“Oakley, how’s the new album coming along?”
“When’s your next tour?”
“Are you still with the same label?”
Every time, I answer with one-word grunts before turning to the label exec and pretending to care about what he’s saying. Something about marketing strategies and utilizing Facebook groups to build an online fan base. Even though I hate social media, I know what’s current, and this exec doesn’t have the first clue. I want to tell him that Facebook is practically a dinosaur now and everyone’s on Instagram and Snapchat, but he’s so into his speech and I let him drone on because he provides a good buffer between me and the overeager brunette.
The silent auction goes by fast. The only item I bid on is a trip to Paris, because it seems like something Vaughn might enjoy. I don’t win, but I don’t care. She probably wouldn’t have gone with me anyway.
Then there’s a brief intermission as the band sets up. I quickly excuse myself from the table, but even trying to leave the ballroom is an ordeal. People keep intercepting me while I smile and nod and constantly repeat the same thing, “Sounds great, but I got to hit the little boys’ room.”
I keep walking until I reach the French doors that lead to a small terrace. I’m not sure anyone’s supposed to be out here. The smoking area is on the main patio, but I don’t care if I’m in an off-limits zone. I’m Oakley Ford. And I need a break from all these people and their nonstop chatter. It’s choking me.
I don’t smoke, but I kind of wish I had a cigarette right now. Knowing my luck, someone with a telescopic lens across the street would snap a picture of me sucking on a cancer stick at a cancer benefit, and the next thing I know I’m the poster boy for antismoking campaigns and the dangers of fame.
When I hear footsteps behind me, I stifle a sigh and reluctantly turn around. I expect to see the brunette, or maybe some other chick who saw me sneak out, but it’s King. He steps out holding what looks like a joint, but I think it’s a hand-rolled cigarette because the sweet scent of tobacco wafts over to me.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I remark.
“Every now and then.” He shrugs. “I mostly use it as an excuse to get out of talking to a bunch of strangers.”
I half smile. “You should take my lead.” I hold up my bare hands. “Don’t even make an excuse. Just walk out.”
“Yeah, I suppose you don’t make excuses. You do what you want and say what you want, doncha, kid?”
I’m hit with a pang of shame. I have a feeling he’s referring to the sound bite of me bashing W that’s all over the internet.
Sure enough, he says, “You already got the girl, Oakley. No need to twist the knife deeper in the one who had her before.”
My shame deepens, mingling with guilt and regret, and forming a ball in my throat. “I screwed up,” I admit.
“Yup.”
“It’s just…and this isn’t an excuse,” I say hastily. “It’s not me trying to say that what I did was right. But…they have history, man. Two years of it.”
“Yeah, most people do. Have history.”
“Not me.” My voice cracks slightly, and embarrassment shoots through me. I’m like a prepubescent boy all of a sudden. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me feel so insecure and exposed. Vaughn makes me feel that way, too.
“I’ve never dated anyone for more than a few weeks,” I find myself confessing. “I’ve never had a long relationship, the kind where you have time to build inside jokes and learn to finish each other’s sentences, when you reach that point where you’re so comfortable that you can read the other person’s mind.” I hesitate. “She had that with the ex.”
He nods again.
“I was jealous,” I mumble.
That gets me a response—a soft chuckle. “Yeah, you were. You have a lot of growing up to do, Oak. We’re all jealous.”
My eyes flare in surprise.
“Yeah, even me. I’ve been without a Grammy nomination for three years. There are singers I’d like to work with who don’t want to work with me. Everyone’s got the green bug inside them. It’s how you process that jealousy. Acknowledging it and fueling your creative energy is one way. Another is standing outside a club, drunk and high, spouting off against a defenseless kid. Which one makes you look like an entitled prick?”
I know he’s right. And the more he talks, the lower my spirits sink. I can see my chances of working with him slipping away.
But then he surprises me. “You screwed up. But you know what? You owned up to it.” He gives a rueful look. “I’m sure the press will forget all about it once your publicity team releases your heartfelt apology to Miss Bennett’s ex-boyfriend.”
My cheeks heat up. He knows I’m not writing my own apology, and that makes me feel even worse.
“You want my advice?” he asks lightly.
God, so badly. “Please,” I almost beg.
“All those volatile emotions of yours? The jealousy and the anger and the self-consciousness? Keep owning them. More than that, channel them into your music. You feel me?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, I think I do.”
He walks over and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”
I watch him walk away, and when I hear the first strains of an acoustic guitar, I hurry inside, too, dutifully returning to my table and settling in my chair to listen to Deadhead Bloom’s set. It’s not exactly my kind of music, but it’s not bad, either.
I stay for three songs before ducking out. Claudia said I didn’t have to stay for the whole thing, and nobody expects me to anyway. Besides, I already donated half a million bucks to this thing.
Ty and I leave the hotel through the front entrance. There’s a lot of press waiting outside, but the area’s been sectioned off to accommodate the high-profile guests. All we have to do is stay on our side of the gate and we have a clear path right to the car.
“Oakley!’”
“Oakley, over here!”
“Do you have any comment about what you said last night?”
I find myself hesitating.
“Jesus, brother, don’t you ever learn?” Ty murmurs under his breath.
But I have learned. I’m not high, I’m not drunk, and I’m not overcome with jealousy. I’m humbled after that talk with King.
I slowly take my hands out of my pockets and approach the screaming crowd. My gaze sweeps over the sea of microphones until I find the most well-known media outlet. I stop in front of Samantha Wright from Channel 9.
The blonde looks stunned, probably because I’m notorious for sneaking out of events to avoid talking to the media. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from snapping shots of me doing stupid things and reporting on me anyway.
“How was the concert?” Samantha asks me.
I smile. “It’s still going, actually. I have a bit of a headache, so I left early. I hope the CF Society forgives me.”
“I’m sure they’re happy you showed up to support such a good cause.”
“A great cause,” I correct. “Though I wish I hadn’t shown up with a hangover. I made some bad decisions last night, partied harder than I should have.”
She looks startled by the revelation. I don’t think she expected me to be so candid about my partying, particularly given my age.
“Yes, it did look like you had a busy night yesterday,” she says tactfully, before pausing.
I can see her brain working overtime trying to figure out her next question. She doesn’t know if she should ask about my jackass remarks regarding W, but I opened the door with the hangover comment and she can’t not walk through it.
I take pity on her by saying, “Yeah, I had quite a night, Samantha. Almost lost my girlfriend because of it.”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows soar to her forehead. The other paps swarm toward us, shoving microphones at me. Several glare at Samantha for getting this scoop. Their sound bites will be muffled, while hers will be as clear as a bell.
“I suppose you’re referring to the comments you made?”