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Vaughn
There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday afternoon than on the terrace of a suite at The Peninsula. I’ve been to the posh Beverly Hills hotel before, for parties and events, but this is the first time I’ve been here for work. Sitting on a cushioned chair under a shady awning surrounded by two beautiful women might not look like work, but I’m five hours into day two of a music video shoot for the first single from last year’s America Rocks winner’s debut album, and I can personally attest to the fact it is work.
I’d like to think being cast for Laney Albright’s video means I’m a lock for show host, but it doesn’t work that way. The America Rocks producers don’t oversee the recording side. They partner with a major record label, and it’s the label who finances the album, videos, and associated music promotion stuff. To separate things by another degree, the video production company is a completely independent entity, so it’s not like an America Rocks casting director put me in this chair. At least not directly.
All that acknowledged, we’re not going to waste the chance to build more speculation. The shoot has wrapped, but I’m sitting next to Laney and across from entertainment reporter Kit Hoover from Access Live because my deal includes participation in a “behind the scenes of Laney Albright’s upcoming video” interview. It’s all part of a carefully crafted plan devised by the label’s PR team, my publicist, my agent, and my dad. I’ve got a head full of talking points, including Laney’s album—which is awesome—what it’s like to work with her—also awesome—and some generic responses regarding how I feel about my chances of becoming the new host of the show. I’ve been coached on how to deflect any questions that stray too far off topic, plus my dad’s hovering unobtrusively out of camera range “in case things go sideways.”
As if I’d let that happen. I’ve been interviewed before. Not by such a high-profile outlet as Access Live, but I know how to offer up a charming version of no comment. My job is to smile, project energy, and make the interview exciting.
And it is exciting, but as I listen to Laney tell Kit how thrilled she is with the album, and how she can’t wait to share it with all the fans who supported her throughout the competition, my mind starts to wander. It drifts to the same place it’s been drifting since I found myself on the receiving end of a driveway tackle—Kendall. I’m still digesting everything she confided during our date the other night. So much about her finally clicks into place. One painful event explains why such an intrinsically outgoing person hesitates to get too close, why such a smart, beautiful girl would hole up in her aunt and uncle’s house all summer if left to her own devices. I know it wasn’t easy for her to talk about what happened. If I could take away all the suffering and give her back the life she expected, I would. But I can’t change the past. All I can do is try to understand what she’s been through…what she’s going through. In some ways I do. I understand what it’s like to stare into a mirror and ask why fate had to fuck with the person I loved? Why not me?
I also understand there’s no answer to that question. What is, is. She’s here, she’s whole, and she’s doing her best to come up with a purpose for her life, but I can do my damndest to show her she deserves happiness while she’s at it. Starting with—
“Vaughn, tell us…” Kit’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Is there any truth to the rumor you and fellow model Rebecca Bismark are”—she pauses a beat to draw out the anticipation —“engaged?”
I nearly choke on my tongue, and her smile turns coy. Questions about my personal life are technically off-limits. She’s not the first reporter to lean in with her best guileless expression and test the topic, but she is the first to suggest there’s a rumor about Becca and me. Hmm. Wonder who started that? I shoot a quick glance at my dad, but he’s leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone.
“We’re friends,” I say easily, even though the reply feels slippery in my mouth. “I’ve known her for years.” I lean back in my chair and offer the camera a loaded smile. “But I’m not involved with anyone.” Strangely, those words leave a sour aftertaste on my tongue. Or maybe I owe that to two days of people handing me lemon water?
Kit laughs as if we’re coconspirators and cups a hand behind her ear like she’s listening to something distant. “I think I just heard a huge sigh of relief from our viewers.”
We wrap the interview after that, I pose for a group shot, and then heave my own mental sigh of relief when the production assistant pops her head through the French doors and confirms I’m good to go.
Dad saunters over and claps a hand on my shoulder as we move from the terrace to the suite. “Great job with the interview. You handled yourself well, and once it airs, your face and name will be even more firmly connected to America Rocks.”
“Thanks. Just so you know, I’ve got this.” I strive to keep my irritation locked down, because the middle of a suite crawling with crew is no place to get into a family squabble. “You don’t need to babysit me.”
“I can see that, but I wanted everything to go perfectly so…” He shrugs. “An abundance of caution beats a lifetime of regret. Trust me on this.”
My irritation bubbles over into frustration. How do I combat logic like that? I don’t know, but it’s time to try. “Dad, I need to—”
“Hey, how about we grab a bite in the bar and go over the schedule for the rest of the week?”
“I’m familiar with the schedule.” Tomorrow I fly to Vegas to host a couple pool parties at the Hard Rock. I’ve done it before. It’s nothing to stress over. I fly home late Friday night. Saturday is all mine, and I’m spending it with Kendall. If things go according to plan the same can be said for Sunday.
“I added a few additional things, including one for this evening.”
“Without running them past me?” Jesus, I’m losing control of my life.
“That’s what I’m proposing to do right now,” he fires back. “Look, Vaughn, everything over the next few days is nuts-and-bolts stuff. It’s important, but it doesn’t keep you in the national spotlight—a spotlight burning brighter than ever thanks to Nigel’s private meeting with us on the patio of The Ivy. Letting it fade is a missed opportunity, and you didn’t get to where you are now by missing opportunities, but it’s going to take more than a couple social media posts from Vegas to sustain the interest. My job is to keep the thunder rolling. Nigel and John expect us to do that. They’re watching to see if we can.”
I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath to retrieve my calm. I don’t appreciate being ambushed rather than consulted, but putting broken manager-client dynamics aside, I know he speaks the truth. “Okay. Let’s talk in the bar.” Actually, it’s probably ideal, I realize as I check my watch. It’s not quite five. The bar won’t be crowded yet, so I can have the I-love-you-but-you-need-to-back-off conversation without a PR coordinator weighing in. “Let me change and then I’m ready.”
“I need to check on something downstairs. Meet you in the bar?”
“Deal.”
It doesn’t take long to wash up and trade out the interview-ready Tom Ford jacket, aged jeans, and white T-shirt provided by the stylist for my black-and-gray Henley and black jeans. It’s not exactly a huge transformation, but it feels like slipping back into my own skin.
I shake hands, pose for a couple pictures with the crew, and I’m out of there. I get an elevator to myself and check my phone as I ride down to the bar. Nothing urgent. I upload a funny shot from this morning to Instagram. One of the stylists swooshed my hair into a faux-hawk and I’m giving the whole thing a right-eyebrow-raised, WTF look. It won’t get as much love as a shirtless shot, but my core followers will appreciate the candid glimpse of the day.
I’m still focused on my phone as I step out of the elevator, which might explain why it takes me a moment to locate the source when I hear a female voice call, “Vaughn, baby, are you done for the day?”
I look up to find Becca breezing across the gleaming marble atrium toward me, backlit by Southern California sunshine spilling through the glass doors of the hotel’s main entrance. She’s got a couple shopping bags on her arm and her sunglasses doing secondary duty as a headband to keep her hair away from her face and highlight those cheekbones. A gauzy gray sundress with little black accents skims her torso and flutters around her calves. Between her cross-lobby greeting and her young Gisele looks, several heads turn in our direction. When she reaches me, she rests her body against mine, wraps her arms around my neck, and plants a kiss on my lips. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I step back because I feel like I’m in a scene where I never got my script. Hell, we’re even dressed picture perfect in complementing tones of black and gray. “Um…what are you doing here?”
She links her arm through mine and laughs. “I’m here to see you, silly. I’m joining you for a celebratory drink.”
