“Hello?”

“Ty will pick you up at eight thirty.”

It takes a moment for Oakley’s voice to register.

“Tonight?”

“No, tomorrow morning,” he mutters sarcastically. “Yeah, tonight.”

“But…what time am I getting home?”

“Are you five?”

Any warm, fuzzy feeling that may have sprung up because he saved me from an awkward situation dies an immediate death. I turn my back to Kiki, who’s taken to staring out the window to catch her first glimpse of Oakley. “Are you always this much of a jerk?” I hiss.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

I close my eyes and pray for patience. “Where are we going?”

“Private party. Like the outfit?”

I blink in surprise. Oakley picked this out? “Not particularly.”

“Of course you don’t.”

14

HER

“I thought you said we were going to a party.” From the back seat of Oakley’s Escalade, I anxiously peer out the heavily tinted window. “What is this place?”

Tyrese, who’s behind the wheel, just stopped the SUV on an industrial street in south LA. It’s not an area I’ve been to before. I can hear the bass, but there’s no sign anywhere on the building, just a black steel door that looks kind of ominous.

Beside me, Oakley wears an annoyed expression. “It’s a club.”

“So we’re not going to a party?”

“It’s a party. At a club. What part of this don’t you understand, baby?”

I glare at him. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. And don’t call me baby.”

He just smirks.

Ugh! I want to punch this guy! I don’t care that he’s paying me a fortune to date him, or that he looks superhot right now in his faded jeans and forest-green T-shirt that looks like it might have been stitched on his body. None of that takes away from the fact that he’s a total jackass sometimes.

“I just want to know what I’m about to walk into,” I say tightly. “Who owns this place?”

“Who knows? Promoters put together private events. Parties, record launches, small concerts.” He shrugs.

I wrinkle my forehead. “And Claudia wants this to be the venue for our first public date?”

“Yes. This is what she wants,” Oakley answers impatiently. “Ty—you ready?”

My pulse speeds up. “Ready for what?” I squeak.

“Just making sure the paps aren’t lurking around,” Oakley says. “We give ’em the photo op when we’re leaving, not arriving.”

“Why?”

“Because if they see us now, they might find a way to sneak into the club and get pics we don’t want to give ’em.” He looks at me like I’m dumb for not knowing that.

I am so sick of everyone in his fancy-pants world treating me like I’ve got rocks for brains. But instead of lashing out, I sit there and grit my teeth and remind myself that I’m getting paid twenty grand a month for this.

No, Kiki, there’s not one thing that Oakley Ford likes about me. And I’m perfectly fine with that because he’s a prick with a capital P.

Oakley and I don’t get out of the car until Ty gives us the all-clear. I almost fall five times on the way to the scary black door, and I don’t miss the amusement in my “boyfriend’s” eyes every time I wobble on the insanely high heels he sent me.

“Could you pick a pair of flats next time?” I mutter.

“Nah. Your legs look wicked hot in those heels.”

This time I don’t feel any tingles at his use of the word hot. I’m starting to think he throws it around like candy on Halloween. Every girl who shows up probably gets a compliment.

Tyrese thumps one meaty fist against the steel door, which opens almost immediately. Another version of Ty appears—a huge, muscly man with trees for arms, only he has dreadlocks instead of a shaved head. He glances at Oakley, nods, and opens the door wider.

I smell the smoke the minute we step into the dimly lit hallway. “Is something on fire?” I sniff.

For some reason, that makes him laugh hysterically. Instead of answering, he surges forward. I chase after him on my death heels and pray I don’t twist an ankle.

The corridor opens onto a dark room with a bar on one side, a stage on the other and dozens of tables and couches in between. It’s not very crowded, but there’s a decent amount of people here, laughing, smoking and shouting to each other over the music. I don’t recognize the band that’s playing, but the beats are familiar. I’ve heard this tune or something like it on the radio for the past five years.

The other thing that’s familiar is the number of people I recognize, not because I’ve met them before but because I’ve seen them in television shows, on magazine covers, in movies. In LA, you can often catch sight of a celebrity if you go to the right places, but the sheer number of them in one place has me feeling superinsecure, even in my expensive designer outfit.

It makes me snappish toward Oakley. “It’s illegal to smoke indoors in LA.”

One eyebrow flicks up. “You want me to call the cops?”

His disdain ticks me off. “I’m getting cancer just standing here,” I grumble. “My lungs have gone from fine to stage four. Maybe the next time we go out, you can take me someplace where I don’t have to worry about dying from secondhand smoke.”

Ty snickers.

I turn to scowl at him, too. “It’s not funny. If I worked for the city, I’d shut this place down in a heartbeat.”

“Good thing you don’t work for the city, then,” Oakley says dismissively. “You work for me, remember?”

Jackass.

He hustles me toward the bar area, with Ty trailing behind us like an obedient puppy. I try to keep my eyes in my head as I brush by a gorgeous model who’s laughing with a singer. My cheeks are burning. I can only imagine what people are thinking about me—how ordinary I look next to these beautiful girls. How indifferently Oakley’s treating me.

I wish I could leave.

At the long counter, we get into our second argument of the night. Or maybe it’s the third. I’ve lost count.

“What’s your poison? Beer? Daiquiri? Something harder?”

“None of the above,” I reply through clenched teeth. “I’m seventeen.”

“So?”

“So that means I’m a minor. I’m not allowed to drink.” I’ve had the occasional beer at a party, but for the most part, Paisley and I try to set a good example for the twins. Kiki’s boyfriend once suggested since my parents “weren’t around” that I could host all the parties. I didn’t speak to him for a week and no one ever brought it up again.

Oakley rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe my girlfriend is such a prude.”

I can’t believe my boyfriend is such a douche!

I swallow the retort and paste on a smile for the approaching bartender. He’s got spiky hair, a scruffy goatee and tattoos on his neck. He notices Oakley and grins. “Oak! Long time, man.”

“Too long,” Oakley answers absently. His green eyes are conducting a sweep of the room. He barely glances at the bartender as he adds, “Lagavulin sixteen on the rocks for me. Virgin anything for my girl.”

My cheeks heat, because he put extra emphasis on the word virgin. Jerk. “I’ll have a Coke, please,” I tell Spiky Hair.

“Coming right up.”

I should’ve known by the smoking that being a minor wouldn’t prevent Oakley from getting a drink. At least we have Ty to drive us.

We wait for our drinks. Oakley’s gaze keeps searching the room as if there’s someone specific he’s looking for. I try to avoid making eye contact with any famous person, because I know I don’t belong here.

“Are you meeting someone?” I demand. Why am I even here if he wants to hook up with another girl? And if he does, do I just stand here like a dummy and pretend not to be bothered by it? That’s a lot of pretending to do.

He glances over, blinking, as if he just remembered I’m standing beside him. “What? Of course not.”