When It's Real

  It’s like everyone is making decisions for me these days. W decided to dump me. Claudia decides what I’m going to do every day. Oak decided to kiss the living daylights out of me and make me feel things I’ve been trying not to feel.

  I lift my head, and my gaze falls to my Vans. Seeing all the doodles scribbled on the sneakers just ticks me off. I used to love these shoes, but I look at them now and they seem...silly. The dumb squiggles of a foolish girl who thought her boyfriend would love her forever.

  Slowly, I lean forward and slip the shoes off my feet. I pick them up and walk over to the trash can by the door. I hesitate, only for a moment, and then toss the shoes in the trash.

  Oakley isn’t waiting in the hall like I expect him to be. Through the glass windows spanning the corridor, I see that he’s gone back into the studio. He and King are talking animatedly, while Oak tosses a pen in the air and then catches it in his hand.

  My cheeks get warmer and warmer as I approach the door wearing nothing but black footie socks. I hope King doesn’t bring up the kiss he witnessed. I hope Oak doesn’t bring it up, either, at least not in front of King.

  “Hey,” Oakley says when I enter the room. His tone is light, but there’s a note of wariness there, as if he’s unsure of what I’m going to do.

  “How’s the writing going?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I flop down onto the sofa along the wall of the studio and wrap my arms around my knees.

  “Awesome.”

  Our eyes lock. I see the questions in his, but he doesn’t voice them.

  King voices one, though. “What happened to your shoes?”

  “I lost them,” I mumble.

  The two males exchange a look. Oak arches a brow at me.

  “All right, then,” King drawls. “Ah, how ’bout you lend us your ears, Miss Bennett? Our boy keeps trying to slow down this bridge and I keep telling him that’s not fresh, but he won’t listen. Maybe you can back me up.”

  Oak rolls his eyes. “She’s not gonna back you up, ’cause you’re wrong.” He picks up his guitar and strums a chord. “Check this out, Vaughn, and tell me I’m right.”

  As his raspy voice fills the studio, all the distress I felt in the bathroom starts to fade away. His music is that powerful. Every time this guy sings, it’s like time stops and you’re sucked into his world.

  The lyrics are angrier than I expect, until the bridge, when they become kind of melancholy. I can see why he wants to slow that part down. It’s so different in tone from the rest of the song.

  “So?” King prompts when Oak is done.

  They both eye me expectantly.

  I give a sheepish smile. “Um. I disagree with you both, actually. I don’t think it works either fast or slow. The lyrics in that part sound like they’re from a totally different song. I mean, sometimes that’s a good thing, but in this case, it’s kind of...jarring.” I stare at my hands so that neither one of them can glare at me.

  “Yeah...I can see your point.” King sounds thoughtful. He grabs the pen from Oakley and starts jotting something down on a notepad. “What if we tweak these lines to this?”

  Oak instantly leans over to look, and the two of them start brainstorming again.

  I curl up on the sofa and listen to their soft murmurs. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because my eyes suddenly pop open to the feel of a warm hand on my cheek. I blink, realizing that King is gone and it’s just me and Oak.

  He’s perched on the edge of the couch, his fingertips stroking my cheek as he looks down at me with those gorgeous green eyes.

  “You fell asleep,” he tells me.

  I sit up with a yawn. “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s the hangover, not your music. I swear.”

  He laughs before his expression goes serious. “What happened to your shoes?”

  “I threw them away,” I confess.

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “They’re part of my past.”

  Oak nods slowly. “All right. Can I buy you a pair of new Vans?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m going to get my own. Color a new story for myself.”

  He settles into his chair and picks up his pen. “Hope you have room on there for a tree or two.”

  “A tree?” I ask, puzzled.

  “You know...maybe an oak tree?”

  I feel a smile tug on the sides of my lips. “Yeah...I probably do.”

  * * *

  Later, we go to Oak’s house. Not because Claudia says we should, but because by mutual, silent agreement, that’s where we want to be. We order pizza and eat it outside on a pair of lounge chairs in front of Oakley’s gigantic pool. By the time we finish eating, the sun has already dipped below the horizon line, but that doesn’t stop him from popping into the pool house to change into swim trunks.

  My breath catches when he reappears. This is the first time I’ve seen him with his shirt off. Well, in person, anyway. I’ve seen his chest in pictures, but the real thing is so much...yummier. And his tattoos are hotter than hell. He’s got a cross on his arm with his mom’s name underneath it. A swirl of music notes and what I think is a guitar fret on his other arm. Black rows of dates and coordinates between his shoulder blades—I gave in and Googled him again the other day to figure out what the back tattoo meant, and it turns out it’s the dates and coordinates of some of his favorite tour stops.

  Sometimes I forget that he’s nineteen. He’s so tall and muscular and masculine that he looks older. Actually, he’s looking more and more like his movie-star father, but I keep the comparison to myself because I don’t think Oak would appreciate it. He hardly ever mentions his dad, and it’s obvious they’ve got some kind of beef.

  “Always checking me out, huh?” he teases. “Careful, babe, or you’re gonna give me a complex.”

  “You already have a complex. It’s called egomania.”

  “Ha.” He marches over and tugs on the braid hanging over my shoulder. “Maybe if you quit staring at me all the time, my ego would be normal-size.”

  “Nothing about you is normal-size,” I shoot back, and then blush because that sounded like a double entendre, and I totally wasn’t trying to make one.

  He waggles his eyebrows. “You saw the Vogue spread, huh?”

  I blush harder. “Just shut up and do a cannonball or something.”

  “You’re really not going to join me?” Oak looks disappointed. He told me there were spare bathing suits in the pool house, but swimwear isn’t my issue. I’m just not in the mood to swim.

  “I’m so lazy today,” I say ruefully. “Seriously. This hangover kicked my butt.”

  “Note to self—lock up the liquor cabinets next time Vaughn comes over for a party.”

  “Please do,” I beg.

  Chuckling, he drops a towel on his chair and walks to the edge of the deck. Rather than dip a toe in to test the temperature, he dives cleanly into the water and swims all the way to the other side of the pool. His blond head pops up near the shallow end, and then he does a slow backstroke while I admire the strong lines of his body.

  I lie back and look up at the dusky sky, marveling about the drastic upheaval of my life. Two months ago I never would’ve dreamed I’d be lying on a chaise longue in Oakley Ford’s luxurious backyard, while the pop star I’d once crushed on swims laps in his pool.

  Oak’s life isn’t normal, though. The bodyguards, the money, the fans, this house on the beach with its blue tiled pool, his friends—although for someone so famous he doesn’t seem to have very many friends. Or, at least, not good ones.

  “You’re thinking so hard I can hear your gears grinding. What’s bothering you?”

  I contemplate him for a minute. There are tiny drops of water on his long eyelashes and they sparkle like jewels in the late-afternoon sun. “I don’t
know. I just...” I trail off.

  He levers himself out of the pool and throws his wet self down next to me.

  I toss him a towel so he can cover up his perfect body. It’s way too distracting.

  He rubs the towel over his head and swipes it haphazardly down his torso before tossing it behind him. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Tell me what’s twisting you up inside.”

  “Are you going to turn this into a song?” I’m beginning to suspect that the music he’s making is all about himself—a confessional of sorts. That kind of bravery is stunning and powerful.

  “Maybe.” He tilts his head toward me. “It’s kind of a hazard of dating a songwriter.”

  Hmmm. I hadn’t considered that, but weirdly I trust him. As in, I don’t believe he’d write a song that would hurt or humiliate me.

  I fix my gaze on the fading light in the sky.

  “My parents died two summers ago,” I say softly. “Dad had taken Mom out for date night. They were coming home from the Cheesecake Factory—my mom’s all-time favorite place. She loved the meat loaf there, of all things.” I shake my head over that memory. “Anyway, something happened and Dad lost control of the car. It crashed into the concrete barricade and they both died on impact.” The sharp pain of loss forces me to stop and catch my breath. “I hadn’t planned on taking summer classes. Dad wanted me to. He said if I graduated early, I could take a year off before going to college. He thought I could spend the year backpacking across Europe, getting educated in the school of life.”

  “Did you go last summer?”

  “No. I ended up graduating early just like he wanted, but that was so I could help out my sister. And after they died, I didn’t want to go to Europe anyway. I was...” I trail off.

  “You were what?”

  I swallow. “Too scared to go. I think I’m scared of life. That’s why I was dating W for so long even though I think we both ran out of feelings for each other a long time ago. That’s why this fake dating thing I had with you was okay. I’m good at pretending, but not so great at living. Everyone knows what they want out of life. Carrie is going to Berkeley because she wants to be a lawyer like her mom. Justin is going to UCLA to be an accountant. Kiki is going to be a cosmetologist. So I told everyone I wanted to be a teacher like my parents and I figured that if W was going to USC, I might as well, too.”

  “None of that sounds like it’s making you happy.”

  “My parents lived for the moment. But I want to have a plan, a future. You told me not to settle. You said to find my passion, but I don’t know what that is. I only know what I don’t want.”

  “That’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “Is it?” I turn my eyes to his. He reaches across the span between our loungers and rubs a thumb along my wet cheek.

  “Yes.” His broad palm cups my cheek. “Yes,” he repeats.

  The tears slip out of my eyes and pool in his hand. I watch as the salty water runs against the side of his wrist and down his forearm. My messy emotional state isn’t scaring him away. He scoots closer, the metal legs of his lounger scraping against the deck.

  “When did you know you wanted to be a singer?”

  “Four? Five? I felt like I was born knowing. I think my parents were afraid that I’d want to go into the acting business, like them, but I’ve always loved music and telling stories through songs. I loved hearing my voice form and hold notes. It was all I ever wanted.”

  “LA is filled with people with purpose.” I reach up to touch his hand. It’s warm and solid in my grasp. “All these people come here with huge dreams. I don’t want their dreams, but I’d like a dream.”

  “Maybe you have one but are afraid of it.”

  “Maybe.” I look down at our clasped hands and think about the things that stir me. My family, cooking for them, drawing pictures. Can I make a living out of that? Is that my future?

  He reaches over and lifts me off my chair and onto his. “If you had all the money in the world, what would you do?”

  “Travel and see the world,” I answer immediately.

  “Then you should do that.”

  “W thought that was stupid.”

  Next to me, Oak’s chest vibrates when he grunts. “We both know what I think of W. You’re better off without him. Good thing you broke up with him.” Oak sounds disgruntled and jealous, which is adorable in so many ways I can’t even count them.

  “Um, he broke up with me, remember?”

  “He only did that because he knew what was coming.”

  “And what was that?” I bend my neck to check if Oak is about to make some smart-ass remark about how he was coming.

  “That you were just marking time with him, and eventually you would’ve realized you could do better.” Oakley shrugs. “Besides, he’s probably got a tiny dick and was overcompensating.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s all about size with guys. “I wouldn’t know.”

  His eyebrows draw together. “You never—” He makes a short punching motion with his fist.

  “What is that?” I laugh. “Is that sex? No. I never had sex with W.”

  His eyes get comically big. “You never even touched him downstairs?”

  “Oakley Ford, do you really want to know all the gory details of what I did with W?”

  He actually thinks it over. I slug him in the shoulder.

  “So wait, if he never got any downstairs action from you, does that mean you never got any downstairs action from him?” Oak looks horrified now.

  “Can we please just drop this?” The pool might be only sixty degrees, but it’s looking more appealing by the minute. If I jump in, maybe this mortifying conversation will end.

  “No, no, we can’t.” He sits up and drags me with him. “Did he ever—”

  I slap my hand across his mouth. “Oh, my God. Stop talking. Please.”

  He hesitates and then nods, but the moment I drop my hand, he’s back with the commentary.

  “Damn, what a selfish asshole. Bet he had no problem asking you for attention.”

  “I can’t believe you really want to discuss this.” I cover my face.

  “Have you ever done it to yourself?”

  Where’s a good ol’ California earthquake when you need it?

  “Yes, okay, I touch myself. It feels...fine. Good, even.”

  “Shivers?”

  I sigh. Clearly, if I don’t give him something, he’s going to keep pressing me. “No, not shivers, but it’s good.”

  “Come on.” He stands abruptly and holds out his hand.

  “Where we going?”

  “Inside. I don’t think you’re ready for the outdoor messing around yet.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “You think you’re getting some?”

  “No. Not me.” His eyes darken. “Come on.”

  I push to my feet and slide my hand into his. I’m not entirely certain where this is going, but Oak’s never been one to pressure me. He’s never even brought up sex until now. I allow him to lead me through the living room and down the hall to his media room. He dims the lights, flicks on a movie and then pulls me down on the sofa.

  He sticks his finger under my chin and tips my head up so we’re eye to eye. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yeah...why?” I say uneasily.

  Rather than answer, he clasps my face in his hands, the calluses that he’s built over years of playing guitar scraping against my skin. His lips catch on mine—tender, sweet, undemanding. We kiss for a brief moment, my raging case of humiliation fading under his caress. Then he draws back.

  “You’re beautiful. Every day I’m with you is brighter and more exciting than the last. And if we ever have sex, it’ll be because you want it, not because I want it or because you think it’s necessary to keep me.” He brushes h
is thumb against my lips and a bolt of energy tightens my entire frame. “But until you’re ready, there’s a ton of other stuff we can do to make you feel good.”

  Goose bumps rise on my skin. “Wh-what about you?”

  “I’ve got two hands—” he winks at me “—and a damn good imagination. So yeah, I can put on a movie and pretend I’m paying attention, but all I really want to do is kiss the hell out of you.”

  “You want to kiss me again even though I kissed Luke?” Guilt pokes at my belly. I avoid his eyes, but he tips my chin to the side so I have no choice but to look at him. “You’re not still mad?”

  “Are you ever gonna kiss him again?”

  “No. God, no.”

  “Then I’m not mad.” He grins wickedly. “And yeah, I want nothing more than to kiss you again.”

  “That’s it?” I’m down for kissing, but the look in his eyes tells me he wants to do a lot more.

  Sure enough, he answers bluntly. “I’m not limiting my kisses to just your mouth.”

  I blush...all over.

  “And you’re not going to want anything in return?” I always knew that if I let W touch me, he’d expect the same thing in return and...I just didn’t want to go there. But yeah, I’ve ached in places. My breasts have tingled. My clothes have felt too tight. But something has always held me back.

  Oak closes his eyes briefly. “You sure I can’t go to USC and beat the hell out of W?” Apparently he understands my dilemma without me giving voice to it.

  “Can we not talk about W anymore?” I say softly.

  “Yeah, no more W.” He lies down on the sofa and pats his chest. “Come here. You’re in charge.”

  I lean over him. “Maybe I want you to watch the movie. Do the whole ‘pretend you’re yawning and slide your arm around my shoulders’ thing.”

  He yanks me on top of him. “Oops, you tripped and fell.”

  “Not the same thing,” I retort.

  “Pretty much.” He leans forward and kisses me before I can say another word.