When It’s Real by Erin Watt

15

HIM

1doodlebug1@OakleyFord_stanNo1 Is she a model? Wasn’t that Gucci?

OakleyFord_stanNo1@1doodlebug1 Definitely G. And trashy 2 bc hello, club? Dressed like that? Ho.

1doodlebug1@OakleyFord_stanNo1 ho foshoe

1doodlebug1@OakleyFord_stanNo1 that dress tho. So gorg

OakleyFord_stanNo1@1doodlebug1 forget the dress. Can we talk abt how his hand is on her ass. That lucky btch.

1doodlebug1@OakleyFord_stanNo1 I kno! Last night dreamt it was me.

OakleyFord_stanNo1@1doodlebug1 same

As usual, everyone is pissed off at me. It’s not even nine in the morning, and already I’ve been yelled at by three different people.

My conversation with Jim went something like this:

“I told you to stay away from King! I’ve been greasing the wheels behind the scenes! And you show up at his club like a spoiled brat asking for handouts, ruining all the progress I’ve made! I’m your manager! That means I do the managing! All I ask—no, demand in return is that you keep your mouth shut, write your goddamn songs and leave the business to the grown-ups!”

I hung up on him halfway through his tirade, because I don’t need to take that abuse. I’m the client. The client is always right. End of story.

Claudia wouldn’t let me hang up on her, though. I tried, and she called back immediately, picking up midrant.

“A club, Oak! On your first public date! With your sweet, wholesome girlfriend! No. No, no, no! Your decision-making privileges are revoked! From now on, you do what I say! That’s why you hired me! I refuse to be sabotaged by my own client! TMI photographed you and Vaughn leaving the club at midnight—this does not look good, Oakley! Social media is speculating that Vaughn is a party girl! We need to kill this story! She’s supposed to be fixing your reputation, and instead you’re destroying hers!”

Then she hung up on me.

If I’m being honest, that’s the only thing I feel bad about. Not about destroying Vaughn’s rep, because that’s insane. Her image is fine. One night at a club isn’t going to change that, and the pap photos that showed up online this morning were harmless. Just a few shots of me opening the Escalade door for Vaughn, the two of us getting in the car. My hand was resting on her lower back, and at one point she touched my arm.

Harmless.

No, what’s making me feel like crap is the way I treated her last night. I acted like a jerk. Ignored her. Snapped at her after that disastrous run-in with King even though she tried to play the game. Ignored her some more. Used her to try to impress King.

The only reason I even went to the club was because someone texted me that King would be there. I figured having Vaughn by my side would show him that I’m serious. I mean, if I’m serious about my girl, then I must be serious about my music, right?

Except it backfired. He turned me down again. Squashed me like a bug under his thousand-dollar shoes.

Vaughn hadn’t said a single word during the car ride home.

With a loud groan, I stalk down to the basement to my home studio and throw open the door. There are a couple of couches in the corner of the soundproofed room, near the endless row of guitar stands. I swipe my favorite Gibson off its stand and sink onto the sofa cushions.

If I had her phone number, I would text her to apologize. But I don’t, and I’m too embarrassed to get Ty or Big D to call her for me. Ty already gave me a long lecture after we dropped Vaughn home. “You can’t treat girlfriends like props, brother. Even fake girlfriends.”

I spend the next hour fooling around on the guitar. There’s been a melody in my head since last night, but I can’t seem to make it work. The lyrics don’t come, either. I’m still blocked, and the ball of frustration in my gut grows bigger and bigger as I absently strum the guitar.

Maybe it’s not the creative block that’s getting to me today. Maybe it’s something else.

Gritting my teeth, I grab my phone off the side table and dial Big D. “Hey,” I say when he picks up. “Get Vaughn on the line for me, will ya?”

“Gotcha.”

I end the call then sit there impatiently until Big D’s heavy footsteps finally sound on the stairs. He strides into the studio and holds out his cell.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problemo. Shout when you’re done.”

He ducks out of the room, and I take a breath before speaking into the phone. “Morning,” I say lightly.

Vaughn is nowhere near as friendly as I’m trying to be. “Do we have another date today?” she asks without saying hello.

She sounds alert for how early it is. I wonder why she didn’t sleep in. She’s taking the year off from school and she’s not waiting tables anymore. I mean, she’s pretty much just on call for me, so there’s no reason for her to get up before noon.

On call for you?

Guilt weighs me down. Okay, that’s kind of a raw deal for her, being forced to sit around and wait until Claudia decides what she’s doing and when.

Then again, she’s getting paid a lot of money to be on standby.

“Nah, we don’t have a date,” I answer. “Claudia wants us to wait a few days before we see each other again.”

“So what do you want?”

Yeah, she’s not happy with me. But the apology gets stuck in my throat. “Did you see the TMI pics?”

“What do you think? I’ve been answering Tweets about it all morning.” Her annoyance ripples over the line. “Not to mention getting yelled at by Claudia.”

I swallow another dose of remorse. The guitar is still in my lap, so I try to distract myself from the guilt by strumming the Gibson.

“Oakley? Did you hear me?”

I clear my throat. “Uh. Yeah.” I strum again. An idea occurs to me. “I’m putting you on speaker. Hold on.”

I click the speaker button then set the phone beside me and readjust my grip on the guitar.

“You still there?” I ask.

“Yes.” She sounds confused. “Are you playing guitar?”

“Yeah. Hold on another sec.” I do a quick tuning of the high E string. “Sorry, back. Anyway, about last night…I’m, ah, not good at apologizing, so…just listen, okay?”

Before she can question me, I sweep the guitar pick over the strings and strum the intro of the song I’d been playing around with. Then I start to sing, a total freestyle of nonsense that I probably couldn’t recreate if I tried. The lyrics aren’t great. I apologize for snapping at her at the club. I sing about forgiveness being good for your soul. I even say something about how the word sorry is as meaningless as the wind but when there’s emotion behind it, it sets your heart free.

The song is mushy and ridiculous and my cheeks are burning with each note that leaves my mouth.

When the last chord fades into nothingness, I’m greeted with total silence.

“Vaughn? You there?”

She gives a slight cough. “Yeah…that was…”

My face is scorching. “I know. It sucked. I sort of wrote it on the fly.”

“No,” she interjects. “It didn’t suck. Not at all. It was really…sweet. And catchy.”

Soft laughter floats over the line, and for some reason it makes my heart beat a little faster. “Yeah? So you finally admit you’re an Oakley Ford fan?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said I liked your song,” she jokes. At least I hope she’s joking. It’s the first time she’s ever said a thing about my music.

“It’s the same. Love me, love my music.”

“How about I accept your apology? No one’s ever sung they’re sorry to me before.”

Not even W?My lips twitch before a smile breaks free.

“So, yesterday,” she starts, sounding awkward. “That producer…you really want to work with him, huh?”

My mood immediately sours. “I really do.” I put the guitar aside and take Vaughn off speaker then lean back on the cushion and balance Big D’s phone on my shoulder. “But he doesn’t want to work with me.”

“I kind of got that,” she says wryly. “He said you have, what was it? Incompatible sounds?”

“Yeah.” What he was saying is that he’s making unique stuff while I sound like the band on stage and a thousand other voices. “That, and the image thing.”

“What image thing?”

“Oh, come on. Why do you think I’m paying a chick to date me, babe? No, why do you think I’m paying a chick like you to date me?”

“Like me?”

I can practically taste her annoyance and hurriedly try to explain. “Yeah. Nice. Sweet.”

“You picked the wrong girl, then. Because I’m not very sweet.”

“You’re sweeter than anyone else I’ve been with,” I admit. “Jim and Claudia think you’re good for my image. I need everyone else to think that, too, King especially.”

“Since when do you care about your image? You didn’t seem too concerned about it when you went skinny-dipping with those socialites in Monte Carlo. Or when you were streaking down Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras last year.”

I grin to myself. “Someone’s been cyber-stalking me.”

“No, I just can’t turn on the TV without seeing something about your latest screwup.”

I bristle. “Screwup? It’s called having fun.” Then I grimace, because that’s the problem. I was having too much fun. So much fun that one of the best producers in the world refuses to work with me because he doesn’t think I’m serious about my music.

But he couldn’t be more wrong. I am serious about it. When I was little, everyone assumed I’d get the acting bug like my parents, but I was born with music in my blood. I was writing my own songs by the time I turned seven. Recording them before I hit my preteens. At the beginning of my career, there were all these bullshit accusations that I only got a record deal because of who my parents are, but those whispers died off once the haters realized I could actually sing.

Vaughn’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. “Well, if you’re having fun then why change? You’re rich, famous, can have all the fun you want. Why not just keep doing that?”

“Because it’s affecting where I want to go with my music.” Because it ain’t fun anymore.

I listen to her breathe while I pluck at the same string, moving up and down the frets wishing I could change King’s tune as easily as I can the melody of a song.

The silence lingers and I begin to think about how I’ve treated her. Not well. And why? I force myself to give an honest answer. I’m sometimes capable of those moments.

The honest answer is because Vaughn’s doing something unselfish and that makes me uncomfortable. It’s easier to deal with the sycophants, but just because she won’t do everything I say doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole. I stop plucking and slam my hand against the strings.

“Next Friday I’m playing at a club for a benefit. I’m going to do a couple of songs. Maybe an entire set as a favor to a friend of mine.” Although that’s not completely true, either. I’m doing it for my own self-promotion. I have to stay in the news, in front of people’s eyes, so they don’t forget about me while I’m pissing away my life in the studio. Still…“Want to come? You can bring some friends if you want.”

“Is this my next date with you?” she asks.

I want to tell her no, that it’s just me inviting her to an event where she can watch an actual performance instead of listening to me fumble through a song I’d made up on the fly. I want her to see Oakley Ford, not the douche she thinks is making her life miserable. Again, completely selfish.

But because I don’t know if she’ll come if I simply invited her, I say, “Yeah, it’s our next date.”