When It’s Real by Erin Watt

14

HER

“I thought you said we were going to a party.” From the back seat of Oakley’s Escalade, I anxiously peer out the heavily tinted window. “What is this place?”

Tyrese, who’s behind the wheel, just stopped the SUV on an industrial street in south LA. It’s not an area I’ve been to before. I can hear the bass, but there’s no sign anywhere on the building, just a black steel door that looks kind of ominous.

Beside me, Oakley wears an annoyed expression. “It’s a club.”

“So we’re not going to a party?”

“It’s a party. At a club. What part of this don’t you understand, baby?”

I glare at him. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. And don’t call me baby.”

He just smirks.

Ugh! I want to punch this guy! I don’t care that he’s paying me a fortune to date him, or that he looks superhot right now in his faded jeans and forest-green T-shirt that looks like it might have been stitched on his body. None of that takes away from the fact that he’s a total jackass sometimes.

“I just want to know what I’m about to walk into,” I say tightly. “Who owns this place?”

“Who knows? Promoters put together private events. Parties, record launches, small concerts.” He shrugs.

I wrinkle my forehead. “And Claudia wants this to be the venue for our first public date?”

“Yes. This is what she wants,” Oakley answers impatiently. “Ty—you ready?”

My pulse speeds up. “Ready for what?” I squeak.

“Just making sure the paps aren’t lurking around,” Oakley says. “We give ’em the photo op when we’re leaving, not arriving.”

“Why?”

“Because if they see us now, they might find a way to sneak into the club and get pics we don’t want to give ’em.” He looks at me like I’m dumb for not knowing that.

I am so sick of everyone in his fancy-pants world treating me like I’ve got rocks for brains. But instead of lashing out, I sit there and grit my teeth and remind myself that I’m getting paid twenty grand a month for this.

No, Kiki, there’s not one thing that Oakley Ford likes about me. And I’m perfectly fine with that because he’s a prick with a capitalP.

Oakley and I don’t get out of the car until Ty gives us the all-clear. I almost fall five times on the way to the scary black door, and I don’t miss the amusement in my “boyfriend’s” eyes every time I wobble on the insanely high heels he sent me.

“Could you pick a pair of flats next time?” I mutter.

“Nah. Your legs look wicked hot in those heels.”

This time I don’t feel any tingles at his use of the word hot. I’m starting to think he throws it around like candy on Halloween. Every girl who shows up probably gets a compliment.

Tyrese thumps one meaty fist against the steel door, which opens almost immediately. Another version of Ty appears—a huge, muscly man with trees for arms, only he has dreadlocks instead of a shaved head. He glances at Oakley, nods, and opens the door wider.

I smell the smoke the minute we step into the dimly lit hallway. “Is something on fire?” I sniff.

For some reason, that makes him laugh hysterically. Instead of answering, he surges forward. I chase after him on my death heels and pray I don’t twist an ankle.

The corridor opens onto a dark room with a bar on one side, a stage on the other and dozens of tables and couches in between. It’s not very crowded, but there’s a decent amount of people here, laughing, smoking and shouting to each other over the music. I don’t recognize the band that’s playing, but the beats are familiar. I’ve heard this tune or something like it on the radio for the past five years.

The other thing that’s familiar is the number of people I recognize, not because I’ve met them before but because I’ve seen them in television shows, on magazine covers, in movies. In LA, you can often catch sight of a celebrity if you go to the right places, but the sheer number of them in one place has me feeling superinsecure, even in my expensive designer outfit.

It makes me snappish toward Oakley. “It’s illegal to smoke indoors in LA.”

One eyebrow flicks up. “You want me to call the cops?”

His disdain ticks me off. “I’m getting cancer just standing here,” I grumble. “My lungs have gone from fine to stage four. Maybe the next time we go out, you can take me someplace where I don’t have to worry about dying from secondhand smoke.”

Ty snickers.

I turn to scowl at him, too. “It’s not funny. If I worked for the city, I’d shut this place down in a heartbeat.”

“Good thing you don’t work for the city, then,” Oakley says dismissively. “You work for me, remember?”

Jackass.

He hustles me toward the bar area, with Ty trailing behind us like an obedient puppy. I try to keep my eyes in my head as I brush by a gorgeous model who’s laughing with a singer. My cheeks are burning. I can only imagine what people are thinking about me—how ordinary I look next to these beautiful girls. How indifferently Oakley’s treating me.

I wish I could leave.

At the long counter, we get into our second argument of the night. Or maybe it’s the third. I’ve lost count.

“What’s your poison? Beer? Daiquiri? Something harder?”

“None of the above,” I reply through clenched teeth. “I’m seventeen.”

“So?”

“So that means I’m a minor. I’m not allowed to drink.” I’ve had the occasional beer at a party, but for the most part, Paisley and I try to set a good example for the twins. Kiki’s boyfriend once suggested since my parents “weren’t around” that I could host all the parties. I didn’t speak to him for a week and no one ever brought it up again.

Oakley rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe my girlfriend is such a prude.”

I can’t believe my boyfriend is such a douche!

I swallow the retort and paste on a smile for the approaching bartender. He’s got spiky hair, a scruffy goatee and tattoos on his neck. He notices Oakley and grins. “Oak! Long time, man.”

“Too long,” Oakley answers absently. His green eyes are conducting a sweep of the room. He barely glances at the bartender as he adds, “Lagavulin sixteen on the rocks for me. Virgin anything for my girl.”

My cheeks heat, because he put extra emphasis on the word virgin. Jerk. “I’ll have a Coke, please,” I tell Spiky Hair.

“Coming right up.”

I should’ve known by the smoking that being a minor wouldn’t prevent Oakley from getting a drink. At least we have Ty to drive us.

We wait for our drinks. Oakley’s gaze keeps searching the room as if there’s someone specific he’s looking for. I try to avoid making eye contact with any famous person, because I know I don’t belong here.

“Are you meeting someone?” I demand. Why am I even here if he wants to hook up with another girl? And if he does, do I just stand here like a dummy and pretend not to be bothered by it? That’s a lot of pretending to do.

He glances over, blinking, as if he just remembered I’m standing beside him. “What? Of course not.”

“You sure? Because I totally wouldn’t mind. I can hang out with Ty while you go off and ‘cheat’—” I air-quote that “—on me.”

His lips twitch. “Aw, baby, I would never, ever cheat on my little love muffin.” He tugs playfully on one of my Kikicreated curls and goes back to studying the crowd.

I sigh.

The bartender slaps a Scotch and a glass of Coke on the counter. I take a sip, grateful for the cool soda that slides down my throat. It’s hot in here. And Oakley continues to ignore me. This date sucks.

“Oak. Hey.” A male voice sounds from our right, and then a guy with messy dark hair and a lean body clad in jeans and a Green Day T-shirt appears in front of us.

I feel Oakley tense up beside me. “S’up, Luke.”

The guy—Luke—offers a tentative smile. “Not much. You?”

My date shrugs. He doesn’t say another word, not even to introduce me to his friend.

“I’m Luke,” the guy finally says, awkwardly sticking out his hand.

I give it a quick shake. “Vaughn.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Same.” I’m happy to meet him, because he looks…well, not famous and that’s a huge relief.

Oakley suddenly speaks up. “Luke, keep my girl company for a sec, will ya?” And then he’s gone.

He literally takes off and disappears into the crowd, leaving me with a total stranger. Ty’s job is to protect Oakley, so he stalks off, too, making things even more uncomfortable.

“So.” Luke’s finger toys with the label of his beer. The corners are curling over from the condensation. “How do you know Oak?”

“Sorry, what?” I’m not paying attention because I’m too busy trying to figure out where Oakley went. I finally spot his blond head near the DJ station. He’s talking to someone, but I can’t see who it is.

“How do you know Oak?” Luke repeats.

I force myself to focus on him. “Um, we met online.”

“Yeah?” He looks surprised.

I nod and stick to the story Claudia and her minions concocted. “I Tweeted him some fan art and I guess it caught his eye. He Tweeted back, and now we’re kinda going out.”

Luke pauses. Then his lips quirk up in a wry smile. “Does anyone actually believe that story?”

I narrow my eyes at him, glad that no one from Oakley’s management team is standing around. Claudia would give this performance a D. “I hope so, because it’s the truth.”

“If you say so.”

“It is,” I insist.

He laughs. “Look, Vaughn—it was Vaughn, right?” When I nod, he keeps going. “I’ve known Oak a long time. He has assistants doing all his social media, so if you caught anyone’s eye, it sure as hell wasn’t his.”

The accusation brings a jolt of resentment. I can’t believe he’s calling me a liar.

You are a liar.

Ugh. I totally am.

I decide to nip this dangerous conversation in the bud by asking, “How do you know Oakley?”

“I’m with the studio band,” he admits. “I played bass on some of the tracks in Ford.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Do you ever go on tour with him?”

“I toured with him for Ford, but only for the West Coast leg.” His brown eyes focus on someone in the distance.

Oakley’s making his way back to us, and he’s not alone. The man at his side looks familiar. I can’t place him, but I know that face. He has dark eyes, close-cropped hair and skin so smooth and flawless that I kinda want to ask him what kind of moisturizer he uses.

As they get closer, something finally clicks in my brain. It’s Donovan King, one of the biggest music producers in the world. Normally I wouldn’t be able to pick a producer out of a lineup, but I recognize King because he also used to be an R & B artist before he started producing. He sold, like, a gazillion albums before he retired from the limelight.

“That’s King,” Luke murmurs to me. “Oak’s wanted to work with him for years.”

They reach us, and I notice that Oakley seems unusually nervous. He’s fidgeting with his drink, the ice cubes clinking against the side of his glass, and his normally playful eyes are dead serious. He gives Luke a slight jerk of the head, an unspoken command to get lost. Luke’s frown is only noticeable because I was looking for it—it’s obvious he and Oakley are on the outs, and I feel bad for him as he excuses himself and saunters off.

“This is Vaughn,” Oakley tells King. “Vaughn, Donovan King. I was just telling him what a fan of his work you are and how much you wanted to meet him.”

My brow furrows, but Oakley is practically pleading at me with his eyes. Play along, he seems to be saying.

So I give King a smile and say, “A really big fan. I loved the album you produced for Saturn’s Rising.” Then I paste on an interested expression and pray that he doesn’t ask me about anything else he’s done, because I’ve tapped out my knowledge. The only reason I know he did the SR album is because the twins were obsessed with that band when they debuted last summer.

“Thanks. Good times, cutting that record with the guys.” King’s voice is as silky smooth as his skin, and deeper than I expected. “They’re very serious about their music.”

I keep smiling like a dummy, because I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t play an instrument. Heck, I can’t even whistle.

“What do you think of the band playing now?” King asks, slanting his head toward the stage.

I try not to grimace. What do I know about music? When we’re watching a singing show on television, I always pick the wrong singer to win.

Oakley’s brows are drawn so close together, I’m concerned the lines in his forehead are going to be permanent. That makes me even more nervous.

“I only know what I like,” I finally answer.

The side of King’s mouth tips up. “You and ninety percent of America. That’s what makes music sell. What is it that you like about Oak’s music?”

“What makes you think I like Oakley’s music?” I blurt out.

The band stops playing at precisely that moment and I want to crawl under one of the tables. Oakley steps forward as if to say something, but stops when King bursts out laughing.

“I like this girl.” He flips his thumb toward me.

“Me, too.” Oakley’s smile is tight and fake and I have to force myself not to shift away when he wraps an uncomfortable arm around my shoulders. “Even if she does think my music is shit.”

Does anyone buy this story?I hear Luke saying. If I was truthful, the answer would be not likely.

“That’s not true.” I wish the floor would open up and swallow me. Where’s a stupid earthquake when you need one? My cheeks feel hot and I know it’s not from the crush of people in the club. I’m supposed to be convincing everyone that I completely adore Oakley, and I’m failing at it.

I sneak a glance at him for direction, but he’s staring toward the stage. If it wasn’t for his arm around me, we’d look like we hated each other. Maybe we still look like that.

“I listened to Ford on repeat when I was fifteen,” I confess. “It was my entire life and it’s embarrassing to admit that. I’m trying to be cool about standing here next to him, talking to Donovan King, but it’s a little much for me.”

King’s laughter is replaced with a bemused expression I can’t fully decipher. “That’s some real talk right there.” He raises his glass in my direction. “You don’t get much of that in our business. Too many people just want to hear pretty things, but it’s the honest stuff that punches you in the gut and sticks with you. So tell me, what do you think of this band?”

“It’s…” I struggle for a response. I’m so out of my element here, it’s nuts. It’s like surfing on C Street as a first-timer. Might as well call the rescue squad right now.

“Go on. Say whatever you’re thinking,” King encourages.

“It’s not for me. It’s too…”

“Common,” Oakley interjects. “We’ve heard it a million times before from a million other bands. Including mine.”

And he’s right. That’s exactly what doesn’t sit well with me.

King nods. “All music today sounds the same. That’s the problem.”

Oakley leans toward King, squishing me in the process. His face is so intent on the record producer that I’m not sure he realizes I’m here anymore. “Except for yours. I’d love to get into the studio with you,” he says gruffly.

King stares out into the crowd.

Oh, man, this is awkward. I haven’t felt this uncomfortable since freshman year when Leigh Mariner cried at lunch after she saw her ex-boyfriend with his arm around his new girlfriend.

Oakley tries again. “Your work is great, man. We need to do something together.”

I can see the wheels turning in King’s head. How do I turn this kid down without making it into a big deal…

Finally, he tilts his head, twisting his body a bit so Oakley has a harder time seeing his face.

I try to slink farther away from the bar counter.

“Your work skews a little young for me. I don’t think we’d mesh. Have you thought about giving Lance Buchanan a call? He’s producing sounds a lot like you’ve done in the past.”

Frustration clouds Oakley’s eyes. “I’m making new sounds.”

King sighs. It’s obvious he’s tired of this conversation. Me, I just want to disappear. Can I say I need to use the ladies’ room?

“Call me in a few years. I’m sure we can do something then.”

Oakley’s smile is tighter than a drum. “Sure thing.”

King turns to me and his smile is genuine. “Nice to meet you, Vaughn. Don’t let this world change you, ’kay?” He squeezes my hand and then wanders off.

An awkward silence falls over us after he’s gone. I feel Oakley’s resentful gaze bore into the side of my head, and it’s so unbearable that I frantically search for something to say.

“It’s loud in here,” I offer lamely.

“Then don’t talk,” he suggests with a glare.