When It's Real. Erin Watt

Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”

      “That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the whole fake girlfriend thing with him before, but she fell for him and he broke her heart. I think half of the bad publicity the guy gets is because of her.”

      “Are you talking about April Showers?” I gasp. “That was fake? Oh, man, I believed in ShOak. My childhood dreams are crushed.” I’m only half-kidding. Fifteen was a tough year for me, and not just because it was the year my parents died.

      Paisley punches me in the shoulder. “You just said you didn’t like him.”

      “Well, not after he cheated on April with that Brazilian swimsuit model.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “Fake, really?”

      “Really.”

      Hmmm. I might have to rethink my opinion of Oakley. Still, doesn’t mean I want to be the next fake girlfriend to be fake dumped and fake cheated on.

      “So you’ll do it?”

      I stare at her. “I make a couple hundred a night at Sharkey’s. You said before Christmas we were doing fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

      Last year I found Paisley crying at the dinner table at two in the morning. She admitted that Mom and Dad didn’t leave us in the greatest financial position. The insurance money kept us afloat at the beginning, but last summer she’d had to get a second mortgage to cover all the bills, and she was thinking of leaving college to get a job. Appalled, I sat down and made her go over everything with me, because she was a year away from graduating. I got my diploma early by taking summer courses, online ones to supplement my high school studies, and special permission from the school to take advanced classes. And then I found a job. Serving steak and iceberg lettuce wedges isn’t fancy, but it pays the bills.

      Or so I thought.

      “No. We’re fine. I mean...” She trails off.

      “Then my answer is no.” I’ve never been interested in the other side of LA. It seems so artificial, and I do enough pretending as it is.

      I have my hand on the screen door when Paisley drops her next bomb. “They’ll pay you twenty thousand a month.”

      I spin around slowly, my mouth hanging open. “Are you effing kidding me?”

      “Don’t swear,” she says automatically, but her eyes are bright with excitement. “And that’s for a full year of commitment.”

      “That would...”

      “Put the boys through college? Pay off both our mortgages? Make everything easier for us? Yes.”

      I blow my overgrown bangs out of my face. This proposition is insane. I mean, who pays such an obscene amount of money to some random girl to pretend to be a pop star’s girlfriend for a year? Maybe that’s normal in the entertainment industry, but I grew up with parents who were elementary school teachers.

      I suddenly wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive to hear this crazy offer. Would they encourage me to do it, or tell me to run, run for my life? I honestly don’t know. They were all about exploring new opportunities, taking the road less traveled. It was one of my favorite things about them, and I miss my fun-loving, impulsive parents. I miss them a lot.

      That said, their love of spontaneity is part of the reason why we’re hurting for money.

      “An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, but you don’t have to say yes,” Paisley assures me. Her words say one thing; her strained tone says another.

      “How long do I have to think about it?”

      “Jim Tolson wants an answer tomorrow morning. And if it’s a yes, he wants you to come to the agency to meet with him and Oakley.”

      Oakley. Oakley frickin’ Ford.

      This is...nuts.

      “Fine, I’ll think about it.” I let out a breath. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.”

      Twenty thousand dollars a month, Vaughn...

      Yeah. I’m pretty sure we both know what my answer is going to be.

       3

      HER

      I said yes.

      Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.

      Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.

      Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.

      The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.

      Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.

      “You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.

      “I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”

      “Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.

      We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.

      I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.

      A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

      I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”

      “Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”

      As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.

      “This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”

      Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.

      “And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.

      Jeez. His assistant has assistants?

      Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”

      “Um.