My Double Life (20 page)

The nice thing about Kari having surgery when she was supposed to be working was that Maren felt compelled to spend nearly every day of the next two weeks with her, “helping her concentrate on her music.” It must not have been an easy task. Whenever she came back at night, it took her a while to unclamp her jaws. Even when she was home, she was always busy talking to Kari’s agent, publicist, bodyguard, or choreographer. If I walked by Maren’s office, I heard snippets about photo shoots, interviews, or concert paraphernalia. Since I didn’t have any looming road trips, she hardly paid any attention to me.

Also, because Kari still had bruising and swelling from her nose job, she stayed out of the public eye, which meant I didn’t have to worry about inadvertently creating multiple Kari sightings.

On most days after I finished my homework, workout, and dancing lessons, I’d tell Maren I was going shopping. Then I’d have Bao-Zhi drop me off at Rodeo Drive, and Grant would pick me up so we could do something together. Bao-Zhi was making a killing in tips.

A few times I took Nikolay along and actually went shopping. I bought some Prada jeans and designer tops. I had to in order for Maren not to get suspicious. Besides, they fit me perfectly, and a girl has to look her best for someone like Grant Delray.

But most of my shopping time actually consisted of eating at ultra-private restaurants with Grant or hanging out at his house in Malibu. Like Kari, he had a fence and a gate around his house to keep the press at a distance. So we could swim at his pool or even play basketball in his driveway. He always let me cheat at basketball, and I usually still lost. I didn’t mind. For me, the point of the game was to watch his biceps in action.

Once we put on hats and sunglasses and went hiking in Topanga Canyon. It felt dangerous and just a little bit wicked to be out in the open where a passing hiker might■ recognize us. Things I wouldn’t have thought twice about in West Virginia had suddenly become risky.

I made excuses to keep him away from Kari’s place. “The paparazzi have been watching my house like crazy,” I told him.

I knew I couldn’t make this last. Every time we were together, I wanted to tell him the truth but was afraid it would be over between us as soon as he found out who I really was.

Kissing him was addictive. I had never fallen for a guy so quickly or so deeply. The term “falling in love” made perfect sense now. It did feel like free-falling—fast and thrilling, but leaving nothing to hang on to, no way to stabilize myself. Everything was beyond my control.

I couldn’t even persuade myself to be logical and say, Hey, maybe there’s another guy out there somewhere I’d like even better. This was Grant Delray. Handsome, talented, rich—hundreds of thousands of girls worshiped him, and they didn’t even know the rest—that he was also down-to-earth and smart and could make people laugh anytime he wanted.

Besides, everything would change in a few weeks when I met my father. I would wait to see what happened there, then decide how to break the news to Grant.

CHAPTER 13

During the last week of April, I went out on another five-day tour of short concerts. Maren had underestimated how many jobs I’d be able to do for Kari when she first offered me the job. Kari’s popularity was on the rise, and everyone wanted her at their events. At that point, I had a staggering $68,000 in my bank account. Kari’s casino debts would have been nearly paid off with the revenue I’d brought in, except that Maren had to use a lot of the earnings to pay off credit cards and back taxes.

I offered to buy my mom a new car, but she refused to take my money. Which was perhaps why I couldn’t bring myself to spend much of it. For all my angst over being poor, now that I had money, the only things I wanted to buy were things for her.

When I flew back into LA, things got more complicated. I had known that since Kari’s face had healed she’d be out in the public again, but still I hadn’t expected to see her on the front of
Us Weekly
holding hands with Michael. The caption read:
Back together again!

Grant put a copy of the magazine in my lap when he picked me up from one of my shopping trips, then looked at me with raised eyebrows.

I stared into his ruggedly handsome face. I could have told him everything. I should have. Instead I shrugged and said, “Must be an old picture.”

And he believed me. Just like that, the subject dropped—I hoped for good. After all, Kari and Michael dating again wasn’t that interesting of a story. It had already happened enough times. Besides, the paparazzi couldn’t take many new pictures of Kari with Michael. Not while she was tucked out of sight working on her album and practicing for her mega concert.

Two days later, when I went over to Grant’s house, he handed me a copy of the
National Enquirer
. I looked at the sidebar caption that read
Kari and Michael are reunited!
and my mouth went dry.

I managed a shrug as I handed it back to him. “I beat out reality shows and alien abductions for the cover. Cool.”

He didn’t smile. Instead he tilted his chin down. “How come the press keeps reporting that you’re back with Michael?”

I forced a smile. “Well, the
National Enquirer
isn’t known for its accuracy. Which reminds me—how are your plans of world domination coming along?”

I tried to slide into a hug and kiss him, but he put his hands on my shoulders and kept me at arm’s length. His blue eyes clouded with suspicion. “You’re not seeing both of us, are you?”

“No,” I said, but his eyes still had an edge to them.

It suddenly became hard to look at him. I stared at the lettering on his T-shirt, at his neck, at the curve of his shoulder. And even then I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing against my heart.

So this was it. I had to tell him the truth now.

I let my arms drop away from him, then folded them across my chest so they didn’t shake. “Here’s the thing. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before, but I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Kari Kingsley. I’m actually her . . . um . . .” How could I put this? “I’m her half sister from West Virginia that nobody knows about.”

He rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“No, really. She’s seeing Michael, and I’m seeing you, and we just happen to look identical. Well, it’s not completely coincidence—she had a nose job to look more like me.”

“Okay, okay. You made your point. I’ll believe you the first time.” He leaned in and kissed me, and I considered what to do next. Telling him the truth had not gone how I expected. Although standing in his arms and kissing him was much better than the reaction I had anticipated.

Finally he stepped away from me, but he kept hold of my hand while we walked into his living room. His house wasn’t nearly as big or as ostentatious as Kari’s, and he’d barely decorated it. The living room mostly consisted of a couch, big-screen TV, and a black baby grand piano.

We sat down on his couch, still holding hands. I hoped the subject had passed. I just needed to ride it out for another two weeks until my father’s concert, then I’d tell Grant everything.

Grant put his arm around my shoulder and lazily ran his fingers through the ends of my hair. “We should think about going public with our relationship.”

“Why?”

“Because then my band won’t think I’m making up stuff about dating you, and I won’t have family members dropping by and giving me magazines to keep me updated on my girlfriend’s love life.”

The sound of the word
girlfriend
on his lips stunned me for several seconds, and I just gazed at him.

“I know we won’t have a minute of peace when the paparazzi find out we’re a couple,” he said, “but they’re going to know about it sooner or later.”

“Let’s have it be later.”

He kept running his fingers through my hair. “It would be good publicity for your next album. You and I splashed on magazine covers in every grocery store and newsstand in America.”

My breath caught in my throat. If the paparazzi found out that I—that Kari—was seeing Grant when she was supposed to be dating Michael, my face really
could
be plastered on magazine covers around the country. And if that happened, would people who knew Kari be able to tell I was an imposter? Would people in my hometown recognize me?

Grant leaned away from me, a sudden smile on his lips. “I hadn’t planned on giving this to you now, but I think I will.” He stood up, walked over to the piano, and came back with a few sheets of music paper. “I was going to wait until I had it finished. I still need to work on a few rough spots, but you’ll get the main idea.”

He handed me the sheets. It was a song he’d composed entitled “Give First Impressions a Second Chance
.
”

The notes he’d penciled onto the paper meant nothing to me—I couldn’t sight-read—but I could tell the lyrics were divided into parts. He’d written a duet for us to sing. The complete panic I felt was counterbalanced by the nice things he said. The refrain repeated in the chorus said:
If I’d believed that stuff was true, I would have missed out on loving you.

He loved me? Was that just catchy lyrics, or did he mean it?

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“I love it.”

A smile broke across his face, lighting up his features. “I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s practice it right now.”

He took my hand, trying to pull me toward the piano, but I stayed firmly seated on the couch. “Not right now.” The second I sang anything to him, he’d realize I didn’t have Kari’s voice. I racked my brain to come up with a good excuse to turn him down. “I never mix business with pleasure, or work with dating, or singing with sitting with my boyfriend on the couch.”

Boyfriend. I liked how that felt to say, and he didn’t flinch when I said it. Boyfriend. Grant Delray was my boyfriend. I wanted to say it twelve more times just to taste the words in my mouth.

“I don’t have the same policy,” he said, and without taking his gaze off my eyes, he sang the first verse of our song. If there were any rough spots, like he’d claimed, I couldn’t tell. I only heard his hypnotically beautiful voice surrounding me. At that moment I wanted nothing more in the world than to sing with him.

I would find a way to make our duet work somehow—some excuse, some explanation for the change in my voice. He leaned over and his lips found mine, and neither of us said anything for several minutes.

While he drove me back to Rodeo Drive, Grant told me he would e-mail me a version of our song so I could practice it. I didn’t say anything. My wishful thinking had begun to break apart. No matter how much I wanted it, I wouldn’t be able to sing that song with him. But how long could I put him off about it?

“I guess I should warn you that my mom wants to invite you to dinner,” he said. “She’s been cooking vegetarian recipes to come up with something you’ll like.”

“Really?” I asked. I didn’t want to meet his family. It was bad enough lying to Grant about my identity, I didn’t want to spread the lie around to the rest of his family. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?”

He shrugged. “You’ve already met my dad, and I’ve met yours.”

“What?” I asked. “When did you meet my father?”

Grant sent me a glance like he thought I should know. “I belonged to that group he put together to visit the troops last year.”

“Oh, right,” I said. The words sounded harshly hollow, even to me. I didn’t know why they’d come out that way.

“He’s a nice guy,” Grant said. “You remind me of him sometimes—your sense of humor and your mannerisms.”

There is obviously something wrong with me. A normal person would not cry after hearing that. And I’m not even sure why I started crying—whether it was the unfairness that Grant knew my father better than I did or because it was the first time anyone had ever said I reminded him of my father. Could I really have his sense of humor? Was that inherited?

I couldn’t help thinking, with more desperation than I wanted to admit, that if I was like him, if my father could see himself in me, maybe he’d love me.

Grant looked over and then did a double take. “What?” he asked in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.” But I knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer, so I added, “It’s just things with my father aren’t the way I want them to be right now.”

Grant’s voice went soft. “You can change that if you want.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why don’t you pick up the phone and call him?”

I didn’t have his phone number, for one thing.

I wondered—just to inflict pain on myself—if Grant had his phone number. How many friends, acquaintances, and near strangers talked to him every day? But even if Grant had Alex Kingsley’s number, I couldn’t ask him for it. How do you explain to a guy that you don’t know your own father’s phone number without raising major red flags?

I wiped the tears off of my cheeks, angry with myself for having these emotional reactions every time I learned something about my father. He hadn’t spent one ounce of emotion thinking about me.