When It's Real

by Erin Watt

  And then he waited, as the crowd started moving toward us, for the bodyguard to bring our ice cream. I’d given up on that, figuring it would be another aborted attempt at getting food.

  Then he’d looked at me in a way I’d never seen anyone look at me. It scared me and drew me at the same time.

  “You gotta do stuff you don’t like sometimes. The life of a celebrity isn’t all glamour and good times.”

  No, I guess it isn’t.

  At some point in the forty-five minute drive, I finish the cone, and a wet wipe appears miraculously in front of me. I snatch it away from Oakley before he can offer to do the wiping for me. When Ty pulls up to the curb, I open the door but can’t get out. It’s not until Oakley reaches over and unbuckles the seat belt that I realize the harness is restraining me. His palm grazes my thigh as he takes his hand back.

  I tumble out in a hurry, trying to avoid those long musician’s fingers of his from touching me again. I swear I hear him laugh when the door closes.

  “Thanks, Ty,” I mumble and then run inside the house before he can say a word.

  I slam the door shut and lean against it, chest heaving as though I’d just run that Griffith trail Paisley likes so much. I don’t understand where those...flutters came from. Up until the other morning, I’d viewed Oakley as a smug, self-absorbed jerk. And then he called me up and sang to me, and suddenly I’m getting all warm and gooey over him like one of his fangirls.

  I want the conceited Oakley back. The one who mocks me about how good he is with his tongue and takes me to a club only to snap at me and ignore me. That Oakley I can handle.

  But this one? The one who smolders at me and writes me apology songs? I’m so out of my element here.

  “Hey.” Paisley wanders in from the kitchen with a mug in her hands. “How’d the ice cream date go?”

  “He touched me,” I blurt out.

  She stops abruptly and swings toward me. “Like assaulted you?”

  “No. No.” I wave my hand. “My ice cream was melting and he caught a drip of it on his thumb and then he stuck his thumb in his mouth.” I recite the act as if detailing some serious act of pornography. It was R-rated, though.

  Paisley looks at me with great concern. “Are you okay? Did you get too much sun?”

  I don’t know how to explain this to her. I can’t even explain it to myself. All I know is that Oakley’s rough-tipped fingers brushed my hip. Touched my hand. Skimmed my thigh.

  And I liked it way too much.

  17

  HER

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Best ice cream ever today. They should make a flavor called Vaughn. I’d order it every day.

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Would you get Kale sprinkles on it?

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Nah, I want the pure Vaughn, straight up, not shaken or stirred.

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Sounds boring.

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn No way. I had a taste of it today. It was delicious. .1

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn How about you? Favorite flavor?

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Is this where I say Oakley Ford?

  @rubyred342 @OakleyFord I want a flavor called OAKLEY!

  @jj_warren33 @OakleyFord @VeryVaughn Get a room

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Only if you mean it. Otherwise you’ll hurt my feelings.

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Are we still talking about ice cream?

  “Is dinner ready yet?” Shane yells from the twins’ room. “We’ve got football.”

  I brush the last two circles of dough with butter and throw them into the cast-iron pan before yelling back, “Five minutes!”

  I check the clock again. The lemon and yogurt chicken will be done in two minutes; the boys will scarf down their dinner in under ten. I’ll have the table cleared by half past the hour with Paisley’s leftovers wrapped and stuck in the fridge. She’s working late tonight on some hush-hush project for Diamond.

  If all goes according to plan, I should have an entire hour to get ready for the Oakley Ford live performance at the Valor Club, the venue for the charity benefit he invited me and my friends to attend. I flip the naan over and then pull the perfectly baked chicken from the oven.

  “What’re we having?” Shane asks when the twins bounce into the kitchen.

  “Homemade grilled naan with lemon chicken served over a bed of grilled spring onions, pea shoots and a side of yogurt jus.”

  “So bread, chicken and peas,” Spencer says, sniffing the chicken. “Smells good.” He gives his brother a thumbs-up.

  “This isn’t one of your experiments, right?” Shane asks as he pulls out a chair. “Because I’m starved.”

  “If you don’t like what I make, then don’t eat it,” I inform the two brats. Expertly, I plate the chicken for the boys, drizzle a little of the yogurt sauce over the meat and then set the food in front of them.

  The two inhale the dinner in no time, because despite their complaints about my sometimes overzealous culinary attempts in the kitchen, most of the time their meals are pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. It’s the one thing I really enjoy doing when I have the time, and now that I’m not waiting tables and we have a little more cushion to buy groceries, I’ve been enjoying the heck out of whipping up different meals.

  Not all of them have been a success, but I think I’m batting above .500. At the rate at which the twins consume the food, it’s safe to say they agree—even if they wouldn’t admit it.

  Soon, the two of them are out the door to go to their practice. One of their teammate’s parents is driving them. Then it’s time for me to get ready.

  Kiki okayed my outfit of skinny jeans, oversize black tank with a new teal-colored lace bra that peeks out the sides of my shirt and a pair of low-heeled boots. I stuff my hair into a high ponytail, brush on a couple of coats of mascara and a bit of gloss. Another black SUV is sent to pick me up, but I don’t recognize the driver, and his mirrored sunglasses and frozen expression don’t invite any chitchat.

  “No limo?” Carrie says when we swing by her place to pick her up, and she’s only kidding a little. She’s dressed in a tiny black dress with waist cutouts. Her hair is flat-ironed and looks like a shiny, blond curtain.

  “I’ve never seen Oakley in a limo,” I admit.

  “Too bad. Maybe he saves them for awards shows?”

  I raise my hands up in a display of ignorance. “Maybe?”

  We both look at the driver, who pretends neither of us is there. He just pulls into traffic, heading for our next destination.

  “By the way? Those Tweets you guys were sending each other this week totally turned me on,” Carrie announces.

  “Ew. TMI.”

  “I’m TMI’ing? Um, you and Oakley were sex-Tweeting about ice cream!”

  Actually, me and Amy were sex-Tweeting about ice cream, but I don’t tell Carrie that. Besides, if I’m being honest, a part of me totally forgot about Amy this week. At times it felt like I was talking directly to Oakley, and some of his—Amy’s—responses sounded like stuff he’d say in real life.

  I guess Claudia’s team knows him very well.

  “Stop Twitter-stalking me,” I tell Carrie, grinning.

  She grins back. “Stop Tweeting, then.”

  “Touché.”

  Kiki is next on the pickup list, and the first thing out of her mouth when she gets in the car is, “No limo?”

  “That’s what I said!” Carrie exclaims. “Apparently Oakley doesn’t use limos except for awards shows.”

  “Ah, that makes sense.”

  My eyebrows shoot up at that declaration, which Kiki takes as gospel.

  “God, you look gorgeous,” Carrie tells her. “Doesn’t she, Vaughn?”

  Kiki i
s beautiful. Her hair is curled and blown out in a perfect beach wave. She’s wearing black satin shorts and a sheer black top over a red bra. On her feet are four-inch platform heels.

  “Those shoes are badass,” I remark.

  “I borrowed them from my mom’s closet,” Kiki informs us.

  Tracy’s last on our list. I hop out and climb into the passenger seat while she squishes into the back next to Kiki and Carrie.

  Tracy bounces up and down a few times. “I can’t believe I’m riding in Oakley Ford’s SUV!”

  “Belt,” the driver says.

  We don’t move.

  “Belt,” he repeats.

  “Oh!” I twist around. “You need to put on your seat belt,” I tell Tracy.

  She complies quickly and then claps her hands. “Sorry! I was so excited I forgot about that. This is so sick! Aren’t you excited? I’m going to die tonight! How many celebrities will be there? Do you think Dylan O’Brien will be there? I heart him so much!”

  Tracy fills the SUV with her questions—ones I have no answers to, but her enthusiasm is contagious. And she’s right to be excited, because the number of famous people at the venue is so astronomical, even Tracy can’t keep up with them all. My friends are blown away by the guest list, the fancy digs and the fact that we’re so close to the stage I could almost lick Oakley’s feet at one point.

  As for me, my vision has narrowed to just Oakley, because Oakley Ford on stage is incredible. My whole body is tingling as I watch him own the crowd. His raspy voice belts out note after perfect note. I’m not sure if it’s the lights or the energy he’s pouring into his performance, but he’s worked up a sweat. His T-shirt is soaked through. The strands of blond-brown hair are damp around his forehead. His arms flex with each strummed note.

  He looks so good up there. So...hot. And so sexy. And I feel so guilty about standing here and admiring him. I told W that I’d be acting, but I’m no actress. I can’t separate fake feelings from real ones, and it’s all getting jumbled. Every time I look at Oakley, I think about that moment we shared on our ice cream date. The heat in his eyes. The way he’d made my heart pound.

  I almost called W that night to tell him about it. To confess that all the pretend stuff is becoming confusing for me. To get his reassurance that it’s okay—normal even—that I had any kind of response to Oakley.

  But that’s crazy. Of course W wouldn’t have reassured me. He would’ve been furious.

  I have to tell him, though. Right? This is the first time in two years that I’ve felt even a hint of attraction to another guy—that’s something W needs to know.

  Right?

  I swallow a frustrated groan and force myself to focus on Oakley’s last song, which is as awesome as everything else he’s sung tonight. When he finishes, the crowd is chanting his name, but for some reason he doesn’t seem happy with all the adoration he’s being showered with. I expected him to shake people’s hands, flirt with his female fans, pander to the crowd, maybe. But he doesn’t. He simply sets down his guitar, gives the audience a salute and a wry grin and then disappears backstage as if this performance wasn’t totally amazing.

  A frown creeps onto my lips as I glance around the club, wondering if anyone else finds this odd. Or if anyone noticed how forced his parting smile looked.

  But they’re all busy raving about Oakley’s incredible performance, including my friends, who gush loudly about how gorgeous he looks tonight.

  “Sorry,” Kiki says hastily, blushing when she notices me eyeing her. “I know he’s your man, but...come on. You know he’s hot.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I say absently. I don’t care that my friends are analyzing my fake boyfriend’s appearance. I’m more concerned about what put those shadows in said fake boyfriend’s eyes.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell the girls before darting away. “Don’t break too many hearts tonight,” I yell over my shoulder.

  I feel bad about abandoning them, but I get the sense that Oakley needs me. And while that’s a stupid thought, I can’t shake the feeling, and it drives me to elbow and jostle my way through the throng of people until I reach the small hallway by the far wall. Two muscled bodyguards stand in front of the black velvet rope separating the corridor from the main room, but they lift the rope when I flash my backstage pass.

  In the hall, I’m surrounded by more people. Guys lugging huge amps and instruments. Girls in skimpy clothes squealing to each other. People in suits wearing badges like mine. Dozens of cameras everywhere. Some of them point in my direction, and I instantly duck my head so the photographers can’t get a clear shot of my face. Uncomfortable with the attention, I keep walking until I see Ty’s gleaming shaved head, which is a good five inches above all the other heads in the hall.

  “Ty,” I call out quietly.

  He turns. “Hey, Vaughn. Enjoy the show?”

  “Yeah, it was amazing. Where’s Oak?” The nickname slips out before I can stop it, surprising me. Since when do I call him Oak? He’s always bugging me to use it, and I’ve always ignored him and called him Oakley.

  Ty jerks his thumb at the door behind him. A gold plaque says Dressing Room, and on top of it there’s a white piece of paper with “Ford” scribbled on it.

  I hesitate. “Can I go in there?”

  Ty nods. “Go ahead.”

  He holds the door open for me, and I timidly step through the threshold. The room is smaller than I expected. I figured Oakley Ford would get a ginormous dressing room with expensive leather couches and a champagne tower and chocolate fountain or something. But this place is about the size of my bedroom, with only one couch—not leather—and a mini fridge under a small vanity table.

  Oakley is in the process of pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. He straightens up when he sees me, rolling the plastic bottle over his sweaty forehead.

  Once again I’m floored by how attractive he is. He inherited all the best traits from his movie-star parents, though now that I think about it, I’m not sure Katrina and Dustin Ford have any bad traits. They’re both drop-dead gorgeous, and so is their son.

  His sweat-soaked T-shirt is practically glued to his chest, making me realize exactly how unbearably hot those lights out there must have been—and making me notice every single hard, ridged muscle of his chest.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He twists off the bottle cap and takes a swig of water. “Hey.” His voice is raspier than usual, probably because he just sang his lungs out for thirty minutes.

  “You were good up there.”

  “Thanks.”

  There’s a beat of awkward silence. I wait for him to make some snarky remark about me finally admitting that I like his music, but he says nothing. Instead, he wanders over to the couch and flops down with a heavy sigh. After a moment I walk up and sit beside him.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask frankly.

  His teeth dig into his lower lip. A drop of sweat slides from his forehead, down his cheek and clings to the five o’clock shadow on his strong jaw. “I didn’t sing anything new,” he finally confesses.

  My forehead creases. “Were you supposed to?”

  “No, but...” He caps the bottle and shoves it onto the little table in front of the couch.

  “Then what’s the issue? You put on an amazing performance. Everyone went crazy for it.”

  “I know.” He sighs again. “You don’t get it. Just...singing the same goddamn songs over and over again...it’s exhausting sometimes.”

  My frown only deepens. “Isn’t that what you do, though? I mean, it’s not like you write new songs every time you do a concert. You have no choice but to sing the same stuff.”

  “No. I mean, yes. That’s the gig—you’re right. But you’re also wrong, because it’s not the same stuff. I mean, it is, but...” A faraway expression passes thr
ough his eyes. “Every time I step on that stage, it’s a new experience, even if the song is the same. It’s a new crowd, a new energy.”

  “So what’s different about tonight?” I ask in confusion.

  He makes a frustrated noise under his breath. “It’s this stupid block. There’s music inside me, Vaughn, and it won’t come out. I haven’t made a record in two years. Everything I record at the studio sucks. But in my head, it doesn’t suck. Like, it’s right there. It’s there, and I can’t seem to get it out. Know what I mean?”

  I nod slowly. “Kind of. This probably isn’t the same thing, but that happens to me sometimes with my drawing. I took a lot of art classes in high school, and there were times when I couldn’t draw a single line. Especially when it started to feel like work. I’d be rushing to get the assignment done, but drawing is so hard when you’re not inspired.”

  Or when I cook at home. There are times when inspiration hits me and I can whip up the most amazing things out of the meager contents in our refrigerator, like the soup-filled dumplings I made from leftover chicken stock. Other times, I’m stuck making the same thing every week—meat loaf, pasta, hamburgers. And yeah, even though I try to fancy those dishes up, they get tiring. I guess that’s what led me to try new things in the first place.

  Oakley groans. “The problem is, I am inspired.”

  “Then where do you think the block is coming from?”

  “I have no fucking clue.”

  I mull it over. “My dad used to say that the answer to every problem already exists in our heads. He probably would’ve recommended you try meditating or something.”

  “Does it work?”

  I grimace. “Not really. He went on this ten-day meditation retreat in India one summer and when he returned, meditation was the answer to everything. Didn’t get a good grade on your chem test? Go meditate. Having problems with a friend? Close your eyes and find your Zen place.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. After they died, I couldn’t find a Zen place. I’d close my eyes and the only thing I’d see was the accident. It took me a year before those nightmares went away. Meditation doesn’t work for me.