When It's Real

  “Nah. Just wasn’t feeling it before.” I’m not feeling it now, either. The music, the action, the girls don’t interest me at all, and I know, even before Luke calls for the first thousand-dollar bottle of Cristal, that this is a mistake.

  The waitstaff busily rearranges a seating area for my new entourage. There are other celebrities here. I recognize a television actress and a couple of guys well-known for their comic action films, but the others combined don’t have the star power that I do. Which is why the staff of Head is bowing and scraping for me.

  I opt for a chair on the end and leave the middle for Luke, because even though I thought I wanted company, I now realize it’s the last thing I’m in the mood for.

  A girl—I don’t know her name because I paid zero attention when Luke was introducing everyone—touches my arm for about the hundredth time in the last ten minutes.

  “I’m not interested,” I respond, sharper than I should be. Across from me I see Ty frown, and I soften my tone at her stricken expression. “Sorry. Just...not a good night, okay? And I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  A girlfriend who’s currently having a romantic evening with her boyfriend.

  I raise a hand, calling out, “I need another round. Stat.”

  Ty’s frown lines grow deeper. Fuck, he’s not in charge of me. The booze comes in a steady, unceasing stream. I can feel myself loosening up.

  What do I have to be uptight about anyway? There are girls here of every variety. It’s like a candy store. I’ll take a redhead, a brunette and two blondes. Package them all up and send them over to the Marmont. One of the Garden Cottages would do nicely. Private entrance. We don’t want my image to be tarnished.

  I laugh sourly.

  “What’s so funny?” someone near my feet asks.

  Since when did it get so crowded in here? There are people everywhere. I swear there are more people inside this VIP lounge than there are out in the main club. Having run out of chairs, the girls have settled for sitting on the dingy floor that people have likely spit on, puked on, pissed on. But they’d sit in a pit of snakes if it meant touching my leg.

  “Nothing’s funny.” That’s the honest truth. One of the boys passes me a joint. I take a hit and exhale a cloud of smoke. I wait for it to lighten my mood, take the weight off my chest, but nothing happens. I take another hit and then drag on the herb until it’s a stub.

  “Dude, that was some quality hash there.”

  “He’s good for it,” Luke assures them.

  I’m good for it? Oh, yeah, I’m good for the money, the status, the girls. What I’m not good for is actually dating a real person. Not good enough for her to pine over.

  Suddenly this whole scene looks gross and if I stay here another minute, my head’s going to explode.

  “I’m bailing.”

  Luke protests. “I thought we were going back to your place.”

  He has one arm slung around a chick with a low-cut top and even lower-cut jeans. I can see the straps of her thong poking out. And if she’s legal, I’ll eat my frickin’ hat.

  “Another time.”

  Luke protests until Ty pulls out a wallet and throws some cash on the table. That shuts up Luke real fast. He’ll start up the moment I’m gone. Telling everyone there about how I can’t function without him and that he’s the glue that holds the band together.

  Ty hustles me out the back door of the club, but several photogs are there. I feel like he moves slower than normal, as punishment for coming here. Passive-aggressive, are ya, Ty?

  The paps shout questions at me. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “Is it over?”

  “Is she tired of you?”

  The questions tumble over each other, mixing up in my head, pounding at the edges, pushing words out before I can think twice.

  I’m not completely sure of how I answer, but it must be satisfactory since everyone stops for a moment, a blessed sliver of silence. Then I dive into the SUV and Ty speeds away.

  * * *

  I wake up the next morning to find seven missed calls from Claudia. Shit. That’s never a good sign.

  When I sit up, the pain that shoots through my temples is so strong that I collapse onto the mattress again. I groan loudly, but that just makes my head hurt worse. Man, what’s with this migraine? I didn’t drink that much at the club last night, so I’m not sure why my head is so foggy—

  The hash. I forgot about the hash.

  My stomach churns as I stare at Claudia’s name on my phone. I must have done something last night. Something bad.

  But what? Did I whip off my clothes? Mack on some random chick? Oh, crap, did I real-cheat on my fake girlfriend?—no, that couldn’t have happened. Ty was with me. There’s no way he would’ve let me touch another girl.

  Instead of calling Claudia back, I open the web browser on my phone, wondering what I’m going to find. Maybe I threw up on some fan’s shoes? That wouldn’t be too damaging to my image.

  I wait for the home page to load and then click on the entertainment news tab.

  My stomach drops. The headline on the page reads:

  Oakley Ford disses new girlfriend’s ex!

  Damn it.

  I quickly scan the article, but I don’t remember saying any of that shit. I must have, though. Nope, not must have—I definitely did. There’s a video link to the TMI site. I click on it, press Play and promptly see my high, drunken self stumbling out of The Head. Flashbulbs go off, highlighting my bloodshot eyes. Paps shout out at me, but I keep walking with my head ducked down and my hand shielding my face.

  Except then one of them asks, “Is she tired of you?” and I do the most boneheaded thing on the planet.

  I stop, turn toward the microphone and I say:

  “Tired? You kidding me? Her ex is a total waste. She’s got a real man now—you think she’d tire of that?”

  Cringing, I shut off the video and whip my phone across the room. It slams against the wall, but luckily I’ve got a heavy-duty case for occasions such as this. This isn’t the first time I’ve thrown my phone over something stupid I did, which then became national news.

  There’s a sharp knock on the door, followed by, “Everything okay in there?”

  I guess Ty heard my phone greeting the wall. “It’s fine,” I bark.

  He opens the door anyway. Nosy bastard. He scans the room, spots my phone on the floor and says, “I guess Claudia called.”

  “Yup.” I glower at him. “Why the hell did you let me speak to them last night, Ty? You know I wasn’t in the right state of mind.”

  “Let you?” he echoes. In a rare occurrence, Tyrese actually looks pissed off at me. “Brother, you were out of control last night. Snapping at peeps, smoking all that shit you shouldn’t have been smoking. I tried to haul you away from the vultures. Watch the video again. Closer, this time. I’m sure you’ll see your punk-ass arm shoving me away when I tried to step in. Spoiled brat.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “This spoiled brat pays your bills,” I say tightly.

  He looks wounded, and I immediately feel guilty.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just...hungover and mad. But I’m not mad at you, okay? You did what you could.”

  I don’t know if he fully accepts my apology. He simply nods and then ducks out without another word.

  Look at me, alienating another person in my life. Awesome.

  I call Claudia back. After she yells at me for five minutes, we discuss the statement I need to make. The public apology to Vaughn’s douche bag boyfriend. I can’t believe he was over at her place last night. Why is she still with him?

  And why is he still with her? The whole world thinks she’s my girlfriend—how can he stand that?

  Bitterness lodges in my thro
at. I guess it doesn’t matter what the world thinks. It only matters what Vaughn thinks. What Vaughn wants.

  And it’s not me.

  But I still need to make things right with her, and when Claudia mentions the charity benefit I supposedly agreed to attend tonight and had forgotten all about, I realize it’s the perfect place to apologize to Vaughn—a public event where she can’t slap me. She can wear a pretty dress, listen to some good music, eat some good food. The CF Society always puts on a great spread.

  Claudia packs as many of these fund-raisers into my schedule as possible, as if giving money away offsets my asshole behavior. Wonder if Vaughn will see it that way.

  Except when I bring it up to Claudia, asking what time I should send a car for Vaughn, she’s quick to say, “No, Vaughn’s not coming with you tonight.”

  I clench my jaw. “Why not?”

  “Why do you think, Oak? Because she’s furious with you.”

  My stomach sinks. “You spoke to her already?”

  “No. She’s not answering her phone. Neither is Paisley.” Claudia’s voice tightens. “So, yes, I’m taking that to mean that she’s not happy about you belittling her boyfriend’s masculinity.”

  “Well, goodie for her. She still works for me. She can’t bail on an important event just because I insulted her stupid boyfriend.”

  “Normally I would agree with you, but Vaughn can be unpredictable. I’m not sending a pissed-off fake girlfriend to this event with you. Who knows what she’ll do.”

  Claudia has a point. “Fine. So when can I see her again?”

  “Give her a couple days to cool down. By then you’ll have given your public apology to W, so I’m sure that will help.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling disheartened. “Just send me the statement you want me to make—”

  “Oh, you won’t be making it,” Claudia says firmly. “We’re writing a statement, I’ll send it for your approval and then we’ll release it to the media. You will not be speaking with them directly. Not after last night.”

  Since I hate speaking to the media in the first place, I’m okay with this.

  HER

  I’ve never been dumped before.

  I guess that makes sense seeing as how W was my first real boyfriend. But it still feels terrible. It’s awful and soul-crushing and has the power to turn a normal, solid-head-on-her-shoulders girl into a blubbering mess.

  Like a total loser, I cried myself to sleep last night. I was midsob when I finally drifted off. And then the dreams came. Terrible, terrible dreams that involved W throwing bricks at my head while Oakley kept jumping in front of me to deflect them. At one point he started singing and the bricks stopped midair.

  A therapist would probably have a field day with that. Me, I’m just exhausted from dodging dream bricks all frickin’ night.

  To make matters worse, Claudia has been calling all morning. I finally had to shut off my phone, because I am not in the mood to deal with her or Oakley or any other living human today. All I want to do is curl up on this patio swing and pretend that last night didn’t happen.

  The back door hinges squeak, and I jerk in surprise when my sister lowers herself next to me, a plate of the tres leches cake I made last night in her hand.

  “Here,” she says.

  “It’s ten thirty in the morning. Way too early for cake,” I say weakly. My throat is raw from crying. I rub it, but the pain doesn’t go away, because it’s inside me.

  “It’s never too early for cake.” She smiles gently. “I know you’re more of an ice cream moper, but we ran out. I ate it all last week.”

  “Seriously?”

  Paisley shoves a forkful of cake into her mouth before answering. “Yes. I think I’m in love with Oakley’s cute bodyguard and so I ate the entire carton to cheer myself up. But cake does the trick, too. Try a bite. You’ll see.” She extends the fork to me, but I don’t want it.

  “You’re in love with Ty?” I squawk in surprise. I mean, I suspected she had a crush on him, but the L-word? Seriously?

  “Okay, well, maybe not love. But I really like him.”

  “You’ve only met him once,” I point out.

  She shakes her head. “Not true. He’s around Diamond sometimes,” Paisley admits. “But he’d never date me because I work for Jim’s brother and that’s too close for Ty’s comfort. Besides, I’m concentrating on my career, so it wouldn’t matter if he liked me back.”

  “Wow. I had no idea.”

  She shrugs. “It’s just a crush, and I usually forget about it until I run into him.” She takes another bite. “And like I said, something sweet usually fills my cravings.”

  “Cake has never made me feel better.” I think of all the sweets that were delivered to the house after Mom and Dad died. Not one of them had filled the ache. The only thing that did was being with W.

  “Not true. W is your cake. Was your cake,” she corrects.

  “You mean, fatty and bad for me?” I mutter, because we both know she never liked him.

  Paisley eats two huge bites before setting the plate on the step. “I love you, Vaughn, you know that, right?”

  I make some noise of acknowledgment, but I don’t want to talk to Paisley about this right now. She’s never had a serious boyfriend because she’s always been focused on moving forward. I don’t like moving forward. I want things to stay like they were forever. Mom and Dad around the table. The twins little. W holding my hand.

  “The twins’ school barbecue is this Friday,” she says when it becomes clear I’m not going to contribute to the conversation. “You’re still coming, right?”

  I respond with a noncommittal grunt.

  “Claudia wants you to bring Oakley.”

  Now I grit my teeth.

  “She won’t stop calling, by the way.” Paisley pauses. “Oakley gave a hell of a sound bite last night.”

  That gets my attention. “What did he say?”

  “Not the nicest stuff,” she admits. “He spoke to the press about W.”

  I look over sharply. “Are you serious?”

  She nods. “He called W a waste of space. And, uh, insinuated that W isn’t a real man.”

  Oh, God. No wonder Claudia is freaking out. “Let me guess—you totally agree with those observations,” I say sarcastically.

  My sister releases a heavy sigh. “Vaughn.”

  “What? We both know you hate W.”

  “I don’t hate him.”

  “Yeah, you do,” I say irritably.

  “No, I don’t. Hate is a strong word. I don’t hate people.” She speaks in a firm tone. “But you’re right—I wasn’t fond of him. I didn’t like W because he wasn’t good to you. You were convenient for him.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest.

  “Yes, it is. When he canceled at the last minute, you didn’t care. When you won those Dodgers tickets at the school raffle and he wanted to go with his friends, you coughed them up without an argument. You wear those shoes around constantly—” She points accusingly at my Vans “—but where are his? I know you drew on his, too.”

  I fight the urge to cover one foot with the other. “You’re forgetting all the times he held me after Mom and Dad died. Or all the times he let me hang out at his dorm while he was busy doing his YouTube show. He was there for me.”

  “He was there,” she agrees. “W was there, physically, but he wasn’t ever there for you—emotionally. And frankly, you knew that. It’s why you didn’t have sex with him.”

  “I wasn’t ready!” I yell at her.

  She leans back against the swing, unfazed by my shouting. “And you weren’t ever going to be ready with W.”

  “Because I’m too immature?” I shoot back.

  “Nope. Because you never loved W like you thought yo
u did.” She reaches out for my hand. “It’s not like I don’t think you’re capable of that kind of love. Just that whatever feelings you had for W weren’t as strong as you thought they were.”

  I jerk away. “Because I didn’t gorge myself with cake?”

  “Because W’s a selfish jerk and you’re more upset about the fact that you lost an anchor in your life than you are that you lost W.”

  I turn away and fold my arms around my waist. I hate her matter-of-fact tone.

  But mostly I hate that she’s probably right.

  23

  HIM

  1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 Do u think she’s cheating on him with her ex?

  OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 she’d be stupid if she was

  1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 inorite?

  The benefit is at the Wilshire. It’s a fancy dinner, followed by a silent auction—all proceeds go to medical research—and then a performance by Deadhead Bloom. I hadn’t realized they were the headliner. King produced their last album, which means there’s a chance that he...crap, he is here tonight.

  I feel sick when I spot him at a nearby table. I had no idea he was going to be here. I’m about to avert my eyes, but it’s too late. He’s already noticed me.

  He tips his head in a nod, and there’s a smile on his lips that doesn’t quiet reach his eyes. Then he turns to talk to his companion, a gorgeous woman in a white cocktail gown.

  The people at my table are all industry people, none of whom I know well. Three are members of a hot new boy band. The rest of the table is filled out with a couple of music execs and a brunette in a silky red dress. Her chair inches closer and closer to mine throughout dinner until she’s practically in my lap. I ignore her and talk to the exec to my left, but I can feel her staring at me, and every now and then she tries to cut in.

  “Oakley, how’s the new album coming along?”

  “When’s your next tour?”

  “Are you still with the same label?”

  Every time, I answer with one-word grunts before turning to the label exec and pretending to care about what he’s saying. Something about marketing strategies and utilizing Facebook groups to build an online fan base. Even though I hate social media, I know what’s current, and this exec doesn’t have the first clue. I want to tell him that Facebook is practically a dinosaur now and everyone’s on Instagram and Snapchat, but he’s so into his speech and I let him drone on because he provides a good buffer between me and the overeager brunette.