The silent auction goes by fast. The only item I bid on is a trip to Paris, because it seems like something Vaughn might enjoy. I don’t win, but I don’t care. She probably wouldn’t have gone with me anyway.
Then there’s a brief intermission as the band sets up. I quickly excuse myself from the table, but even trying to leave the ballroom is an ordeal. People keep intercepting me while I smile and nod and constantly repeat the same thing, “Sounds great, but I got to hit the little boys’ room.”
I keep walking until I reach the French doors that lead to a small terrace. I’m not sure anyone’s supposed to be out here. The smoking area is on the main patio, but I don’t care if I’m in an off-limits zone. I’m Oakley Ford. And I need a break from all these people and their nonstop chatter. It’s choking me.
I don’t smoke, but I kind of wish I had a cigarette right now. Knowing my luck, someone with a telescopic lens across the street would snap a picture of me sucking on a cancer stick at a cancer benefit, and the next thing I know I’m the poster boy for antismoking campaigns and the dangers of fame.
When I hear footsteps behind me, I stifle a sigh and reluctantly turn around. I expect to see the brunette, or maybe some other chick who saw me sneak out, but it’s King. He steps out holding what looks like a joint, but I think it’s a hand-rolled cigarette because the sweet scent of tobacco wafts over to me.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I remark.
“Every now and then.” He shrugs. “I mostly use it as an excuse to get out of talking to a bunch of strangers.”
I half smile. “You should take my lead.” I hold up my bare hands. “Don’t even make an excuse. Just walk out.”
“Yeah, I suppose you don’t make excuses. You do what you want and say what you want, doncha, kid?”
I’m hit with a pang of shame. I have a feeling he’s referring to the sound bite of me bashing W that’s all over the internet.
Sure enough, he says, “You already got the girl, Oakley. No need to twist the knife deeper in the one who had her before.”
My shame deepens, mingling with guilt and regret, and forming a ball in my throat. “I screwed up,” I admit.
“Yup.”
“It’s just...and this isn’t an excuse,” I say hastily. “It’s not me trying to say that what I did was right. But...they have history, man. Two years of it.”
“Yeah, most people do. Have history.”
“Not me.” My voice cracks slightly, and embarrassment shoots through me. I’m like a prepubescent boy all of a sudden. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me feel so insecure and exposed. Vaughn makes me feel that way, too.
“I’ve never dated anyone for more than a few weeks,” I find myself confessing. “I’ve never had a long relationship, the kind where you have time to build inside jokes and learn to finish each other’s sentences, when you reach that point where you’re so comfortable that you can read the other person’s mind.” I hesitate. “She had that with the ex.”
He nods again.
“I was jealous,” I mumble.
That gets me a response—a soft chuckle. “Yeah, you were. You have a lot of growing up to do, Oak. We’re all jealous.”
My eyes flare in surprise.
“Yeah, even me. I’ve been without a Grammy nomination for three years. There are singers I’d like to work with who don’t want to work with me. Everyone’s got the green bug inside them. It’s how you process that jealousy. Acknowledging it and fueling your creative energy is one way. Another is standing outside a club, drunk and high, spouting off against a defenseless kid. Which one makes you look like an entitled prick?”
I know he’s right. And the more he talks, the lower my spirits sink. I can see my chances of working with him slipping away.
But then he surprises me. “You screwed up. But you know what? You owned up to it.” He gives a rueful look. “I’m sure the press will forget all about it once your publicity team releases your heartfelt apology to Miss Bennett’s ex-boyfriend.”
My cheeks heat up. He knows I’m not writing my own apology, and that makes me feel even worse.
“You want my advice?” he asks lightly.
God, so badly. “Please,” I almost beg.
“All those volatile emotions of yours? The jealousy and the anger and the self-consciousness? Keep owning them. More than that, channel them into your music. You feel me?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, I think I do.”
He walks over and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”
I watch him walk away, and when I hear the first strains of an acoustic guitar, I hurry inside, too, dutifully returning to my table and settling in my chair to listen to Deadhead Bloom’s set. It’s not exactly my kind of music, but it’s not bad, either.
I stay for three songs before ducking out. Claudia said I didn’t have to stay for the whole thing, and nobody expects me to anyway. Besides, I already donated half a million bucks to this thing.
Ty and I leave the hotel through the front entrance. There’s a lot of press waiting outside, but the area’s been sectioned off to accommodate the high-profile guests. All we have to do is stay on our side of the gate and we have a clear path right to the car.
“Oakley!’”
“Oakley, over here!”
“Do you have any comment about what you said last night?”
I find myself hesitating.
“Jesus, brother, don’t you ever learn?” Ty murmurs under his breath.
But I have learned. I’m not high, I’m not drunk, and I’m not overcome with jealousy. I’m humbled after that talk with King.
I slowly take my hands out of my pockets and approach the screaming crowd. My gaze sweeps over the sea of microphones until I find the most well-known media outlet. I stop in front of Samantha Wright from Channel 9.
The blonde looks stunned, probably because I’m notorious for sneaking out of events to avoid talking to the media. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from snapping shots of me doing stupid things and reporting on me anyway.
“How was the concert?” Samantha asks me.
I smile. “It’s still going, actually. I have a bit of a headache, so I left early. I hope the CF Society forgives me.”
“I’m sure they’re happy you showed up to support such a good cause.”
“A great cause,” I correct. “Though I wish I hadn’t shown up with a hangover. I made some bad decisions last night, partied harder than I should have.”
She looks startled by the revelation. I don’t think she expected me to be so candid about my partying, particularly given my age.
“Yes, it did look like you had a busy night yesterday,” she says tactfully, before pausing.
I can see her brain working overtime trying to figure out her next question. She doesn’t know if she should ask about my jackass remarks regarding W, but I opened the door with the hangover comment and she can’t not walk through it.
I take pity on her by saying, “Yeah, I had quite a night, Samantha. Almost lost my girlfriend because of it.”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows soar to her forehead. The other paps swarm toward us, shoving microphones at me. Several glare at Samantha for getting this scoop. Their sound bites will be muffled, while hers will be as clear as a bell.
“I suppose you’re referring to the comments you made?”
“Yup, I am.” I give a sheepish look. “Believe me, I was in the doghouse for that, and I deserved to be. What I said about Vaughn’s ex-boyfriend was uncalled for. Not only that, but it was juvenile and completely inappropriate. I sincerely regret my behavior, and I’m not making any excuses for it. I disrespected my girlfriend and her ex, and my hurtful words are more of a reflection about me and how I still have a lot of growing up to do. If anyone isn’t a man,
it’s me.”
She’s nodding fervently. “Have you apologized to them in person?”
“I’ve apologized to Vaughn,” I lie, though I do plan on doing that when I get home. But I can’t act like there’s any strife in our relationship, not in front of these vultures. “She forgave me. She understood I was just being a jealous caveman but made me promise not to do it again. As for...” I trail off, because I have no idea what W is even short for.
“Mr. Wilkerson?” she fills in.
His name is W. Wilkerson? For fuck’s sake.
“As for Vaughn’s ex,” I continue, “I do intend to call him and apologize. What I said about him was untrue. He’s a great guy.” Gag. “He and Vaughn have history. He’s still a good friend of hers, and the jealous dude in me needs to understand and accept that. Anyway—” I flash a million-dollar smile “—thanks for taking the time to chat with me.”
Then I give a little salute and stride off to where Tyrese is waiting for me.
His dark eyes flicker with humor. “Claudia is going to...” He drifts off.
“What?” I ask warily. “Kill me?”
“For once? I don’t think so.” He shakes his head in amazement. “I think she might send you a fruit basket, dude.”
I snort as we get into the Escalade. Truthfully, I don’t care what Claudia thinks about this. All that matters to me is that Vaughn forgives me. And I’m confident she will, especially after she hears the mature statement I just gave.
Sure, I still think her boyfriend is a jackass who doesn’t deserve her, but so what? I’m not going to win her over by pointing out W’s weaknesses.
I’m going to do it by pointing out my strengths.
I feel totally rejuvenated as Ty drives us away from the hotel. I find myself tapping my foot, drumming my fingers against my thighs. I’m energized, like there’s a live wire running through my body, making it crackle with electricity.
“We’re not going home,” I tell Ty.
He glances over. “Where we going, then?”
“The studio.” My fingers drum harder. “I’m feeling inspired.”
24
HIM
1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 Oakley is so amazing. I’ve watched the apology a hundred times. I cldn’t love him more.
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 same. so much. Proves why he’s worthy of our stanning.
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 see screenshot @OakleyFord you’re forgiven
Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn I am sorry
@OakleyFord I kno. 4 the rec, I think you’re a real man.
@OakleyFord_stanNo1 thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!! They’re so cute. I wish I cld see their tweets all the time!
Vaughn is acting strange. She’s quiet and withdrawn and she’s made only one sarcastic remark all evening, which tells me that my public apology didn’t make up for dissing her boyfriend in the first place.
“You having a good time?” I ask as we move away from the barbecue line and walk farther down the sand to a quieter area. Our paper plates are piled with hot dogs and macaroni salad.
“Sure,” she says noncommittally. “You?”
“This barbecue’s sick. I’m having a blast.”
I’m not lying, either. I was dreading this thing all day, ever since Claudia called this morning to inform me I was hanging out with Vaughn’s family tonight. First, because Vaughn and I haven’t talked since the whole W thing, and second, because attending a charity barbecue for Cardell Hills Middle School, where Vaughn’s little brothers go to school, seemed like a recipe for disaster.
I was expecting to be under a microscope all evening, but to my surprise, nobody even cares that I’m here. The barbecue is on El Segundo beach, but the school hired security guards to keep interlopers from sneaking into the party and eating all the food. Not that anyone is going to sneak into a boring middle school event. The guest list is a mixture of sixth to eighth graders, teachers and parents. Everyone here is either under thirteen or over forty.
This is about as anonymous as I’ve ever been, and it’s the best feeling in the world. The only thing that would make it better is if my date wasn’t sulking, but that’s my own fault.
I really need to stop being such an ass to Vaughn.
And I really need to stop thinking about kissing her again.
“Pass it ’ere! I’m open!” one of the twins shouts to a classmate.
I jerk out of my thoughts and turn toward the soccer game that’s in progress a hundred yards away. Spencer and Shane are playing on the same team, but I can’t tell them apart because they’re both wearing blue T-shirts and khaki cargo shorts.
But Vaughn knows which one is which, because she yells, “Way to go, Spence!” and cheers loudly when one of the blue-shirted boys scores a goal.
I cheer, too, and so does Paisley, who’s standing a few feet away from us chatting with Ty. Vaughn’s sister is so obviously into Ty that it makes me smirk. She’s blushing, and her eyes widen as he touches her arm to shift her out of the way when a group of kids comes whizzing past them.
Ty has a weirdly gentle look in his dark eyes as he moves her to safety. Oh, man. I don’t think it’s one-sided.
“I think your sister and my bodyguard are making a love connection,” I tell Vaughn, hoping the bit of gossip might snap her out of her Downer Debbie mood.
It does, sort of. She looks over at them and smiles faintly. “Maybe.”
“It sucks that nothing can happen between them.”
“Why not?”
“Ty’ll never date anyone who works for Jim,” I explain. “It’d be too messy if they broke up.”
“Paisley works for Jim’s brother.”
“It’s pretty much the same thing.”
“Maybe they won’t break up. Maybe they’ll fall in love and get married and have ten kids and grow blissfully old together.”
There’s a note of desperation in her tone that makes me uneasy. “You okay?”
She sighs. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just eat your hot dog.”
I take a bite and she turns back to watch the twins’ soccer game. I keep watching her. I don’t like quiet Vaughn. I’d rather she make smartass comments to me.
“What’s wrong?” I push.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Is this about the shit I said about W?”
Her features instantly tighten at the mention of W’s name. “No. I accepted your apology.” There’s a sharp bite to her tone. “I even Tweeted about how mature and awesome you are, remember?”
“We both know your Tweets are just orders from Claudia.” I search her shuttered expression. “Do you really forgive me for trashing him?”
“Yes. God. I forgive you, okay? Can we please not talk about W?”
A crease digs into my forehead. “Why not?”
Before she can respond, two girls shyly approach us. One has pigtails and the other has an adorable pixie cut. They don’t look older than eleven or twelve, and they’re practically trembling with apprehension as one of them holds out her phone.
“Hi. Um... Oakley, w-w-w-would you...c-c-c-c-could we get a picture with you?” Pigtails stutters.
I swallow a laugh. “’Course.”
The two turn bright red and stare at me for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“I’ll take it,” Vaughn finally intervenes, reaching for the cell phone.
I’m about two feet taller than these girls, so I have to crouch on the sand between them. I tense up as I wait for them to paw at me, but they don’t. They’re so painfully timid and fearful standing on either side of me, and for the first time in, well, ever, I gesture for them to come closer. “C’mere, otherwise we won’t all fit in the picture.”
They come closer. I sling an arm a
round each of their shoulders, and they look like they’re about to faint.
After Vaughn snaps the pic, the girls sprint off like they’re competing for Olympic gold. Seconds later a dozen other girls congregate around them, whispering wildly and squealing as they all bend over the phone.
Nobody else comes over to ask for a picture. Weird. I guess Pixie and Pigtails were the only ones with the nerve to ask.
That’s...refreshing.
“They were so sweet,” Vaughn says, giving me the first genuine smile of the evening.
“Adorbs,” I agree.
She raises a brow. “You initiated the physical contact.”
I nod.
“Why?”
I think for a second. “Because they didn’t try to touch me. They viewed it as a treat, not a right.” I shrug. “Besides, sometimes physical contact is nice.”
I take her hand, and she freezes.
Frustration rises inside me. I almost remind her that this is what she’s being paid to do, but damn it, I don’t want her to hold my hand because of the money. I want her to do it because she wants to.
So I wait.
And wait some more.
And then...she laces her fingers through mine, and something inside me thaws.
“Come on, let’s walk for a bit,” I suggest.
We toss our empty plates in a nearby trash can and then head down the sand. As we walk, I can’t help sneaking peeks at her. She’s wearing flip-flops instead of her usual ratty sneakers. Tight blue jeans hug her thighs and ass. A striped top falls off one shoulder and reveals her tanned, smooth skin. I can totally see why Jim and my PR team think of her as “the girl next door.” There’s something genuine and sweet about Vaughn.
Her dark hair is tied in a long braid that swings behind her back with every step she takes. I can’t stop myself from tugging on it with my free hand.