CHAPTER 3 #2
“Red roses?” A pink hue flooded his cheeks and she realized he hadn’t intended to send them—at least not red ones. “Who’s the bachelor?”
“You know, the TV show.”
“Never seen it.” He gulped loudly. “Guess that’s my third strike.”
“Fifth, but who’s counting?”
“Fifth?” He scratched the reddish stubble on his face.
“Yeah . . .” She counted on her fingers. “You didn’t take me on tour, you ran over your time, you made fun of my breakup, you kissed me, and sent red roses. That’s five. ”
His shoulders slumped. “Okay, four out of five.”
“Four?”
“Sorry, darlin’.” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t know about your breakup.”
She scoffed. It had been practically headline news. “It was all over social media two months ago.”
“I’m not on social media,” he admitted. “The label—Lisa does it for me.”
“You’re joking?”
He shook his head, keeping a straight face. “Why don’t you come into my room and write something?”
She peeled away the shellac polish from her fingernails. “I’m not in the mood.”
“To begin . . . begin,” he said. “Wordsworth. Anyway, come see what I’ve been working on.”
She swung her legs around and attempted to get up but Duke wouldn’t budge. “Your dog weighs a ton.”
“Come on, boy!” Clayton whistled but the dog didn’t move, so Jamie rolled him over, groaning at the sight of her black jeans now covered in dog hair. Poppy Rose was a miniature apricot poodle and didn’t shed. Poppy also listened when she was called.
They walked down the hall and Clayton opened the door to one of the rehearsal rooms. The scent of sandalwood jolted her back, reminding her of the air fresheners people hung from their rearview mirrors.
“It’s been soundproofed.” He pointed to the black egg crate foam covering the walls, making the room feel smaller.
Jamie focused on a pile of ropes lying like snakes on the floor. Is this how it ends, in his kill room? Her attention quickly shifted to a gold trophy shaped like a gramophone sitting on a road case in the corner .
“You’ve got a Grammy?” she asked, shocked.
He turned toward the statue and Duke jumped onto the couch.
“Yeah.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Best country performance. Solo,” he added.
“Why do you keep it here instead of at your house?”
“Inspiration for what I want: Best Country Album.” He pulled up a stool and grabbed an acoustic guitar from the rack. “I know it must sound stupid—greedy, even.”
“Not really,” she said, removing a half-eaten bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos from the couch before sitting next to Duke. “I want a Grammy for Song of the Year—the best song, regardless of genre.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather be a songwriter than an artist. Did you know I auditioned for Star Factor with an original song?”
He shook his head and grabbed the bag of Cheetos. “You want to split them?”
“No thanks.” Derrick didn’t permit junk food or anything non-organic in the house.
Duke’s ears perked when the bag crinkled.
“Your loss,” he said, shoving the worm-like puffs into his mouth.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
A deck of Bicycle playing cards rested on the side table, easily recognized by the ace of spades on the box.
As a child she’d learned to count using those cards; her father had taught her to play blackjack instead of riding a bicycle.
AJ was a gambler, but unlike the one in the song he didn’t know when to fold ’em. But he did know when to run.
She studied the picture on the back of the door. She didn’t know who the man was but he had some age on him, that was for sure. He wore a white cowboy hat with a denim shirt, and his sharp blue eyes resembled colored crystals.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Clayton pointed his red-stained finger at the door. “That? Merle Haggard.” She gave him a blank stare. “Are you serious?” He rubbed his left elbow against his side. “The Hag?”
Her phone rang, and she realized it was Derrick.
“Sorry, I need to take this.” She rose from the couch and strode into the hall, shutting the door before answering. “What do you want?”
“Clayton Langley?” Derrick huffed on the other end.
“It was a kiss at midnight,” she said flatly. “Not that it’s any of your busin—”
“How dare you try and hoard media attention when I’ve got a film coming out!” He was more focused on his career than their relationship, which didn’t surprise her.
“Jesus, get over yourself.” She was not in the mood to argue. It was the only thing he was good at, other than pretending to be someone else.
A man’s voice echoed behind her, “Clay? Are you here?”
“What the fuck, Jamie?” She could almost feel Derrick’s neck cords bulging through the phone, like he was seconds away from transforming into the Incredible Hulk. “Are you with him right now?”
“We’re on the same label,” she said. “He must be in the building somewhere.” She didn’t feel guilty about lying because he wouldn’t have believed her.
“We’re done,” he said, his voice resolute.
“You can’t break up with me when we’re broken up.”
A Clayton Langley look-alike approached her. His cheekbones were chiseled and his dark eyes exuded kindness. He wore a navy jacket, light-wash blue jeans, and tan cowboy boots that matched his hat—a real-life Marlboro Man.
“Listen, Jamie, I—” Derrick’s voice trailed off as she hung up on him. She flashed a flirtatious smile at the handsome wrangler.
The man gave her a toothy grin with dimples noticeably absent. His hair was a darker shade of brown than Clayton’s, wavy beneath his hat.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said, his voice higher in pitch than deep. “I’m Nolan.”
“Jamie.” She shook his hand and immediately lost interest. AJ had always said you could tell everything by a man’s handshake—probably the only true thing to come out of his mouth.
Clayton’s door swung open and Duke jumped on the cowboy.
“Down, boy!” Nolan showed the dog a plastic container in his hand and he sat, good as gold. “It’s his food, not me, he’s after—”
“Hey,” Clayton said, interrupting them. “This is my brother, Nolan.”
“We’ve known each other all year,” Nolan joked. Clearly they shared the same sense of humor. “You forgot Duke’s food.”
“Thanks, man.” Clayton stood in the doorway and popped a Cheeto into his mouth.
She pointed at Nolan. “I see your brother got the looks and manners in your family.”
“And the brains,” Nolan added.
She tilted her head, looking for an explanation.
“He’s a doctor,” Clayton said. “A vet.” He’d emphasized “vet” as if it were less impressive than a surgeon or an oncologist.
“I’m a livestock veterinarian,” Nolan clarified.
“More like a deadstock veterinarian once you’re done with them,” Clayton shot back.
“Clayton . . .” Jamie frowned at him. “That’s not very nice. ”
“We’re just kidding around.”
“Speaking of jokes,” Nolan began, “what kind of dog doesn’t bark?”
Jamie shrugged.
“A hush puppy.”
She laughed, knowing it would piss Clayton off.
“Anything else?” Clayton asked impatiently.
“See you at home, man.” Nolan tipped his hat. “Nice meeting you, Miss Keaton.”
“Likewise, Dr. Langley.”
After Clayton kicked his brother out of the studio and washed his hands they returned to his room, where Duke immediately devoured his dinner.
Now she was stuck with Old Hickory, wanting to leave but dreading the loneliness of her hotel room.
She’d spent most of her childhood alone and had gotten used to it, but as an adult the dark thoughts crept in when no one was around.
That’s why she’d rescued Poppy—to have someone, something, depending on her.
But in the end it wasn’t just Poppy who needed saving. Poppy had saved her, too.
“I’m working on a song over here,” Clayton said, strumming his guitar while she sat on the couch. “Do you co-write?”
“I don’t.” She believed co-writing was like having sex with a stranger but vastly more intimate. Sex you could fake, writing you couldn’t.
“Well, if you’re not interested . . .”
“Hang on a minute.” She scrolled through her phone, searching for the song she’d been working on. “I’ve already got the verses but don’t have a chorus.”
“What was your first thought when you woke up this morning?” he asked.
She smirked, trying not to laugh. “I did a good job of drinking.”
Clayton let out a chuckle. “Okay, let’s start with that. ”
She scanned her notes, piecing some parts together. She’d been trying to write a drinking song since she took her first shot of alcohol. It was her sixteenth birthday, and she got drunk with AJ and his buddies at a strip club—one of her dad’s finest moments.
“I might have something,” she said. “But I’m changing vodka to whiskey because it sounds better.”
Clayton nodded and played a G chord, and she started to sing . . .
Congratulations are in order
I drank five shots and three highballs
And I danced on the tables
While the bartender poured Black Label
Some say I was drunk
But they’re just mistaken
I did a good job of drinking
Hell, yeah!
The next place we went to
Was a dive bar in Nashville
And people were so proud of me
For downing four shots of whiskey
Some say I was drunk
But they’re just mistaken
I did a good job of drinking
Hell, yeah!
When they hollered last call
I ordered an Old Fashioned—tall
And I spent all my money
But I thought it was kinda funny
Some say I was drunk
But they’re just mistaken
I did a good job of drinking
Hell, yeah!
I woke up unscathed
Both gobsmacked and amazed
And I thanked the Good Lord
For that last heavy pour
Some say I was drunk
But they’re just mistaken
I did a good job of drinking
Hell, yeah!
Clayton held the last note on his guitar while she tapped her lips, feeling embarrassed that it wasn’t good enough to share with him. She was overly protective of her songwriting, not allowing anyone to hear it until it was finished.
“I’ve got some other lyrics,” Jamie said as she picked up her phone. “Hold on.”
“You went and wrote a country song.” His dimples caved in. “A damn good one!”
“It’s not a country song,” she said, feeling insulted. “In my mind it’s a Killers song.”
“A murder song? ”
“No.” She curled her lips at the corners. “The Killers, like the band.” She kicked the ropes away with her boot. “Speaking of murder, what are these for?”
“I tie knots when I’m thinking.”
“Into lassos or something?” She imitated the action.
He leaned over his guitar and picked up a piece of rope. “These aren’t long enough to make lassos.” He tied the ends together. “An overhand bow.”
“That seems pretty useless.”
“Knots come in handy.” His gaze steadied on her face. “Let’s go to the Bluebird tonight.”
“The Bluebird? Like on the show Nashville?”
“Never seen it, but I’d imagine so. The Bluebird’s a hub for songwriters.” He glanced at her chest and cleared his throat. “You might want to change first, though.”
She leaned back and pulled on her long-sleeved shirt. It said country music sucks . “Oh, it’s a joke.” She half-smiled, forgetting she had it on. “I thought Shorty would be here, but I guess he’s been busy today—thanks to you.”
“Sorry about that.” He lowered his head and gazed at the floor. “Not that it’s any excuse, but I drank too much and—”
“You mean, you did a good job of drinking?” she corrected him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. He shifted his guitar from his lap and flashed the pewter Jack Daniel’s logo on his belt buckle.
“They put vodka in my dressing room instead of whiskey and I knocked back a few shots.” He shuddered and closed his eyes.
“I started the new year with a heap of regrets, not any resolutions.”
“Shorty gave us the wrong dressing rooms,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I think it was on purpose.” She stood from the couch and Duke jumped down. “We probably shouldn’t be seen together at the Bluebird. People will talk. You know, gossip.”
“Let’s give them something to talk about.”
“What?”
“It’s a song . . . never mind.” He rested his guitar on his knee and strummed a chord. “Besides, I didn’t ask you on a date or nothing.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “Don’t flatter yourself.”