CHAPTER 3
JAMIE
“ J ames?” Ruth opened the door to their adjoining hotel rooms. An enormous bouquet of red roses obscured her assistant’s face. “Happy new year!”
Jamie lifted her head from her pillow. “Derrick must be feeling bad about last night.” She placed her Starbucks cup on the nightstand and picked up the bouquet with both hands.
“Read the card!” Ruth sounded giddy as she sat at the edge of the bed. She weighed hardly anything so the mattress barely shifted.
Jamie pulled a tiny envelope from the flower arrangement and looked at Ruth, confused. “Sorry I was drunk . . . CL?” She reread it, trying to focus her eyes. “Derrick doesn’t drink. Who is CL?”
Ruth grabbed her boss’s phone from the nightstand. “I don’t think they’re from Derrick.”
“What?” Jamie tapped her forehead with the card and closed her eyes, trying to jog her memory. “CL . . . CL . . .”
“I think they’re from Clayton Langley. ”
Jamie burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.” She took a sip of coffee and set the cup back down. “My head feels a little fuzzy and my ears are ringing like crazy.”
“Well, you were pretty drunk,” Ruth said, not sounding judgmental.
“I wasn’t drunk, Ruth.” Jamie twisted her long hair into a bun. “I did a good job of drinking. There’s a difference.” She extended her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Please give me my phone.”
With wide eyes her assistant held the device close to her chest and shook her head.
“My phone, please,” Jamie repeated, emphasizing the last word. It wasn’t like Ruth to be stubborn. If anything she was overly accommodating and excellent at following instructions.
“Maybe your New Year’s resolution should be to check your phone less,” Ruth suggested, her attempt to sound casual failing miserably.
“You know I don’t make resolutions.”
“Please don’t freak out,” Ruth pleaded.
“Freak out about what?” Jamie’s impatience was evident as she lowered her chin, her gaze sharp.
Finally Ruth relented and passed her the phone. There were ten missed calls from Shorty, three from Lisa—her record label’s publicist—and a flood of text messages from nearly everyone with her number.
“Did someone die?” Jamie asked, her voice wavering. “Is it my dad?” Her father had always felt more like an acquaintance than a parent—distant when she needed him, a bad influence when she didn’t. She swallowed hard, dreading the answer, and tapped the first text message from Shorty.
Breath rushed from her lungs. A photo filled the screen: Clayton, lips pressed against hers, caught at midnight .
“Fuck.”
“It’s not that bad.” So much for Ruth never lying. “It was just a peck.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like it!” Jamie slid her phone under the duvet and pulled the collar of the hotel robe over her ears. “Everyone’s seen it!” She buried her face in her hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
“It’s New Year’s. People do that kind of stuff all the time.” Ruth’s efforts to comfort her were pointless. Above anything she hated feeling embarrassed.
“What are the fans saying?” she dared to ask.
“Honestly?” Jamie nodded, so Ruth continued, “It’s a mix of people hoping you guys are together.” Jamie stuck out her tongue in disgust. “And people asking, ‘who’s Clayton Langley?’” She added, “Mostly younger fans.”
“I’m going back to bed.” Jamie closed her eyes, wishing it were a bad dream but knowing it wasn’t. How could she face the world after this? Maybe she’d get lucky with a celebrity death or a natural disaster—anything to change the news cycle.
“You can’t.” Ruth handed her the cup of coffee. “Shorty booked you a studio session for today. You need to leave in an hour.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“I have to get Poppy.”
“That’s right.” Jamie paused for a moment, recalling their conversation from last night. “What if Derrick sees the picture?”
“I’ll tell him it was nothing.”
“No, let him stew.” Jamie hadn’t slept with anyone since meeting Derrick, but they both played games when they were single to make each other jealous. “With any luck he’ll jump out of an airplane without a parachute. ”
At that moment Jamie’s phone rang beneath the covers to the tune of “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone” by the Temptations. She wondered what her father wanted—he wouldn’t be calling for shits and giggles.
“AJ,” Jamie answered. She never called him “Dad.” His name wasn’t listed on her birth certificate because he didn’t want the government involved in his “personal business.” Besides, not being recognized as her father allowed him to collect foster care payments after her mother had skipped town.
He didn’t seem to mind that aspect of government involvement.
He was a walking contradiction—but not in a good way, like that Green Day song.
“Happy new year, sweetheart!” Her father’s voice sounded like he gargled with gravel from being a lifelong smoker. “Your phone’s been off.”
“Happy new year, Mr. Baxter!” Ruth shouted from the bed.
Jamie was given her mother’s last name, which interestingly never caused a problem or raised an eyebrow at border crossings when she was a child.
“I had a gig last night,” Jamie said. “Ruth says hello.”
“She’s a good kid, that Ruth. New Year’s, huh?” He whistled. “How much bank?” Her father cared more about money than anything else. After being MIA for several years, he had popped back into her life after she won Star Factor .
“It was a benefit concert,” she explained.
“You shouldn’t work for free.” This from a man who’d never worked an honest day in his life.
“What’s up, AJ?” Jamie asked bluntly, losing her patience with him. She could only take him in small doses and felt anxious every time she spoke to him.
“Sweetheart, I’m in a bit of a jam. ”
“How much?” It was incredible that a million dollars must have slipped through his fingers over the years, yet somehow he couldn’t rub two dimes together. Throwing money at the problem seemed like the easiest solution.
“Just five grand,” he said. The casino games echoed like pinball machines in the background. “I’ve got the spread covered for the bowl games today, so I’ll pay you back.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” she said, fully aware she’d never see the money again. AJ never followed through on his promises. That was the only sure bet in town.
Several hours later Jamie found herself at a recording studio on Music Row. She struggled to connect with the songs Doofus and the suits had sent her, and she was on her millionth take, gritting her teeth through it all.
“Sorry, guys,” she said to Dusty, her producer, who sat beside the bearded engineer in the control room.
Jamie had requested a female producer for her next album, but the label had brushed it off as an inconvenience.
Instead they hired a former rock producer who’d worked on the early Nickelback records.
She used to cover “Burn It to the Ground,” so she knew his track record.
And not for nothing, that song is a banger.
“Let’s start over,” Dusty said.
As she was about to begin the control room door swung open and a yellow Lab greeted everyone with enthusiastic tail wags and kisses.
“Who’s that?” Jamie asked into the microphone.
“That’s Duke,” the engineer said as the dog jumped on him .
“Can we take a break?” Jamie slipped off her headphones and walked into the control room. “Hi, Duke!” She crouched to the dog’s level and he bounded toward her, knocking her onto her butt. She laughed and tried to dodge his aggressive licks, but he was determined to clean her from head to toe.
“Duke?” a voice came from down the hall, followed by a sharp whistle. “Come here, boy!”
You must be joking.
“Hey, Dusty! Hi, Evan. I haven’t seen you all year!
” Clayton entered laughing and hugged the guys.
He wore a black-and-white plaid shirt, boot-cut jeans, a blue baseball cap stitched with a red “N,” and the same scuffed shitkickers he’d worn yesterday.
“Duke!” His gaze locked onto the dog. “There you are.” His smile faded when he caught Jamie’s cool stare.
“Hey, there.” His voice came out with a frog in his throat.
Jamie narrowed her eyes, steam rising from her skin.
“If it isn’t the kissing bandit.” She wasn’t going to pretend like it didn’t happen.
She was mortified that people had seen the picture, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d initially feared.
Shorty and Lisa had done enough damage control to ensure it wasn’t trending.
Clayton massaged the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s five o’clock,” Dusty announced. “We’re heading out.”
“What?” Jamie asked, confused about why they were leaving so early. “We haven’t finished the song yet.”
“Folks end their days at five in Nashville,” Clayton stated plainly.
She glanced at Evan. “What time do you start?”
“We’re here at nine.” He twisted the knobs on the console before powering it down.
“Really?” The producers in LA worked late into the night—the later the better, and sometimes around the clock .
“I don’t mind staying,” Dusty said. “But the guys have families to think about.”
“I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow,” she assured them, waving as they left. Still sitting on the floor, she glanced at the country singer. “Well, my day’s fucked.”
“You can still write.” Clayton leaned against the doorframe and smiled. His dimples resembled pumpkin carvings, cut deep and precise. “Where’s your guitar?”
“The label doesn’t like my original songs.” Duke sprawled across her legs, his full weight resting on her thighs. “Some guy in Sweden wrote my singles. Some hit-maker.”
“Yeah, Mike sucks for—”
“Doofus,” she said, correcting him. “That’s what I call him.”
“He doesn’t even like music.”
“I know, right?” She rolled her eyes. “He’s an accountant.”
“Bean counter.” He chuckled. “Hey, sorry again about last night.”
“I got your flowers.” She raised her eyebrow, ready to let him have it. “Red roses are for the Bachelor, not apologies, for your information.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You sent me red roses like the Bachelor gives out.”