoulda told Claudia you wanted a car.” I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the selection. It’s a retro ice cream truck with three flavors and then your standard California toppings like fried kale crumbles and chocolate-covered quinoa. I hate Claudia.
“I could never ask someone to give me a car. That’s crazy.” Vaughn runs a flustered hand through her messy hair. She’s back to wearing her standard uniform of loose-fitting V-neck T-shirt, holey jeans and her colorfully decorated Vans.
One thing you can say about Vaughn—she’s not trying to impress me in any way. There’s about three feet of space between us. You could park a VW in that space. The pictures the paps are taking right now have captions that are writing themselves.
Oakley Ford’s new relationship already on the rocks!
Oakley Ford breaks up before he makes up!
Jim and Claudia won’t be happy if that happens. Right now the positive headlines are outnumbering the negative ones. Jim reported last night that we’re even seeing a boost in sales for some of my earlier albums. I guess this thing with me and Vaughn is actually doing what it’s supposed to do. But it only works if the public believes we’re a real couple.
So I close the distance under the guise of pointing to the display sign. “What’s your flavor?”
“God, kale crumbles? Only in LA. I’ll take a twist with birthday sprinkles.” She pulls out a five-dollar bill.
“Seriously?” I take the money from her fingers. “I got this.”
“Oh, right, this is a business expense.”
Is she serious? I can’t tell. “Two twists. Birthday sprinkles for her and—”
“If you order kale crumbles, I’m leaving right now,” she mutters.
“You can leave mine plain.” I turn to Ty, who hands me a twenty. I don’t carry my own wallet. It’s a security thing.
“Hey, man, mind if I get a photo of you for our celeb wall?” the order-taker asks as he makes my change.
I stifle a sigh. “Sure, no problem.”
“This your girl? She can be in it.” The guy leans out his window and peers directly down Vaughn’s shirt. Creep.
I step in front of her. “Nah, just me. Got a phone?”
These days, all anyone wants is a selfie. Autographs are dinosaurs of a different age. Now the proof that you met someone is on your camera roll. Pics or it didn’t happen.
The sweaty food truck guy leans over the counter. Two others stick their heads out. I step into the picture, allowing sweaty food truck guy to put his thick arm around my back. I grit my teeth, smile pretty for the camera, endure the billionth unwanted intrusion into my personal space for the sake of my music and wait. Wait for him to figure out that his phone camera needs to be flipped to the front. Wait for another guy in the truck to muscle his way into the frame so now I’ve got the armpit stew of four guys dripping onto my shoulder. Wait for the whispers to spread from the girl in the cutoff shorts to the dude with the Ray-Bans perched on the top of his bald head to the older lady five-people deep whose handbag is big enough to hold the entire ice cream truck. Wait for someone, anyone, to take the goddamn picture.
“Let me help.” Vaughn steps in, plucks the phone from the ice cream man’s hand and snaps the photo. Before we can get our ice cream, though, Ty and Big D hustle us away from the crowd as the mass closes in on us.
Vaughn looks longingly at the truck but doesn’t mouth a word of complaint as we’re escorted away.
“Thanks,” I tell her. For not pitching a fit. For taking the picture. For not busting my balls...again.
“It looked awkward,” she admits.
Awkward is an understatement. I was two seconds from having an epic fit, which would’ve caused even more problems.
“Is it always like this?” She tips her head back toward the truck.
From the growing crowd size, I guess the ice cream guy has already Tweeted and Facebooked this encounter. People are pointing in our direction. The noise level is increasing. Any minute now, one of them is going to feel brave and start the stampede toward me.
“Pretty much.” I scan the crowd for the other two bodyguards, and when their dark jean-clad bodies break through, I give Ty the sign that I’m ready to go. “Where’s your favorite beach?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose. “Why?”
“Because we need to be seen together but I don’t want to be trampled by a crowd.”
She shrugs a little. “I like the ES. It’s not supercrowded. Bathrooms are closed right now, so mostly it’s only locals. Plus, it’s near the refinery and sometimes it stinks.”
“Sounds perfect. The stinkier, the better.” I rub my hands together. “Ty, you know where the El Segundo beach is?”
He nods.
“Awesome. Then let’s go.”
The bald bodyguard with sloping shoulders and no neck appears behind Vaughn, holding up the ice cream. Her face lights up like he just presented her with a Harry Winston necklace.
“Oh, I thought we abandoned these.” Vaughn grabs hers. “Thank you so much.”
Daniel, I think, grunts a you’re welcome and then retreats to the second Escalade. Ty holds open the back door, but I can’t move.
My feet are stuck to the ground as I watch Vaughn curl her tongue around the tip like a kitten, scooping the soft serve into her mouth. She closes her eyes, savoring the creamy mix of chocolate and vanilla.
And it might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. So hot it melts the ice cream in my own hand.
“You’re leaking,” she says.
“What?”
“Your ice cream is melting and leaking all over your fingers.”
I look down to see that I’ve crushed the cone in my hand and the ice cream is oozing out, just as Vaughn said. Ty reaches over and takes the cone out of my hand.
“You better get in the car.” His words are a warning, but his tone is full of humor. He’ll be mocking me over this for a long, long time.
Vaughn dives inside, somehow managing not to smash her cone against the leather seats. I follow behind her, and Ty has us on the road before Vaughn can get upright and buckle her seat belt. So I reach over and do it for her.
Not because I want to touch her. Nothin
g like that.
HER
Oakley’s eyes are on fire. Or maybe that’s my skin. The minute his hand touched my hip to grab the seat belt, I swear my entire body lit up—like I’d been dark my whole life and someone just plugged me in.
I hold my breath as he pulls the seat belt across my waist and clips it into place. Did his fingers linger before he pulled away or was that my imagination?
“You’re the one who’s leaking now,” he says in an amused tone. His thumb swipes across one trembling finger to catch a drop of ice cream and then—and then!—he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
A strange sound—a squeak, really—escapes my throat.
He licks his thumb one more time before settling on his side of the SUV. “I didn’t realize birthday sprinkles were so tasty. I might have to try that topping next time.”
My eyes dart to the back of Ty’s head. “Ty, I—I need to go home. I—I just forgot that I have to be there when the twins get home because they need...permission slips signed for...a field trip.” I turn to Oakley, who’s staring at me from under hooded eyelids. His lower lip looks damp from where his thumb had pressed against it.
Feeling faint, I lean against my window. “I’m sorry about this. I forgot. I’ll make it up to you. I can do another daytime date tomorrow. I’ll even Google some suggestions. Maybe the skate park at Boyle Heights. No, that’s too busy. Um, we could hike somewhere. There’s a place near Griffith Observatory where Paisley likes to run when she wants a change of pace.” The more I babble, the more relaxed Oakley gets.
“Nah. It’s fine, Vaughn. Eat your ice cream before it melts all over your hand.”
Too late.
“Why’d you let that guy take a picture of you?” I ask, providing myself a much-needed distraction from the stomach-curling, toe-numbing feeling that should only be stirred in the presence of W.
“Because I owe it to him and to every other fan who wants my picture. Without them, I’d be Dustin Ford’s kid.”
“You hate it, though.” I could see it if no one else did. The strain around the corners of his fake smile. The tension in his shoulders. The way he tried to avoid the grip of the ice cream server only to have three others descend on him. But he stood patiently without complaint.