“I know it seems like a long time, but unless it’s a serious relationship, there’s no point in even doing this charade.” She sounds tired, too. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. We’ll be fine without the money.”
Guilt rushes through me when I hear the note of defeat in her voice. Paisley’s held our family together with sheer will and grit. When social services wanted to split us up and send the twins into foster care, Paisley was having none of it. She hustled her way through school, taking more classes than I thought you were allowed to cram into one year, and graduated in three years instead of four. She worked two jobs until she landed this one at Diamond. Meanwhile, I ran the household—cooking, cleaning and making sure the twins’ lives remained as stable as possible.
Despite all our efforts, I know we’re barely treading water.
One year is nothing compared to what Paisley has sacrificed.
“I’m doing it,” I say firmly. “That’s why I got up at three. To sign the papers.” And to sweat about how I’m going to sell this idea to W. I turn to watch the coffee drip into the pot. “I mean, it’s not like I have to eat bugs or poop or something gross. There are way worse things to do for money than fake-date Oakley Ford, right?”
“Right.” She smiles with relief. “And he’s not a bad guy. He can be charming when he wants to, and you’ll get to do so many fun things. I’ll make sure your dates are full of stuff you like to do.”
“Great.” I try to summon up some enthusiasm for Paisley’s sake. It’s obvious that the prospect of all that cash is lifting a huge burden from her shoulders, and I would be a terrible, selfish sister to not want that for her. Still, I can’t stop thinking about how much my life is going to change.
“Something is still bothering you,” she says, breaking off another piece of bagel for me.
I stick it in my mouth and chew for a moment before admitting, “It’s W. I don’t know how I’m going to sell this to him.”
Paisley shakes her head. “You can’t tell him all the details. The nondisclosure agreement wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know.” I rub a nonexistent spot on the table. “How strict are those things?”
“The NDA? Very strict,” Paisley says, her eyes wide with alarm. “Do you remember Sarah Hopkins?”
“The nanny who banged Mark Lattimer and broke up his marriage?”
Mark Lattimer is the front man for the rock band Flight. He went through an ugly divorce last year. It was in every online gossip column and every grocery store tabloid for about three months. The scrutiny didn’t die down until the next scandal came along.
“Didn’t she have a drug problem and was turning tricks to pay for it?” I ask.
“Yup, and you know how all the gossip rags got that information?”
I didn’t know before, but I think I do now.
“She signed an NDA, but then decided that she was tired of taking the fall for Mark and Lana’s failed marriage. Everyone inside the circle knew they had an open relationship. She was fine with the nanny until the two of them got caught in public. Afterward, Sarah was paid off but she wouldn’t go quietly. So Jim released all that information to the tabloids. He pretty much ruined her life.”
“So if I break it, Jim will drop a bomb on our house.”
“Our lives,” Paisley corrects grimly. “Oakley Ford is worth millions to Jim. His last tour grossed two hundred and fifty million dollars.”
I gape at her. I didn’t know numbers went up that high in real life. “So what you’re saying is, either I do this one hundred percent, or not at all.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You can only tell W what the agreement says you can tell him. Anything more than that, and Jim will crush us like a bug.”
Us. Not me, but my whole family.
*
Paisley drives the twins to school, and I clean the house, prep for dinner and try to force some lunch down before taking the bus to USC to see W. His last class of the day is at 2:00 p.m.
Jim Tolson sent a courier over with another NDA—this one for W’s signature. It’s like he has a million of them on his laptop, ready to spring on the unsuspecting.
With only a week into the new college semester, no one in the dorms seems interested in studying. Several of the doors are open when I arrive, and all sorts of different music and sounds are streaming into the hallway.
Part of me regrets not enrolling this year. W wanted me to, but after watching Paisley bust her ass to make sure all our bills were paid, I wanted to do my part. Taking a year off and making some real money made the most sense. Still...every time I walk into W’s dorm and see all the pretty girls wandering the halls, I’m gripped with a sudden case of nerves.
“Knock, knock,” I announce at the open door.
W and his roommates are lounging on their hand-me-down sofa, playing Madden. Two girls I don’t know are curled up on a love seat in the corner. They always have girls in here. As with everything, I pretend it doesn’t bother me, because the last thing I want to do is look like the jealous, immature girlfriend from high school.
W jumps up immediately. “V, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I texted you.”
He grimaces. “We were playing. Guys, I’m out. My girl’s here.”
“Put a sock on the doorknob,” Mark yells as W slams the door to the bedroom. Mark’s a kid from upstate who’s always asking me how good W is in bed—as if he knows that we’ve never done it and enjoys needling me about it.
W grins at me, hands at his hips. “Do I need to put the sock on?”
“There are people out there,” I remind him.
He laughs and tackles me onto the bed. “So? There’s no one but you and me in here.”
I shiver when his hand tunnels under my T-shirt.
W makes me feel good, but I’m not ready to take that next step yet. And especially not when his roommates are outside the room playing a video game, and two strange girls I don’t know are sitting there.
I push at his hand. “I’m not having my first time with an audience.”
We’ve had this discussion before. He resists at first but then pulls his hand out from under my shirt to rest it on my jean-clad hip. Part of his brown hair falls across his forehead as he rolls onto his side. I push it away so I can see his chocolate-brown eyes. He looks gorgeous, as always. More gorgeous than Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.
Really, scoffs my internal voice. You’ve got to be kidding.
Okay, W isn’t better-looking than Oakley, but he’s nicer and sweeter and I love him and that counts for everything.
“All right.” He smiles, crinkles forming beside his beautiful eyes. “Did the twins look up that skate park I texted you about?”
“The one over in Boyle Heights? That’s, like, in a different country.” Anything that requires someone from LA to get on the freeway is considered a low-scale crime given the congestion. A trip to Boyle Heights might not require a passport, but it would require a huge effort. While I love my brothers, I don’t love them that much.