CHAPTER 5
JAMIE
D uring the ride back to her hotel Jamie thought of a few good lines she should have used on Clayton. She’d never go on a date with someone so annoying. At least he’d helped with her song, so maybe he was good for something. But probably not.
The door beeped open and she walked into her hotel room, doing a double-take as she passed the mirrored closets.
She frowned at her shirt. Clayton was right: if she was going to perform at the Bluebird tonight, perhaps wearing a “country music sucks” shirt wasn’t the brightest idea.
She inspected the clothes in her closet but everything was black except for a pair of stretchy blue jeans she wore when traveling.
She walked across the living room and opened Ruth’s adjoining door.
Her assistant was a few inches shorter but wore the same size, so she was confident one of her tops would fit.
She found a denim shirt in her closet, identical to the wash of her blue jeans.
She’d never worn denim on denim, but there were no fashion police in Nashville.
People were committing high crimes and misdemeanors on the regular .
After she showered and got dressed Jamie loosened the bun she’d twisted earlier.
She needed to look the part in front of the country music fans and become a chameleon.
She applied a heavy spackling of makeup, curled her hair into soft waves, and slipped on Frye Melissa Button boots—the closest she’d ever get to wearing shitkickers.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through a feed—she needed to feel bad about herself before she could play music. When she was in middle school she used to cut her thighs with a razor, but now people sliced her open using 280 characters.
The tweets read:
@saintsNOLA67 your ugly
Spellcheck is free, buddy.
@dollyfan44ever how dare you sing dolly!
Duly noted.
@memphisgirl keep your hands off clayton, bitch
No problem.
She grabbed her guitar case and took out her favorite six-string.
She played “I Did a Good Job of Drinking” in an upbeat tempo, as she’d intended it—more rock than country, and definitely not pop.
She hated the term “pop” to describe music because anything could be considered popular if enough people liked it.
According to Google Maps, the Bluebird Cafe was fifteen minutes from downtown, so she opted for an Uber instead of using her car service.
She didn’t want to arrive looking like a spoiled reality TV star, cringing at the thought of being called a diva.
People—the media—had labeled her an “overnight success,” but nothing could have been further from the truth.
She’d spent nine years waiting on tables in Vegas, playing open mics, and slipping bouncers twenties to secure a time slot .
A few minutes later the Uber arrived at her hotel to pick up Diana Prince, her alias and the secret identity of Wonder Woman.
She liked taking rideshares in different cities, talking to drivers, and being treated like a normie.
Also, the drivers knew the best places to eat, where to listen to live music, and which areas of town to avoid if you were a single woman.
The trip was uneventful and shorter than the app suggested. Without traffic it took only ten minutes to get there.
The driver pulled into a strip mall and said, “Good luck with your music, miss. I sure hope you make it.”
“Are we in the right place?” She cranked her neck and peered out the window.
“We sure are,” the driver said, his voice unwavering.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jamie rolled down the window and observed the businesses in the strip mall: a dry cleaner, a hair salon, and a sign that read the bluebird cafe in white letters against a blue awning. It hardly seemed like a music venue but it looked just like the TV show, so she exited the vehicle.
When the Uber drove away she opened the app and tipped him a hundred dollars. She was generous to a fault because of her former job as a server. Service industry jobs sucked, and working for tips was practically slave labor.
She picked up her guitar case and carried it up a cement ramp. At the entrance an older man with a white Colonel Sanders goatee stood with a clipboard resting on his stomach.
“Do you have a reservation, ma’am?” he asked politely.
“No, sorry. ”
“You’re lucky it’s New Year’s Day.” He lowered the clipboard and smiled broadly. “I reckon most people are still feeling the effects from last night. It’s usually sold out by now. ID, please?”
Jamie involuntarily flinched at his question, unaccustomed to being asked for it.
The reality show had transformed her life in ways she never imagined and it embarrassed her that she’d had that reaction.
She never carried a purse, so she retrieved her driver’s license from her jean jacket pocket.
She never left home without it in case she needed to bail AJ out of jail—proof of identification was required to release a convicted felon.
“I’m performing tonight,” she said, handing Colonel Sanders a piece of plastic issued by the state of California.
“Sorry, ma’am.” His expression showed no hint of recognition as he glanced at the name on her ID card. “The lineup’s already set. They’re playing in the round tonight.”
Jamie nodded and paid her admission. She wasn’t about to play the “don’t you know who I am” card. That would have been uncool.
When she walked in she was surprised to see the place was packed.
The audience was quiet, unlike the open mics she used to play, where people wouldn’t shut up even if you asked.
She treaded lightly around the tables and caught the bartender’s eye.
He waved her over like a third-base coach and she headed toward him.
He wore a ratty-looking baseball cap, a T-shirt that said old dominion —whatever that meant—and his bright blue eyes shone beneath the white Christmas lights.
She’d always had a thing for bartenders.
They were good in bed, had a great sense of humor, and never stayed overnight.
The holy trinity, according to Jamie Keaton.
But one-night stands were no longer an option.
The picture of Clayton—the kiss—was enough to remind her that being in the public eye came at a price.
Meaningless sex was off the table unless it was with Derrick .
A sacrifice fly.
“Happy new year,” the bartender whispered, gesturing toward an empty stool. She could tell he recognized her by the way he smiled. “I’m Beau.” He shook her hand the way she liked it—firm and friendly.
She tried to remember his name by repeating Bo Derek in her head. When she wanted to retain information she played a word-association game with herself. “Derrick” was easy to remember, though she wished she could forget him.
“Jamie,” she whispered, earning a dirty look from the couple beside her.
She nodded, aware of the live music etiquette, and sat quietly, listening to the song while a familiar odor of grease and beer assaulted her nostrils.
The smell was disgusting but it lacked the stench of cigarettes and the desperation of Vegas casinos.
When the song ended Beau pointed to her guitar case. “Want me to take that? I’ll put it behind the bar.”
She handed him the case and nodded. “I’ll have a vodka soda, please—Ketel One if you’ve got it.” She wrinkled her nose. “No lemon or lime.” She hated fruit with any drink except lime with Corona, the only beer she could tolerate.
After filling her glass with ice Beau free-poured the vodka like water and topped it with a spritz of club soda. “Are you playing tonight?”
“The guy at the door said the lineup was set.” She sipped her drink, closing one eye at its strength. Holy shit. She plucked a straw from its plastic holder and stirred her drink, the ice clinking against the glass.
“Don’t worry about him.” He wiped down the bar with a dry rag. “I should warn you, this place is going to be a tough sell for a pop-rock princess.”
Jamie lowered her gaze and shook her head. Dismissing men and their foolish comments had always been easy. Before Derrick she had a one-strike policy—no patience, no second chances. “Let some other woman fix him” was her motto, and she’d never wavered.
“I’m thinking about playing a stripped-down version of the song I wrote with some help from Clayton Langley,” she told him, causing the couple next to her to turn their heads.
The woman’s face was wrinkled from sun damage, framed by canary-yellow hair and oversized, round glasses straight out of the seventies.
Beside her, a man—presumably her husband—wore a brand-new Bluebird baseball cap, the tags dangling.
Beau pointed to the entrance. “He just walked in.”
Jamie turned around and spotted Clayton with his acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. He’d shaved his face, but he looked better with stubble. Then again, his face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, perfect for slapping.
Beau stood on his toes and waved, and Clayton nodded.
The songwriters in the round announced they were taking a break, and a few seconds later the regular bar volume took over.
Clayton navigated the crowd, greeting patrons as if he were the mayor of Nashville.
“Oh my goodness!” Canary Hair shouted, clutching her companion’s arm. Her long red fingernails dug into his skin, undoubtedly leaving a mark. “That’s him! That’s Clayton Langley. In person!”
Good grief, woman.
The country singer strode toward the bar while Jamie sucked on her straw until her drink was gone. She told herself she wasn’t watching him, but her pulse begged to differ.
“You made it,” Clayton said, removing his guitar strap. “Back on the horse, I take it?”
She lifted her empty glass. “I’m no quitter. ”
“I ain’t no quitter, either.” Clayton shook the bartender’s hand. “That’s a Shania song,” he added.