“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.”
16
HIM
Is Oakley Ford officially off the market? The singer and his alleged girlfriend were seen at a private event last night. Insiders exclusively told Gossip Central that Ford and his girl were inseparable. Even more exciting are reports that Ford was seen chatting up mega-producer King. Is a new album in the works? We hope so!
The rumored couple left before the party broke up. Click thru to see Ford and his new gal pal display some PDA! It definitely looks like they’re more than friends!
“I thought date number four was supposed to be the club,” Vaughn remarks. She keeps frowning at me, and she looks as confused as she sounded on the phone earlier when I informed her we were meeting up.
We haven’t had any contact in three days, not since I apology-sang to her. Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to see her today, either, but my publicist had other ideas.
“Not wholesome enough according to Claudia,” I answer with a sigh. “We need some daylight outings before you’re allowed to hold hands with me in the dark.”
Which is why we’re currently standing in line at a soft-serve ice cream food truck parked at Melrose Trading Post. I guess Claudia wanted to make damn sure every tourist in West Hollywood that possibly wanders off the strip could take a memento photo of Oakley Ford being normal.
“Well, this ice cream better be the best thing that milk and sugar ever created. It took me nearly two hours by bus to get here,” Vaughn grumbles under her breath.
Ty, Big D and two other hardbodies stand behind us, creating an obvious bubble between us and the crowd. I tug my hat lower.
“Shoulda told Claudia you wanted a car.” I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the selection. It’s a retro ice cream truck with three flavors and then your standard California toppings like fried kale crumbles and chocolate-covered quinoa. I hate Claudia.
“I could never ask someone to give me a car. That’s crazy.” Vaughn runs a flustered hand through her messy hair. She’s back to wearing her standard uniform of loose-fitting V-neck T-shirt, holey jeans and her colorfully decorated Vans.
One thing you can say about Vaughn—she’s not trying to impress me in any way. There’s about three feet of space between us. You could park a VW in that space. The pictures the paps are taking right now have captions that are writing themselves.
Oakley Ford’s new relationship already on the rocks!
Oakley Ford breaks up before he makes up!
Jim and Claudia won’t be happy if that happens. Right now the positive headlines are outnumbering the negative ones. Jim reported last night that we’re even seeing a boost in sales for some of my earlier albums. I guess this thing with me and Vaughn is actually doing what it’s supposed to do. But it only works if the public believes we’re a real couple.
So I close the distance under the guise of pointing to the display sign. “What’s your flavor?”
“God, kale crumbles? Only in LA. I’ll take a twist with birthday sprinkles.” She pulls out a five-dollar bill.
“Seriously?” I take the money from her fingers. “I got this.”
“Oh, right, this is a business expense.”
Is she serious? I can’t tell. “Two twists. Birthday sprinkles for her and—”
“If you order kale crumbles, I’m leaving right now,” she mutters.
“You can leave mine plain.” I turn to Ty, who hands me a twenty. I don’t carry my own wallet. It’s a security thing.
“Hey, man, mind if I get a photo of you for our celeb wall?” the order-taker asks as he makes my change.
I stifle a sigh. “Sure, no problem.”
“This your girl? She can be in it.” The guy leans out his window and peers directly down Vaughn’s shirt. Creep.
I step in front of her. “Nah, just me. Got a phone?”
These days, all anyone wants is a selfie. Autographs are dinosaurs of a different age. Now the proof that you met someone is on your camera roll. Pics or it didn’t happen.
The sweaty food truck guy leans over the counter. Two others stick their heads out. I step into the picture, allowing sweaty food truck guy to put his thick arm around my back. I grit my teeth, smile pretty for the camera, endure the billionth unwanted intrusion into my personal space for the sake of my music and wait. Wait for him to figure out that his phone camera needs to be flipped to the front. Wait for another guy in the truck to muscle his way into the frame so now I’ve got the armpit stew of four guys dripping onto my shoulder. Wait for the whispers to spread from the girl in the cutoff shorts to the dude with the Ray-Bans perched on the top of his bald head to the older lady five-people deep whose handbag is big enough to hold the entire ice cream truck. Wait for someone, anyone, to take the goddamn picture.
“Let me help.” Vaughn steps in, plucks the phone from the ice cream man’s hand and snaps the photo. Before we can get our ice cream, though, Ty and Big D hustle us away from the crowd as the mass closes in on us.
Vaughn looks longingly at the truck but doesn’t mouth a word of complaint as we’re escorted away.
“Thanks,” I tell her. For not pitching a fit. For taking the picture. For not busting my balls...again.
“It looked awkward,” she admits.
Awkward is an understatement. I was two seconds from having an epic fit, which would’ve caused even more problems.
“Is it always like this?” She tips her head back toward the truck.
From the growing crowd size, I guess the ice cream guy has already Tweeted and Facebooked this encounter. People are pointing in our direction. The noise level is increasing. Any minute now, one of them is going to feel brave and start the stampede toward me.
“Pretty much.” I scan the crowd for the other two bodyguards, and when their dark jean-clad bodies break through, I give Ty the sign that I’m ready to go. “Where’s your favorite beach?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose. “Why?”
“Because we need to be seen together but I don’t want to be trampled by a crowd.”
She shrugs a little. “I like the ES. It’s not supercrowded. Bathrooms are closed right now, so mostly it’s only locals. Plus, it’s near the refinery and sometimes it stinks.”
“Sounds perfect. The stinkier, the better.” I rub my hands together. “Ty, you know where the El Segundo beach is?”
He nods.
“Awesome. Then let’s go.”