“Yeah. Hold on another sec.” I do a quick tuning of the high E string. “Sorry, back. Anyway, about last night…I’m, ah, not good at apologizing, so…just listen, okay?”

Before she can question me, I sweep the guitar pick over the strings and strum the intro of the song I’d been playing around with. Then I start to sing, a total freestyle of nonsense that I probably couldn’t recreate if I tried. The lyrics aren’t great. I apologize for snapping at her at the club. I sing about forgiveness being good for your soul. I even say something about how the word sorry is as meaningless as the wind but when there’s emotion behind it, it sets your heart free.

The song is mushy and ridiculous and my cheeks are burning with each note that leaves my mouth.

When the last chord fades into nothingness, I’m greeted with total silence.

“Vaughn? You there?”

She gives a slight cough. “Yeah…that was…”

My face is scorching. “I know. It sucked. I sort of wrote it on the fly.”

“No,” she interjects. “It didn’t suck. Not at all. It was really…sweet. And catchy.”

Soft laughter floats over the line, and for some reason it makes my heart beat a little faster. “Yeah? So you finally admit you’re an Oakley Ford fan?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said I liked your song,” she jokes. At least I hope she’s joking. It’s the first time she’s ever said a thing about my music.

“It’s the same. Love me, love my music.”

“How about I accept your apology? No one’s ever sung they’re sorry to me before.”

Not even W? My lips twitch before a smile breaks free.

“So, yesterday,” she starts, sounding awkward. “That producer…you really want to work with him, huh?”

My mood immediately sours. “I really do.” I put the guitar aside and take Vaughn off speaker then lean back on the cushion and balance Big D’s phone on my shoulder. “But he doesn’t want to work with me.”

“I kind of got that,” she says wryly. “He said you have, what was it? Incompatible sounds?”

“Yeah.” What he was saying is that he’s making unique stuff while I sound like the band on stage and a thousand other voices. “That, and the image thing.”

“What image thing?”

“Oh, come on. Why do you think I’m paying a chick to date me, babe? No, why do you think I’m paying a chick like you to date me?”

“Like me?”

I can practically taste her annoyance and hurriedly try to explain. “Yeah. Nice. Sweet.”

“You picked the wrong girl, then. Because I’m not very sweet.”

“You’re sweeter than anyone else I’ve been with,” I admit. “Jim and Claudia think you’re good for my image. I need everyone else to think that, too, King especially.”

“Since when do you care about your image? You didn’t seem too concerned about it when you went skinny-dipping with those socialites in Monte Carlo. Or when you were streaking down Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras last year.”

I grin to myself. “Someone’s been cyber-stalking me.”

“No, I just can’t turn on the TV without seeing something about your latest screwup.”

I bristle. “Screwup? It’s called having fun.” Then I grimace, because that’s the problem. I was having too much fun. So much fun that one of the best producers in the world refuses to work with me because he doesn’t think I’m serious about my music.

But he couldn’t be more wrong. I am serious about it. When I was little, everyone assumed I’d get the acting bug like my parents, but I was born with music in my blood. I was writing my own songs by the time I turned seven. Recording them before I hit my preteens. At the beginning of my career, there were all these bullshit accusations that I only got a record deal because of who my parents are, but those whispers died off once the haters realized I could actually sing.

Vaughn’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. “Well, if you’re having fun then why change? You’re rich, famous, can have all the fun you want. Why not just keep doing that?”

“Because it’s affecting where I want to go with my music.” Because it ain’t fun anymore.

I listen to her breathe while I pluck at the same string, moving up and down the frets wishing I could change King’s tune as easily as I can the melody of a song.

The silence lingers and I begin to think about how I’ve treated her. Not well. And why? I force myself to give an honest answer. I’m sometimes capable of those moments.

The honest answer is because Vaughn’s doing something unselfish and that makes me uncomfortable. It’s easier to deal with the sycophants, but just because she won’t do everything I say doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole. I stop plucking and slam my hand against the strings.

“Next Friday I’m playing at a club for a benefit. I’m going to do a couple of songs. Maybe an entire set as a favor to a friend of mine.” Although that’s not completely true, either. I’m doing it for my own self-promotion. I have to stay in the news, in front of people’s eyes, so they don’t forget about me while I’m pissing away my life in the studio. Still…“Want to come? You can bring some friends if you want.”

“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 softserve 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 chocolatecovered 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.