When It's Real

  “Why? Are you unhappy with how it’s going? Claudia and I talked this morning. Everyone’s excited. You’re getting the best press you’ve had in months. Hold on, I’ll read some to you.”

  I can hear street noise. “Are you texting and driving?”

  “Yes. How do you think I get anything done in this town?”

  “Forget it. I’ll look it up myself.”

  I hang up before he can kill himself trying to read the gossip column headlines.

  I hit the most famous celeb site I know and immediately see a smarmy picture of me side-eying a camera.

  Oakley Ford’s Tweet Makes a Fan’s Dream Come True!

  Ford fangirls take notice!

  Last night global superstar Oakley Ford set his saplings on fire when he favorited a fan’s drawing of him. According to the girl’s Twitter account, seventeen-year-old Vaughn just broke up with a longtime boyfriend and she’s been consoling herself by playing Ford’s self-titled release on repeat.

  Ford’s been notoriously quiet on Twitter except for the occasional shout-out to a fellow artist, so this activity was definitely out of character! We weren’t the only ones who noticed. Fans jumped all over his fave by Retweeting the picture. The artist’s own account grew from 89 followers to 8000. Her account exploded after Oakley Ford Tweeted her back.

  Is this a new romance for Oakley? He hasn’t been linked to anyone—for more than a night—since April Showers. Gossip Central caught up with April outside Nice Guy in LA. April appeared blindsided by the news that Oakley is finally moving on, telling us, “You know more about Oakley’s life than I do.” Ford’s people haven’t commented.

  The fan interaction has spurred #Fordfangoals to trend on Twitter. It’s been two years since we’ve had any new Oakley Ford music. Maybe Vaughn will serve as new inspiration!

  Christ. I follow the link to the Twitter page to read about my so-called interaction with Vaughn.

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Thanks for sketching my left side. It’s my best.

  I scroll through what seems like a thousand Tweets before I get to her response.

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Haha! U don’t have a bad side.

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Do you have a red pencil? I’m blushing.

  Excuse me while I vomit. I’m blushing? What a lame-ass response. I’m Oakley Ford. I don’t blush. What do I have to be embarrassed about?

  @jelly_bean1984 @ OakleyFord Please Oak I luv u. Please fave my tweet!!!!!

  @cassandra.vega.5 @ OakleyFord ur soooooo bbbbeeutiful. I u so much! Ur my bae!

  @OakleyFord_stanNo1 @ OakleyFord Love you Oakley. Can’t wait for another album.

  This is frickin’ impossible. I tap on Vaughn’s stream and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s so much easier to read.

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord I don’t believe u blush. But I do have a red pencil.

  She Tweeted another picture of just a cheek and some lightly shaded red on the upper curve. Nice. Even though it’s not an accurate representation, I can’t deny her talent.

  I swipe past dozens of people replying to her, and find mine.

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn So you’re taking requests. I’d like to see a self-portrait.

  Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord Like this?

  I eagerly scroll. Shit, did she send me a—it’s a sketch of her phone.

  Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Modern and sleek. I like it.

  These responses are terrible. If I were replying, I’d have said something like—

  I dial Jim again. “I want access to my Twitter account. If I’m dating this chick, I should be able to respond to her directly.”

  “What? Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because I do. So do I get access or do I make up a different account?”

  “Hold on.” He sighs then barks to some assistant. “Get Claudia on the phone and find out how to get Oak on Twitter.”

  9

  HER

  “Are you supposed to be dating Oakley Ford?!”

  W’s loud, angry voice hurts my eardrums, but I don’t ask him to calm down. This is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk on the phone since my online conversation with Oakley began. My boyfriend has clearly saved up his frustration from these past twenty-four hours and it all comes pouring out now.

  “I can’t confirm or deny that,” I answer with a sigh.

  “Bull! You don’t know how many of our friends called and texted to tell me you’re flirting online with Oakley Ford!”

  My guard snaps up. “I hope you didn’t say anything about my job. You signed an NDA, W. If you break it, Diamond will—”

  “Ruin my life,” he finishes sourly. “Yeah, I know.”

  Ugh, this is not about W’s life, but I know from past experience that I’m going to have to listen to him bitch and moan until he gets it out of his system. “So what did you tell everyone?”

  “That we’re both upset about our breakup and that flirting with some celebredouche is your way of trying to get over me.”

  I wince at his word choice, but only say, “Thank you.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “What exactly are you doing with Ford?” W mutters.

  “Not much.” I hesitate. “We’re just going to be hanging out—for the cameras—a few times. And there might be a kiss. No, a peck. And none of it is real, remember?”

  “It better not be.” My heart flips a little over his jealousy, only to die a quick death at his next words. “I’m not happy looking like a loser here.”

  A whiny voice sounds from my bedroom doorway. “Vaughn! We need our phone back!”

  I hold up one finger to silence Shane. “I promise, it’s all a show,” I assure my boyfriend. “Just like reality TV.”

  “We need to call Kenny!” Spencer shouts, coming up to stand beside his twin. They both glare at me, the gold in their hazel eyes sparking angrily. At twelve, the two are already taller than my five feet six inches and could easily wrestle the phone away.

  I sigh. “I have to go. The twins need their phone. I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”

  “Okay.” He hesitates again. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I answer, and the twins release simultaneous groans and then proceed to make gagging noises, their light brown hair flopping all over the place.

  I hang up and toss the phone to Spencer. “Here, you brats. Go call your precious Kenny.”

  After they dart off, I collapse on the bed and curse the day I let Paisley convince me to meet with Jim Tolson and his entourage.

  Claudia believes that someone could pull our phone records, so for two months I can’t call W on my own phone or my sister’s, which means I’m at the mercy of two twelve-year-old boys.

  And I actually had to ask Claudia’s permission before I could make the call. And then she had to hold a stupid brainstorming session with her PR team to determine if it makes sense for W to keep in touch with his ex-girlfriend’s little brothers. I reminded her that W was a part of my family for two years, so of course he would be close with my brothers.

  “Phone,” my sister’s voice says, jolting me out of my thoughts. Paisley walks into my room and holds out her iPhone. “Claudia.”

  A silent scream goes off inside me. Oh, my God. I cannot deal with another one of Claudia’s dumb requests right now.

  “You’re going to make your account private today,” Claudia says instead of hello.

  “Why? Because of all my new followers?” I woke up this morning to discover I have twenty-five thousand new followers on Twitter. I almost died from shock.

  “Because we want to fuel the fire even more. If you suddenly go private, Oakley’s fangirls won’t be able to follow you and it will drive them crazy. They
’ll start gossiping on their own feeds and speculating about why you’re private, and the ones who are already following you will start screen-shotting your Tweets and turn you into an even hotter commodity.”

  I don’t bother to argue. I’ve given up on trying to figure out the logic of a publicist.

  “Fine,” I say. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Amy’s emailing you an archive of your Twitter account. Start deleting all the pictures with your ex-boyfriend.”

  I’m outraged. “How did you get an archive of my account? And how did you get my email address?”

  “From Jim. Don’t ask how he got it. He’ll never tell,” Claudia chirps. “Anyway, we’d like all traces of your ex-boyfriend gone from your account by tomorrow. You did it, of course, to erase him from your life.”

  Bitterness climbs up my throat. “If you have access to my archive, why don’t you delete them?”

  “Oh, of course. We’d be happy to do it for you. We just thought you might like to do it yourself. Getting over an ex is a difficult process for a teenage girl.”

  I imagine some stranger going through my pictures of W and clicking the little trash can button, and I realize she has a point. “Forget it. I’ll do it. And he’s not my ex, Claudia!”

  “He is in the eyes of the world.” She’s starting to sound annoyed with me. “One last thing. We need you to go out to dinner with your family tonight.”

  I wrinkle my brow. “Why?”

  “Lord, Vaughn, is that your favorite word—‘why’? Careful, sweetie, or I’m going to start answering with ‘because I said so.’”

  I clench my teeth so hard my jaw twitches. “Why do I need to go out for dinner, Claudia?”

  “Because it’s family night. As of right now, you and your siblings go out once a week for family night.”

  I respond with her favorite word. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what wholesome people do!” There’s a loud, frustrated huff in my ear, and then her voice softens. “Is your Instagram linked to your Twitter?”

  “Yeah. Wh—” I halt before the rest of the question slips out. She’s already pissed off at me as it is.

  “Good. At dinner tonight, post a picture of you and your family. It doesn’t matter if the brothers are in it. But your sister has to be.”

  “I assume you know what I’m going to ask.”

  She heaves out an exasperated sigh. “It’ll be an organic way to reveal that your sister works at Diamond. Oakley will comment on the picture, and then that bit of information will come out.”

  “Fine. I’ll post something tonight.”

  I hang up without saying goodbye then holler at the door, “Paisley, get in here.”

  She appears within seconds. “What’s up?”

  “Tell the twins to put on some nice clothes,” I say as I toss her cell phone over. “We’re going out to dinner.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s family night.”

  My sister arches a brow. “Why?”

  Oh, wow. That word really is annoying. “Because that’s what wholesome people do!” I shout, and then I march to my closet to find something to wear.

  10

  HIM

  #squadgoals #dinnertime #whyisthewaitsolong

  I stare at the picture of Vaughn’s family on Instagram. They’re all squeezed together as they wait to be seated at some random restaurant I don’t think I’ve ever heard of before. I can’t remember the last time I ate with my mom and dad. Hmmm. The last time I sat down at the same table with Mom and had a fork in my hand was...the Golden Globe Awards last year?

  Holy shit. I almost laugh at the sad absurdity of the situation. Dad, on the other hand, I haven’t eaten with in years. Old man can hold a grudge like nobody’s business.

  I feel a strange tightness in my chest. That isn’t...nah...it isn’t envy. I flick the app closed and stare out the windows. What I need to do is get out of the damn house. I’ve been stuck inside these walls and the studio—where nothing but garbage is getting recorded—for too long.

  Purposefully, I stride to the kitchen where I find Tyrese. “Let’s get some grub.”

  He tucks away his phone. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. How about—” A wicked idea pops into my head.

  “Uh-uh.” Ty rocks back on his heels. “I’m not liking the look of that smile on your face. It says we’re about to get into trouble.”

  “How about fondue?” I reply innocently.

  I need to figure out what to wear. A hat and sunglasses aren’t going to be enough.

  “Sure. There’s a place over on La Cienega Boulevard,” he says.

  Ty’s a foodie. Man knows all of the good places, but I don’t want to go to Restaurant Row.

  “I was thinking about Fondue Heaven over on—” I open the app, and sure enough, Vaughn has her Instagram geo-location on. “El Segundo. It’s on Main Street.”

  Ty looks offended and faintly disgusted as he trails after me into my room. “A chain, brother? In El Segundo? That’s an hour away.”

  I ignore him as I rifle through my walk-in closet. I should wear my lowest slung pants. The ones that hover around my ass crack. I wonder if I got rid of those? I dig around in the back of the closet.

  “Those folks are gonna be gone before you get there,” Ty says from behind me. He’s not slow.

  “Not if we take a chopper. That’s fifteen minutes. The apps are probably being served at that time.” I find the pair of ratty jeans that I hate in a pile under an old pair of sneaks. I lift the denim to my nose. They smell clean. Musty but clean.

  Ty raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Really?”

  “My jeans or the chopper?” I ask, stripping out of my sweats and pulling on the pants. I haven’t worn them for a couple years so it’s a tight fit. I’ve bulked up since my Slim Jim, sixteen-year-old days.

  “Both.”

  I slip a dark hoodie over my T-shirt and rub my hands together. “Ready?”

  * * *

  “You have me on record that I think this is a bad idea, right?” Ty asks as he turns into the parking lot.

  “I heard you the first three times.” I adjust my hat using the visor mirror in the car we’re renting. It’s not a full disguise, but I’m banking on the fact that no one’s going to expect to see Oakley Ford in El Segundo at a fondue chain restaurant.

  “Jim’s a scary man and I’ve got family,” Ty reminds me.

  “What family? You have kids I don’t know about?”

  “Sisters.”

  Right. I’ve met Ty’s sisters. If anyone should be afraid, it’s Jim, because those chicks put the F in fierce. Highly protective of their “baby” brother and with no filter, they tell it like it is. “Honey—” that’s what they call me. I’m not sure they even know my name anymore “—Honey, you gotta pull those pants up before you start a riot.”

  At fifteen and dumber than a box of rocks, I told Shanora, Ty’s oldest sister, this was the style. “Honey, that’s no style. I didn’t see wannabe hoodrat on the shelves last time I was in Macy’s,” she replied. “What you have is a lack of imagination.”

  Because of her advice, I’d ditched the saggy jeans, backward cap and wife-beater, and tried to find a style that hit somewhere between rock god and Abercrombie douche. Not sure I’ve found it yet.

  “Jim knows that this is my idea. He’s not going to blame you.” I flip up the visor. “He’s never blamed you in the past.”

  Ty only grunts as he pulls into a parking space. While the lot itself is busy, there aren’t a ton of people around, and the few restaurant goers outside are taking zero notice of me. A couple walks right by me and doesn’t stop. I give Ty a surreptitious thumbs-up behind their backs.

  He shakes his head
.

  Excitement courses through me. I feel like I’m breaking the law, getting away with something I definitely shouldn’t by having dinner at this subpar chain restaurant. I can see my next interview. “What’s the most exciting thing you’ve done since the Ford tour?”

  “Well, I went to eat fondue and no one noticed me. That was the highlight of year nineteen of my life.”

  “You let me do the talking with people,” Ty says as he opens the door. “Your voice is too recognizable. Let’s at least get some food in our system before we have to make a run for it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” My voice does have a distinctive rasp. A writer from Billboard once asked if I smoked a lot of cigarettes as a kid. She was only half-joking. But nope, just how I was born.

  Inside the restaurant there’s a crowd of folks waiting to be seated. Ty muscles his way to the front while I hang back and scan the interior. Near the kitchen, a table of four catches my eye.

  “The wait’s going to be about twenty minutes,” the harried hostess informs Ty.

  “No problem,” I say. “We’re meeting someone.” I point to Vaughn’s table.

  The hostess looks surprised. “They didn’t tell me.”

  “No worries.” Then I start walking before the lady can ruin my surprise.

  “So much for letting me do the talking,” Ty mutters in my ear.

  I ignore him and drop down next to Vaughn, pushing her over closer to her sister. “What’re we having?”

  She turns, her mouth open to deliver some kind of rebuke, then proceeds to stare at me for a good long moment.

  I stare back, finding myself drawn to her wide mouth. She’s not wearing lipstick, or even a hint of any other makeup. Her dark hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail, with her bangs falling into her eyes and framing the sides of her face.

  My new girlfriend is kind of a scrub, but she’s a hot scrub. Her thin see-through sweater and skinny jeans reveal enough curves to make my pants feel even more uncomfortable.

  “I’d tell you to take a picture because it lasts longer,” I remark, “but you’ve already drawn me.”