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There’s no way I’d ever fall for a guy like that.
I sneak a look at Paisley, who’s smiling slightly. She must have had the same concerns.
“So are we going to talk about terms? Like, what are my work hours?” I ask coolly, cradling the pop can between my hands.
“Work hours?” Claudia echoes, a tiny furrow appearing on her forehead.
“Yeah, since this is my job.”
She titters. “Not a job, more like a...”
“Role?” one of her assistants offers.
“Yes. A role in a long, romantic movie. And you’re the two leads.”
I feel actual bile rise up in my throat.
Oakley grumbles with impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”
Quickly, Claudia outlines our meet-cute with the drawing and the Twitter stuff. When she’s finished, Oakley yawns.
“Sure. Whatever. You’re going to handle it, right?”
“Well, not me, but Amy here will.” Claudia tips her head to the raven-haired woman on her right.
Amy holds up her phone in acknowledgment.
“Great.” He slaps his hands down on the table. “Then we’re done?”
Seriously? I waited over two hours and got only a granola bar and an extra serving of humiliation for this five-minute demonstration of how Oakley Ford isn’t even going to participate in this charade? Instead, I’ll be fake flirting with the assistant of one of his media people.
I turn to Paisley, who gives me a small, rueful shrug.
“No. We’re not done,” Jim barks from the other end of the table. The two of them exchange glares, but whatever power Jim holds over Oakley, it’s enough to get the young star to resettle into his chair.
“Let’s hear the rest of it.” He makes a tired gesture toward Claudia.
She picks up her notepad. “We’ll need the first date. We don’t think you should have any physical contact until after the third—” she looks at her assistants and then at Jim “—fourth date? I mean, we’re trying to sell this as a wholesome romance.”
Everyone starts throwing ideas out about when and how the touching will happen. Someone says he should kiss me on the forehead. Another suggests a hand on the small of my back. There’s another vote for hand-holding.
I’m still struggling with the concept of any touching when Paisley, the traitor, asks, “When did you and W start holding hands?”
Before I can answer, Oakley jumps in, snickering softly. “You dated a guy named W?”
“So what?” Wow. His first words to me are to make fun of my boyfriend’s name? It’s like Oakley’s trying to get me to dislike him.
“Sounds like a pretentious asshat.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. The action makes his biceps flex again.
I drag my eyes away. “Okay, Mr. I-Name-All-My-Albums-After-Me Ford.”
Someone at the end of the table gasps at my audacity, but Oakley’s unfazed by my insult. “Even Madonna has a full collection of letters in her name.”
“W is not pretentious.”
“If you say so.” He smirks.
“I do. He’s awesome. And sweet.”
“So why’d you break up with him?”
“I didn’t,” I say indignantly.
His brow creases. “So he broke up with you?” He sounds...confused. Like that doesn’t make sense to him.
“He hasn’t!”
Oakley shifts to Claudia. “So my down-to-earth, wholesome, normal girlfriend is a cheater?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s gonna go over well.”
“Oh, you mean the fake breakup,” I say. For a minute there, I’d forgotten.
He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.
“He’ll break up with her tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’ll give it approximately two weeks after the breakup, and then she’ll Tweet you the drawing. Then there’ll be a series of dates, but no touching.” Claudia turns to me. “When did you have your first kiss?”
“Ever?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but my mind is stuck on the breaking up with W bit. I haven’t thought this whole thing through. I’ve been so focused on the money and how we’d be able to pay off the mortgage, pay for the twins’ college, allow Paisley to sleep better at night, that I hadn’t given any thought to the actual details of how this whole thing was going to work.
“Yeah, ever,” Oakley says, and this time he does roll his eyes.
These personal questions suck. “When was yours?” I counter, still focused on the W issue. Lately, he’s been pulling away. He says it’s my fault that I don’t act like an adult about our relationship because I’m still refusing to have sex with him.
“With tongue? I think I was eleven. It was with Donna Foster, the daughter of my dad’s side chick.”
My eyes grow wide. He French-kissed at eleven? I still thought boys had cooties at that age. Oakley would probably pee with laughter if he knew I was a virgin.
“You?” he prompts.
“Um...” Jeez, now I’m even more embarrassed, but for another reason. “Sixteen,” I mumble.
“How sweet. Just like the saying.”
I curl my fingers into fists. If Claudia’s team wasn’t sitting between the two of us, I might’ve reached over and smacked his smug smile off his smug face.
Paisley grips my hand, an unspoken gesture for me to get it together.
Even Claudia must sense that my patience is coming to an end. Hurriedly, she says, “Let’s do hand-holding on the third date and then a kiss on the fourth date. We’ll keep the first couple of dates under wraps, but leak the later ones to the paps.”
“Hold up, we’re going to kiss? I have a boyfriend,” I remind the room. “No one said there’d be kissing.”
“We’re gonna have a year-long relationship and we don’t kiss? Why don’t we just announce that it’s fake from the beginning?” Oakley mocks.
“But...but...” Yeah, I definitely didn’t think this through. I quickly turn to Paisley for help.
She grimaces. “They’re right. No one is going to believe that you and Oakley haven’t kissed. Not if you’re serious.” Her tone is apologetic, but her words don’t provide me any relief.
“You don’t expect me to...” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say the words out loud.
“Of course not,” Jim interjects briskly. “We’re not that kind of agency.”
He tries to play it off as a joke, but, um, they kind of are. They’re hiring this guy a girlfriend and they expect us to kiss.
How am I going to explain this to W? Sorry, babe, not willing to have sex with you yet, but I’m going to kiss another guy. In public.
That will go over well.
Claudia leans forward. “This is no different than if you were acting on a television show. Remember, you’re playing a part in a big love story.”
Her assurance doesn’t help, either. I may not know what I want in life. I may just be telling everyone I want to be a teacher because that’s easier than admitting I’m clueless about my future and that I’d rather hide as a waitress for the next five years. But I do know that the entertainment industry doesn’t interest me.
Paisley squeezes my hand again, probably to remind me why I’m doing this. By playing the role of a girlfriend, I get to lift the burden off my big sister’s shoulders and provide for my brothers. It’s not like I’m signing my entire life over. It’s just one year.
“What do I need to do?” I ask, feeling resigned.
“Just a few kisses, some hand-holding. It’s nothing, really.” Claudia waves her hand airily. “And it doesn’t need to be in the contract other than some general terms about physical contact when necessary.”
“Does any of this need to be in the contract?” Oakley sounds annoyed.
“I agree. If this ever got out, it would be terrible for Oak’s image,” Jim points out.
“The terms need to be specific so that the girl can be held to them,” one of the suits replies. Then he and Jim engage in some furious whispering until the lawyer presses his lips together in unhappy surrender. “Fine, it can be general, then. A general contract of employment.”
Once that’s decided, Claudia returns to her list. I wonder how long it is. I glance at the big white clock on the wall. It’s going on three hours and I’m exhausted.
“Let’s talk about her look again.”
“I’m not changing my look,” I mutter. “I like my look.”
I like my comfy skinny jeans, assortment of colorful T-shirts and the Vans that W and I doodled on during morning advisory last spring. The sneakers are filled with details marking our favorite dates. There’s a wizard’s wand along the left sole because we’re both Harry Potter fans. Then there’s the light post to signify the Urban Light display on Wilshire, where W kissed me for the first time. Where there was definitely tongue. His initials are on the back of one shoe and mine are on the other. He has a pair of them, too, but he doesn’t wear his. He says he doesn’t want to ruin them.
“You have a look?” Oakley raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, and it’s better than yours,” I retort, tired of his attitude. “Would it kill you to wear pants that actually fit around your waist? No one wants to see your underwear.”
“Baby, everyone wants to see my underwear. I get paid a hundred grand per pap pic.”
“Baby?” I scoff.
He leans forward, threading his surprisingly elegant fingers together. “Don’t like that one? Pick another, then. You’re my girlfriend,” he reminds me mockingly.
“So you’re into infants?”
“What?” He rears back. “No. Fine. How about—” he pretends to think and then snaps his fingers “—old lady?”
“Great.” I give him my fakest smile. “I’ll call you...dick cheese.”
“Vaughn, gross,” my sister interjects.
Oakley covers his mouth. I swear I see a smile. I wait for his response and I’m not disappointed. “I have no problem with that, crabby patty.”
“All right, that’s enough of that. None of this needs to be in the contract.” Oakley’s lawyer rattles his papers in agitation.
I turn back to Claudia. I’ve given in on the kissing. On the dates. On this made-for-the-media breakup with my boyfriend, but no way am I going to let them change my look. I’ve got to fight for something. “I thought you wanted a normal girl. I’m a normal girl. This is what some normal girls wear.”
When Claudia and Jim exchange a glance, I know I’ve won this one. They agree to keep my look...for now.
“But when we take pictures, at least let us do your makeup. You’ll want us to,” Claudia promises.
Um. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.
The negotiation goes on. When will our first official picture be released? Where will the dates take place? Will I go to an awards show with him? How about fashion week in New York? How often should I be seen with him? Every day? Every other day?
Oh, and I would not get Oakley’s phone number. Like I care.
But I still find it weird, because what nineteen-year-old isn’t allowed to give his number to his own girlfriend? And how does he communicate with his friends? Wait—does he even have friends? Or are they all fake like me?
I peer at him from underneath my lashes and feel a pang of sympathy. Oh, brother. Am I actually starting to feel sorry for him? I think I might be.
But then my stomach growls and reminds me that we’re still mad. And unfed.
“You’ll text Amy or me if you want to get ahold of Oakley,” Claudia says.
“I feel like I need my own people. My people can text your people,” I joke.
No one laughs. Instead, Claudia looks like she’s seriously considering it, but then decides against it. “No, I think two nonteens Tweeting each other and commenting on Instagram would appear too contrived. And your voice, we want to preserve that. Whereas Amy has been running Oak’s page for a couple of years now.”
I have a voice?
“Whatever.” I’m exhausted and hungry. One granola bar wasn’t enough, and my stomach rumbles again to alert everyone to that fact.
“Is the granola bar all you’ve had today?” Oakley asks.
A burst of surprise jolts me. Out of all the people in this room, Oakley’s the one to ask? “I had breakfast, but I like to eat like a normal person.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Jim, we need to eat.”
“Oh, sure.” Jim turns to Paisley. “Run and get us one of everything from the café across the street.”
I see a chance for fresh air and an escape. “I’ll go, too.” Not to mention that I don’t want to be here without Paisley.
“Oh, no, we’ll need you here,” Jim objects.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my sister. She doesn’t need to wait on me.
Paisley laughs. “It’s my job, silly. I’ll be right back.”
She trots out like she’s glad to be out of there, while I watch her exit and wish I could go with her.
On the other side of the table, Oakley leans back, crosses his arms again and looks smug, like he cured world hunger. “Well?” he prompts.
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Why? Paisley’s the one getting the food.”
“You wouldn’t be having lunch without me.”
I point to the clock. “I’ve been sitting in this conference room for five hours. Prisoners in maximum security receive better treatment. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lying on the beach rereading The Handmaid’s Tale and I would have eaten something. But sure, thank you for alerting your manager to send my sister to get me food.”
He doesn’t like my smart-ass response. “It’s too cold for the beach.”
“I never said I was going to swim.” I speak in the same tone I use when I tell my little brothers they’re acting like immature idiots.
“Why are you at the beach, then?”
I gape at him. “Why does anyone go to the beach? Because it’s awesome.”
“If you say so,” he responds, but the smugness he’s previously displayed is dialed down a watt as if my reasons for liking the beach are important...or even interesting. Or he might be confused about why I’d choose to go there rather than sit five feet away from his holy presence.
But I’m not going to tell him.
Instead, I drain the rest of my Coke, slam it on the table with more force than necessary and then sit back and refuse to say another word.
Is it childish?
Oh, yeah.
But it feels really, really good.
5
HIM
Jim drags me into his office before I can make a run for the elevator bank. My bodyguards, Big D and Tyrese, remain outside the door, but they have a perfect view of us because the office is a big glass cube. I don’t know how he gets any work done with the whole floor being able to see him at all times.
My entire life is a big glass cube. I can’t even remember a time when I had actual privacy.
“Do not run her off,” is the first thing Jim snaps at me.
“Who?”
“Vaughn Bennett. She’s the perfect candidate to play your fake girlfriend. We need her.”
“Yeah, in the way I need an enema. Did you see the mouth on that chick?”
“Oakley. I’m warning you.”
“About what?” I roll my eyes and flop into the huge leather chair behind the massive desk.
He doesn’t say a word about me sitting in his chair. He can’t, because I’m Oakley fuckin’ Ford.
“Number one,” Jim begins, “don’t flirt with her—”
“Isn’t that kind of the point? We’re supposed to be dating.”
“The point is to rehab your image. Vaughn’s going to play a pivotal role in that, which brings me to number two—don’t antagonize her.”
She started it, I almost say, but that would just make me sound like a five-year-old. It’s true, though. Vaughn Bennett was the one acting all rude and giving me lip. All I did was point out that her boyfriend sounds like a pretentious douche. Not my fault some people can’t handle a helpful truth bomb.
“Couldn’t you have hired someone who’s a little less...bitchy?” I grumble.
“You mean someone who’s a little more adoring?” Jim replies, and his knowing smile grates on my nerves.
Fine, so maybe I’m pissed about Vaughn’s total lack of...respect, I guess? I don’t expect every girl I meet to throw herself at my feet and declare her undying love for me, but come on, she could’ve at least said she liked my music or something. Or congratulated me on my last Grammy.
Where does this chick get off, acting like she’s doing me a favor just by sitting in the same conference room as me? I’m Oakley Ford.
“You’ve changed your mind about working with King, then?” Jim asks.
I glare at him. “There’s got to be another way. Let’s call him up again.”
“Sure.” Jim pulls out his phone and tosses it down the desk. It slides to a halt halfway between us. “Call him. He’s number ten on my favorites.”
This feels like a dare. I grab the phone and start to press Dial when I realize I’m looking at Jim’s recent call list. About every fifth call is to King. My eyes flick up to meet Jim’s, and what I see in his gaze doesn’t sit well in my gut. It’s a mix of regret and resignation.
He dips his head. “I’ve tried to call him. He won’t take my calls about you. He’s not interested, not until you show him you’re not a spoiled little jerk who’d rather party at nightclubs than make good music. So if you have a better idea, I’m all ears, but short of taking him to a cabin and going all Misery on his ass, he’s not going to work with you.”
I can’t maintain eye contact anymore, because I don’t have a different idea. I rub my throat and wonder how I lost my mojo.
If pretending to date a girl I don’t know, who doesn’t like me, gets it back, then I’ll be the best boyfriend that this chick has ever had.
Which can’t be hard considering her current one is named W.
* * *
I get home an hour later to find a half-dressed couple making out on my bed.
I stand there in the doorway for a second, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, but the skinny blonde on my California king mattress notices me and unleashes an ear-piercing shriek.
“Oh! My! God! You’re Oakley Ford!”
Then, wearing nothing but a short skirt and skimpy bra, she flies off the bed and launches herself at me.
My man Tyrese appears out of nowhere and steps in her path.
Anger and annoyance swirl in my gut as I peer at the guy on the bed. I vaguely recognize him—I think it’s one of Luke’s friends. But why is he in my bedroom?
He zips up his pants and scrambles off the bed. He’s either drunk or high or both as he slurs, “Oak, bro. You’re home early. Luke said you wouldna be back for a couple hours.”
As if that makes it okay that he’s fooling around on my bed?
I’m so disgusted I can’t even answer. I just jerk my head at Tyrese, who clamps one meaty hand on the girl’s arm and his other meaty hand around the guy’s shoulder.
“Time to go,” my bodyguard announces in his baritone voice.
“No, wait!” the blonde whines. “I just wanna get a picture with Oakley! Oakley, I’m your biggest fan! I love you! Can I please get—”
Her pleas fade away as Tyrese drags the couple down the sweeping marble staircase.
I hear a door click and turn to find a member of my cleaning staff stepping out of one of the guest rooms. “Is everything all right, Mr. Ford?” she asks with a timid expression.
“Everything’s fine.” I hook my thumb at my bedroom. “Burn those sheets,” I say curtly, and then I stalk past her toward the east wing, where Luke has been crashing for the past few days.
I throw his door open without knocking. “Get out,” I snap.
Luke was sprawled on the bed watching TV, but now he bolts to his feet, his panicky gaze finding mine. “Oak,” he says weakly. “You’re back early.”
“Yeah, I am,” I bite out. “And now it’s time for you to go.”
“But...” He’s visibly gulping. “Come on, man, I already told you, I’ve got nowhere else to stay while my place is being fumigated.”
“Not my problem anymore.”
“Oak—”
“Why the hell are there strangers in my room, Luke? We had an agreement. I give you a place to crash, you don’t invite people over without running it by me first.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, bro. But Charlie’s girl is, like, obsessed with you, and it’s her birthday, and Charlie just wanted to show her your room. You know,” he says feebly, “like a birthday present.”
I gape at him. Does he expect me to buy that?
“How much and how many times?” I ask in a flat voice.
Luke gulps again. “Wh-what?”
“How much do you charge ’em for the experience of screwing in Oakley Ford’s bedroom, and how many times have you done it?”
When the tips of his ears turn red, I know I’m right. And now all the disgust I feel is directed at myself. I should’ve known Luke would screw me over eventually. They always do.
I met him a couple years ago at the studio. I was rehearsing with the house band, he was playing bass guitar, and we hit it off instantly. We liked the same music, same video games, same everything. The two of us ran wild in the LA club scene for a while there. I invited him to go on tour with me. But these last few months, Luke’s turned into a leech. Borrowing money from me, getting me to sign stuff he can sell online.
And now this? Yeah. I think this “friendship” has run its course.
“Forget it, don’t answer that,” I mutter. “Just get your stuff and go.”
“Don’t be like that, bro.”
My patience is nonexistent. “D,” I call over my shoulder.
Big D appears behind me. He crosses his enormous arms over his enormous chest then proceeds to glare daggers at Luke until the bassist sighs in defeat and starts gathering up his belongings.
With my bodyguard handling the sitch, I march off and take the stairs two at a time. This day just keeps getting worse and worse, starting with the meeting with my new fake girlfriend, a chick with a smart mouth and a chip on her shoulder, and ending with yet another person I considered a friend showing his true colors.
I’m seething as I burst into the media room on the main floor and grab a beer from the fridge. Yeah, I’m underage, but there’s been booze, drugs and girls at my disposal for as long as I can remember.
I twist open the cap and heave myself onto the leather sectional. It’s only five o’clock and I’m legit ready to call it a day.
Tyrese pokes his shiny shaved head into the room and grunts, “All taken care of, Oak.”
“Thanks, Ty.” I take a swig of beer and click the remote.
“D’s heading out,” he tells me.
I nod. Both my bodyguards stick to me like glue during the day, but only Ty sticks around on the nights I go out or have people over. Big D actually has a wife and kid. Ty’s single.
“Lemme know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
After he disappears, I turn up the volume and do some channel surfing, but nothing holds my interest for very long. I watch ten minutes of a documentary about komodo dragons. Five minutes of some crappy sitcom. A few minutes of sports highlights. A few seconds of the five o’clock news, which is just long enough to bum me out, so I quickly change channels again.
I’m about to turn off the TV altogether when a familiar face catches my eye. The channel I’m on is playing TMI, a mindless show where two asshats watch paparazzi footage and offer color commentary on it. The screen shows a tall, willowy blonde in skintight jeans and a flowy blue top leaving LAX airport.
That blonde is my mother.
“—and not too concerned about her son’s latest scandal,” the male host is saying.
Wait, I have a latest scandal? I scan my brain trying to think of what I’ve done lately, but I come up blank.
A melodic giggle pours out of the surround sound. I know that giggle well.
“Oh, pshaw! My son is a healthy, red-blooded nineteen-year-old. If making out with a pretty and legal-age girl outside a nightclub is a crime—”
Right. That scandal.
“—then go ahead and lock up half the teenage boys in this town,” my mother finishes. Then she pops her oversize sunglasses over her eyes and slides into the waiting limo in the airport pickup area.
“Maybe Oakley is just following his mommy’s example,” remarks the female host with spiky pink hair. “Because obviously Katrina Ford herself has no problems canoodling outside nightclubs. This pic was taken in London last night.”