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.