Читать книгу When It's Real - Erin Watt - Страница 11

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.”

A picture of my mom locking lips with some silver fox flashes on the screen. I turn off the TV before the commentary kicks in. I’m less concerned about Mom’s London shenanigans and more concerned about the fact that she’s back in LA.

And she didn’t even bother calling me.

Crap, or maybe she did, I realize a second later when I check my phone to discover a missed call from Mom’s LA number. I forgot I put my phone on silent during the conference at Diamond.

I hit the button to return the call then sit through at least ten rings before my mother’s voice chirps in my ear.

“Hi, baby!”

“Hey, Mom. When’d you get back in town?”

“This morning.” There’s a flurry of noise in the background, what sounds like loud hammering and the whir of power tools. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. I’m going upstairs because I can barely hear you. I’m having renovations done on the main floor.”

Again? I swear, that woman renovates her Malibu beach house every other month.

“Okay, I can hear you now. Anyway, I called to make sure you’re still planning to make an appearance at the charity benefit that the studio is hosting this weekend.”

My jaw stiffens. I guess it’s too much to hope that she called to actually talk to her only son.

“What’s the charity again?” I ask woodenly.

“Hmmm, I don’t remember. Cruelty against animals, maybe? No, I think it’s for cancer research.” Mom pauses. “No, that’s not right, either. It definitely has something to do with animals.”

I’m not gonna lie—my mother is an airhead.

She’s not dumb or anything. She can memorize a hundred-page script in less than a day. And when she’s passionate about something, she throws her whole heart and soul into it. Except the thing is...she’s passionate about the dumbest shit. Shoes. Redecorating the multimillion-dollar house she got in the divorce. Whatever new fad diet is making the rounds.

Katrina Ford was the queen of rom coms, vivacious and drop-dead gorgeous, but truth is, she doesn’t have much substance. She’s not winning any Mother of the Year awards, either, but I’m used to living in the background of her self-absorbed bubble.

It’s not like my dad is any better. Mom at least remembers to call me. Sometimes. Dustin Ford is too busy being an Academy Award-winning actor to remember he has a son.

“And sweetheart, please don’t bring a date,” Mom is saying. “If you show up with some girl on your arm, all the focus will be on that and not the charity we’re trying to raise money for.”

The charity whose name and purpose she doesn’t even know.

“I’ll get Bitsy to text you the details. I expect at least an hour of your time.”

“Sure, whatever you want, Mom.”

“That’s my boy.” She pauses again. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”

“Not for a few months,” I admit. “Last I heard, he was in Hawaii with Chloe.”

“Which one is Chloe again? The one with the boob job or the one with the botched Botox?”

“I honestly don’t remember.” Ever since my parents’ divorce two years ago, my father’s love life has been a revolving door of surgically enhanced women. Hell, that was his life even before the divorce.

Hence the divorce.

“Well, when you do speak to him, tell him there’s a box of his stuff that’s been sitting in the foyer closet for almost a year, and if he or one of his people doesn’t pick it up soon, I’m going to burn it in the fire pit out back.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” I grumble.

“Oh, baby, you know your father and I only speak through our lawyers—and mine is out of town at the moment. So be a good boy, Oak, and pass along that message to Dusty.” Her voice goes muffled for a second. “Absolutely not!” she calls to someone who isn’t me. “That paneling must be preserved!” Mom’s voice gets clearer again. “Oakley, baby, I have to go. These contractors are trying to destroy my house! I’ll see you this weekend.”

She hangs up without saying goodbye.

The silence in the house makes my skin itch. Without Luke and his merry band of leeches, the place feels like a museum. I flick on the television again and crank up the sound.

Great. Now I’m pretending I’m not alone by turning the TV volume up. Mindlessly, I watch a bunch of shows about jacking up cars until I can’t stand the stupid manufactured drama. Hits too close to home, I guess. I grab my phone, and my finger hovers over the screen. I could ask Tyrese to call one of those girls who just want to touch Oakley Ford. That’d be good for an hour or two. I could light up a joint. Drink myself into a stupor. Or I could just go to bed. Because if I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, like I promised Jim, none of those other options fit with the plan.

I turn the television off. In the front room, Tyrese is sitting in an oversize armchair, flipping through something on his phone.

“I’m going to bed.”

“You are?” He looks up in surprise. It’s barely ten. “Alone?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to be a good boy now. Can’t be having honeys over when I’m preparing to romance another girl, right?”

Tyrese shrugs. “I guess not. But Big D’s the family man, not me.”

And we both know where Big D is right now. Not out at the club picking up a random chick. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Night, brother.”

“Night.”