As we near the end of the hall, I begin to hear the music. My heart beats faster when I recognize that trademark Oakley Ford voice, deep and raspy and beautiful. He’s singing one of the up-tempo songs he and King were superenthusiastic about during the recording. It’s not my favorite track on the album, but it’s the one the label chose as the first single, and the crowd is loving it.
Ty opens a door and I’m nearly knocked over by a wave of sound. We climb up some metal steps. It’s dark and I have no idea where we’re going, but I know we’re close to the stage because the music gets louder and louder. I hear the band. The drums. The guitar. Oak’s voice. I love his voice.
We walk a few more steps and all of a sudden I can see the stage. There are two sets of huge stairs leading up to a second-floor balcony. The railing is made of lights that flash in sync with Oak’s beats. Behind the balcony is a screen so big I think the astronauts in space can see it.
And then I spot him at the tip of the stage that bisects one half of the stadium from the other.
My heart lodges in my throat. He’s so gorgeous that it almost hurts to look at him. Sweat from the lights and the heat dots his forehead. I can’t see the crowd, but I can hear them—it’s a never-ending wave of sound. No, of love. All the love these people, most of them strangers, feel for Oakley, rolling in his direction as he sings.
“Vaughn?” someone says shrilly.
I recognize that high pitch. It belongs to Claudia, who’s standing a few feet away next to a man holding a clipboard.
I turn toward her, not missing the way her entire face pales at the sight of me.
“What are you doing here?” she demands. Her voice is so shrieky I can hear her over the music.
“Hey, Claudia,” I answer, a bit tersely.
Her eyes are a tad wild as she glances at the stage then back at me. She hurries over and snaps, “You shouldn’t be here.”
I shrug. “Why? Because he doesn’t want to see me? Well, too bad. I have some things I want to say to him.”
“But—”
I push past her and step closer to the stage. I don’t care if Claudia’s mad that I’m here. Paisley was right. I need to talk to Oak. I need him to look me in the eye and tell me why it’s over.
I peer out again in time to hear Oak play the last chord of the song. When he’s done, he grins at the crowd. “You guys enjoyed that one, huh?” he jokes.
A deafening roar goes through the stadium.
He turns slightly, and I groan in disappointment because all I can see is the back of his head now. So I creep even farther out then sigh happily when my gaze makes out his profile. He’s still joking with the crowd, telling them a story about his time in the studio.
“My producer—Donovan King—you know him, right? He threw a pencil at my head during this jam session. Almost took an eye out.”
There’s a huge burst of laughter. I feel it vibrating under my feet.
Something tugs on my arm. No, someone. It’s Claudia, trying to yank me away from the stage. I shoot her a death glare and she promptly lets go of me. With a resigned look, she edges backward and begins typing rapidly on her phone.
“But it was worth it, all the fighting, ’cause we came up with something even better. This is one of the lesser-known tracks on the album, but I want you guys to give it a chance, ’kay? I almost sacrificed an eye for this sucker.”
Still grinning, Oak sets down his guitar then turns toward the stagehand who jumps forward to pass him another guitar.
And that’s when he spots me.
His jaw falls open, and he stands there for a moment, frozen in place.
He stares at me.
I stare back. I want to smile or wave or do something, anything, but what the heck am I supposed to do? He’s in the middle of a show. It’s not like he can—oh, my God, what is he doing? Is he actually walking toward me?
I watch, stunned, as he pauses to utter a hasty remark into the mic. “Gimme a sec, guys.”
And then—and then!—Oakley Ford, in the middle of the concert he’s headlining, rushes across the stage and runs in my direction.
“What are you doing here?” he demands when he reaches me. Rivulets of sweat trace down his neck, dampen his forehead. The aura of the stage surrounds him and he’s bigger, brighter, and more compelling than I’ve ever seen him.
“I don’t know,” I stammer. What kind of fool was I to believe that this guy, who not only has purpose in his life but inspires others, too, would want to be with me? He’s Oakley Ford. I’m Vaughn Bennett. Of course he broke up with me.
“Let me guess. You came for the gun show.” The line is delivered caustically, an accusation almost.
I lick my lips, stalling for time because I don’t know how to respond to this.
“Or wait—maybe you came to dump me in person.” Bitterness flashes in his eyes. “Well, you coulda saved yourself a trip. I got the message, Vaughn. Loud and clear.”
Confusion has me blurting out, “What the heck are you talking about?”
He frowns at me. “Are you kidding me?”
I just stare at him, anger rising inside me. “You’re the one who needs to dump me in person. And I got your message. Loud and clear,” I mimic.
Oak blinks. “What’s happening right now?”
“I don’t know!” I shout.
We stand there for a second, and I see my own bewilderment mirrored in his eyes. My mind is one jumbled ball of confusion, so I take a breath and force myself to slow down my thought process.
“You blocked my number,” is all I can think to say.
He looks startled. “No, I didn’t.”
We stare at each other some more.
“You broke up with me over text,” he says.
“No, I didn’t.”
More staring.
Then, as if we’re both struck by the same terrible thought at the same time, we spin toward Claudia.
“What did you do?” Oakley growls at his publicist.
Her flushed cheeks and guilty look say it all.
“Goddammit!” Oakley yells. Then he takes a breath as if trying to calm himself, but his voice is colder than ice when he addresses Claudia again. “The text from Vaughn…how did you do that?”
Claudia looks down at her expensive high heels. “We swapped out her number on your phone. Amy sent it.”
I gape at her. “Why?” I burst out. “Why would you make us think we broke up with each other?”
“Why else?” she shoots back, her voice dangerously high again. “You torpedoed his image, Vaughn! All the work we put into this, all the time we spent to make your relationship seem sweet and wholesome—you destroyed it with one stupid mistake! You cheated on him with his bassist!” Her breathing grows heavy. “Jim and I were doing damage control—”
“Jim?” Oak interrupts. His eyes are on fire. “He was in on this, too?”
Claudia huffs. “We were trying to protect you, Oak. We needed your fans to focus on your tour, not on your girlfriend scandal. We made a PR decision.”
“Screw your PR!” Oak glares at her. “You crossed the line, Claud. Both of you. You’re lucky I’m not firing you on the spot.”
Frankly, I don’t know why he isn’t. I can’t believe Jim and Claudia orchestrated a breakup behind our backs. I can’t believe I’ve spent four days cursing Oak and imagining sticking pins in his eyes when this whole time he thought I was the one who broke up with him.
“Go downstairs,” Oak barks at Claudia. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
Her face goes stricken. “Oakley,” she says softly.
“I mean it. We’ll talk about this later. And you better call Jim and prepare him, too.” He rakes both hands through his gelled hair, messing it up a little. “You crossed a line,” he repeats.
After a long, awkward moment, Claudia spins on her fancy heels and disappears down the staircase.
With another breath, Oak slowly turns back to me. “You didn’t break up with me,” he says, and there’s a note of awe in his voice.
“You didn’t break up with me,” I say, equally amazed.