I force myself not to shuffle my feet like a five-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Is that your way of telling me I was an asshole before today?”

“Nah. Just that you’ve had so much sun shining in your life that sometimes it blinded you.”

“So I was an asshole before today?” I nudge the refrigerator door shut with my shoulder.

Big D laughs. “We’re all assholes, Oak. Call Jim before his head explodes.”

I take the phone, my drink and a banana out to the deck and call Jim.

“How’s the recording going? When can I hear some music?” he asks.

“I thought I sent—” I pause midbite when I remember that no, I hadn’t sent Jim a thing. I sent the first recording to Vaughn. Vaughn, who made me wait ten minutes before spitting out the word good. I swear she only has one adjective in her whole damn vocabulary. I’m going to work on that.

She needs to learn things like hot and ripped and awesome. All of which she should apply to me. When I see her again, we’re going to start those lessons. Right after she explains why in the hell she kissed Luke. In the process of kicking everyone out, I came to the conclusion that she was so drunk she probably thought Luke was me. We’re about the same height. Same color hair. In her drunken state, she got us confused.

Once she realized she’d had her mouth pressed against the dickface, she’d thrown up. The only correct response after recognizing that you’ve kissed a loser.

“You sent me nothing. Or if you did, it didn’t come through. Resend it.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’m not sending you anything. Not until King and I are done with the album. Or at least half of it.” I don’t want anyone listening to the songs right now. Criticism might derail me at this point. There are only two people I care about hearing my music and it’s King and Vaughn. In fact, she should come to the studio today and listen to me live. I’d like to see her tell me that song is good to my face.

“You always send me your music,” Jim reminds me. “I’m your manager. You send me your music. I tell you if it works and then both of us make enough money that the Saudis are calling us for loans.”

“All of that is going to happen,” I assure him, mostly because I want to hang up and call Vaughn. “But it’ll happen in my own time. Gotta run, Jim. Text me if you need anything.”

Meaning, don’t call because I’m not answering.

I dial Claudia next because I don’t want any distractions when I go into the studio. I’m going to lay down some righteous tracks between now and whenever King is tired of me, and the last thing I want to do is deal with Claudia and her little plots. Besides, Vaughn and I have this figured out.

“Claud, hey, it’s Oak.”

“I’m so glad you called! I’ve got interview opportunities for you from GQ, People, USA TODAY and ET. The rumors about you working with King, along with your new relationship, are generating real, positive interest. Which one do you want? I think you should bring Vaughn, not to have her answer any questions, mind you, but her presence should be noted. Maybe we’ll even have a picture of you with her. She can sit on the piano bench. You’ll be on the floor with your arm raised around her bottom. That’s tender, yet not too provocative.”

I eat the rest of my banana as she chirps in my ear. While Claudia talks about the clothes we’ll wear in this fantasy photo shoot she’s cooked up, I return inside to hunt down my personal phone so I can call Vaughn. I locate it on my nightstand.

I need to shower before meeting King in the studio. Wait, do I even know what time we’re meeting? I check my messages and see that he texted this morning that he’d be available around two. I text back the thumbs-up emoji and then pull up Vaughn’s contact.

“I can’t do any of those, Claud. I’m recording. Maybe after.”

“But what about Vaughn?”

“I got that covered.”

And I hang up before she can tell me all the ways that I’m screwing up. I’ve heard that stars like me are supposed to have a bunch of yes-people. Where did I go wrong?

I throw my business phone on the bed and call Vaughn.

“Hey,” she says, her voice all tentative and wary. No doubt she’s feeling embarrassed about last night, mistaking Luke for me and all.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like death.”

I muffle a laugh. “You should’ve stuck around. Big D knows all the best hangover cures.”

“He mentioned something about a hairy dog, but that made me want to barf again.”

“You still in bed?”

“No. I’ve managed to haul myself downstairs to the living room sofa so I can pretend like I actually got up like a normal person.”

“Normalcy is overrated, baby. If I send a car around will you come to the studio today?”

I hear a deep sigh. “Is that what Claudia wants?” she asks.

The banana in my stomach curdles. Haven’t we gotten beyond that? It ticks me off that she’s still making decisions based on what she thinks Claudia wants or what’s good for my image.

I open my mouth to tell her that, no, that’s what I want, when a wave of insecurity swamps me. If I say no and she turns me down, that’ll feel like shit. And I want to see her today. I want her to hear me play. I want her to kiss me, Oakley Ford, without the cameras, without the booze, without anything. Just her and me.

“Yeah. Claudia.”

It isn’t a full-on lie. Just a small one. Infinitesimal, really.

“Is an hour okay? I haven’t showered and I smell like someone spilled a case of beer over my head.”

“No problem. I’m sending a car over now since it’s going to be an hour in this traffic.”

“Okay, see you then, Oak.”

At least she’s calling me Oak. I’ll take it.

* * *

When you’re inspired, stuff happens in a nanosecond. While I’m waiting for Vaughn to show up, I jot down a bunch of lyrics. After nixing about a dozen of them, I shuffle the rest into something resembling a song and hand it off to King. I drum a few different beats on the desk while he considers the words.

“Yeah, I like this.” He hums a few chords. “Maybe faster over the bridge. Like—” He drops the notepad on the console and demonstrates.

I sing the first verse to his beat and it’s perfect. We grin at each other. Something is cooking here and it’s delicious. Working with King is everything I thought it would be. He makes me feel comfortable, even when he’s asking probing questions like when was the last time I was moved by a song, any song? He shares personal stories, ones about his own failures, and that courage prompts my own. King’s like a producer and therapist wrapped up in one genius mind.

My phone beeps and I lift a finger for King to hold on for a minute.

I’m here.

A jumble of words fight for dominance: yes, finally and thank God.

“Vaughn’s here,” I tell King. “Mind if we take five?”

“Nope. I’ll go out back and pretend I’m trying to stop smoking.”

We slap each other’s hands and I go to let Vaughn into the studio.

“You came,” I say.

Her face is a bit pale, but she still looks beautiful. I’m starting to love the fact that she doesn’t wear makeup. Everything about her is natural and honest and so frickin’ awesome. As I pull her inside, I’m fighting the urge to kiss her.

Inside the studio, a water bottle is waiting for her on a side table, and I bribed a blanket off one of the studio assistants upstairs. It’s kept cool in the studio because of the instruments and the equipment. She might get cold since she lives in tank tops.

“I didn’t see any cameras outside,” she says as we reach the studio door.

I push it open for her and then lead her over to the chair I set up for her. “Yeah, about that. I might have lied.” I gesture for her to sit, and she collapses into the chair. “Claudia didn’t say you needed to come.”

A furrow creases her forehead. “Then why am I here?”