CHAPTER 11 #3
“They couldn’t get enough of you .” She pointed at him. “He didn’t ask me anything about my music.” Not to mention, Clayton had regaled them with stories about “ranch life” and other things she couldn’t relate to.
“You’ve got to jump in there,” he said. “Control the narrative.”
She took a seat across from him. “I don’t have anything to add to the conversation.”
“Sure you do.” He put down the deck. “You’re Jamie Keaton.”
“Whatever that means.” She picked up the cards and shuffled the deck like a pro, riffling them between her fingers. “I didn’t even know people liked country music in Maryland.”
“Where did you learn to shuffle like that?” he asked, leaning forward on the table, watching her hands.
“I’m from Vegas,” she reminded him.
“No one’s from Vegas.” He rolled his eyes, not believing her.
“I am.” She kept shuffling the cards. “Born and bred.”
“What’s your game? ”
“Blackjack.”
“Deal,” he said, gesturing to the cards. “People like country music everywhere, and we’re still below the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“The what line?”
“Well, back in the day Maryland and Pennsylvania were squabbling over their borders, so they called in these two surveyors, Mason and Dixon, to settle it. That line was meant to keep folks from fighting over land, but by the time the Civil War rolled around it had turned into a whole lot more. People started seeing it as the split between the North and the South, especially when it came to slavery. Now, it’s not an official war boundary, but ask anybody from back then and they’d tell you it might as well have been. ”
“Oh, I remember reading about that in school.” She felt embarrassed for not knowing what it was, especially since Old Hickory seemed to be some sort of authority on the subject.
At least he didn’t rub it in. Derrick would have laughed at her for not knowing what it meant. “Do you have another deck of cards?”
“Don’t think so.” He shrugged. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to beat you if we only use one.”
He chuckled, his dimples nearly hidden by his beard. “I seriously doubt that.”
They played ten rounds of blackjack and she beat him every time. He insisted they play again, but as tempting as it was they’d arrived in DC and she wanted a drink. Somewhere he wasn’t the main attraction, and her ego wasn’t getting crushed.
“Better luck next time,” she said, squaring the deck.
“Oh, hell no.” He picked up the deck and shuffled the cards in his oversized hands. “You ain’t going nowhere until I win. ”
“That will never happen.” She slithered out of the seat and swooped up Poppy from the couch. “I’m going out.”
“Where you headed?”
She didn’t want to be rude but she also didn’t want to invite him. “Probably just the hotel bar,” she said. “I’m going to drop Poppy off then head down for one.”
At the hotel Jamie pleaded with Ruth to go out for a drink, but her assistant stood firm.
“We have an early flight,” she reminded her, voice unwavering.
Ruth was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of person—responsible and disciplined.
Jamie, on the other hand, thrived at night.
And besides, Ruth didn’t drink. Not even socially.
So she took a quick shower and got dressed in all black. She didn’t have to pretend to be into country music tonight.
Jamie left Poppy sleeping on the bed and took the elevator down to the lobby, turned left, and spotted the bar near the entrance.
It was one of those old-fashioned lounges with high cushioned stools, brass railings, and hundreds of bottles of liquor lined up on backlit glass shelves, ready and waiting.
A martini, perfect.
She made her way to the bar and spotted an open stool in the middle. The room buzzed with chatter but it didn’t bother her. It was the quiet bars you had to watch out for because some guy was always waiting to share his life story.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked. He had short dark hair and sported a mustache with curled ends like an old-timey character. He was attractive, but the mustache was a deal-breaker. Besides, she had no clue if he was straight or gay, based on his appearance.
“A martini with Ketel One and dirty, please. ”
He nodded and took more orders before starting to make the drinks. She scrolled through her phone and googled “When were curled mustaches popular.” Google told her it was the early 1800s.
A martini arrived with a small dagger holding three olives together. She raised her credit card from her jacket pocket, signaling that she wanted to settle. Tabs were too risky when she was by herself.
“It’s been taken care of,” he said with a wave. “The gentleman at the end of the bar covered it.”
Just my luck.
Now she’d have to engage in small talk with some fan who was here on a sightseeing trip, dying to share his photos of the White House.
She turned her head slowly toward the end of the bar to acknowledge the gesture.
What the fuck?
Clayton raised his beer, cap pulled low, and shot her a sheepish grin. She didn’t light up or anything but was weirdly relieved.
He stood from his stool and walked over just as the couple sitting to her right was leaving. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the vacant seat beside her. He wore a white button-down shirt under his suede jacket. It was the first time she’d seen him not in plaid.
She shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
“Well, in that case . . .”
“Thanks for the drink.” She took a sip and closed her eyes as the smooth blend of vodka and olive brine slid down her throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you: having a drink.” He took a swig from his bottle to prove his point and sat on the stool next to her, his boots thudding against the floor.
“You have beer on your bus. ”
“That I do.” He chuckled. “Look, I didn’t feel comfortable with you being alone in a bar.”
She swiveled her stool and fanned out her arm. “I’m hardly alone.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You don’t need to take care of me.” She took another sip of her drink. “Or any man, for that matter.” She’d been taking care of herself for as long as she could remember.
“Okay, let me finish my beer and leave you be.”
“As I said, it’s a free country.”
“I pay my taxes, darlin’.” He winked. “Tell me how you beat me.”
“I’m good at blackjack.”
A flash jolted her from her seat, and she turned her head toward the bartender. Old Timey had snapped her picture. She raised her hands to shield her face but it was too late. “No pictures, please.”
Clayton stood from his seat and reached across the bar, snatching Old Timey’s phone from his hand. “Hell, no. I’m deleting this.” He scrolled through the phone and tapped on the screen. “You trying to get yourself fired, man?”
“Sorry!” Old Timey exclaimed, pressing his palms against his cheeks. “I’m a huge fan!” he shrieked. “Me and the girls saw you the last time you played here.”
Like Cher, she had a huge gay following, which thrilled her immensely.
She never understood homophobes like AJ and his friends.
What was there to be afraid of? She shared Cher’s sentiment that gay people often felt out of place, and she’d never felt like she belonged either.
The day after she performed her rock rendition of “Believe” on the finale of Star Factor , Cher sent her a note saying she was a big fan.
But Jamie couldn’t believe the music icon had emailed her, thinking it was from a fake account.
A few months later Shorty told her Cher’s manager had reached out to him for her information, but by then she felt like an idiot for not responding.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Clayton said, holding the phone over his head. “Apologize to her.”
Old Timey lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Jamie.”
“Miss Keaton,” Clayton corrected him.
“I’m sorry, Miss Keaton.” He half-smiled, still giggling softly to himself. “I didn’t know the flash was on.”
“Still not okay.” Clayton pressed the phone to his chest. “Where’s your manager?”
“Clayton . . .” Jamie shook her head, not wanting to make a scene. “Give him back his phone. I just want to leave.”
“Have another round on me,” Old Timey offered.
Clayton hesitated before handing the phone back. “Thanks but no thanks, buddy.”
Jamie slid off the barstool with a huff, her fingers tightening around the glass before she set it down.
The bitter taste of disappointment clung to her tongue as she strode toward the lobby, each thud of her boot heavier than the next.
She should have known better than to think she could have one quiet drink without him showing up to ruin it.
“Hey!” Clayton’s voice echoed behind her. “Wait for me.”
She stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Did you forget something?”
“No.” He caught up to her, blocking her path. “You didn’t finish your drink.”
“I’m going to my room.” She stepped sideways but he mirrored her movement, cutting her off.
“Still early yet,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got to beat you at something. ”
She’d spent enough time with him today—more than enough—but her competitive nature wouldn’t allow her to walk away. “Like what?”
“I don’t know . . .” He dragged a hand over his beard, considering. “Do you shoot pool?”
She lifted her shoulder. “I’ve played a few times.”
“Perfect.” He leaned in a fraction, his voice dipping lower. “Let’s see if you’re any good.”
She took out her phone and searched for billiards nearby, noting the reviews and reading the comments. She passed on the pool halls with red felt on their tables, as AJ had claimed they were an abomination. “I’ll call an Uber.”
The cold DC air whipped through her leather jacket as they waited outside for their rideshare. He offered to lend her his coat, but she decided to endure the chill instead since the wait time was less than a minute.
A Prius pulled up to the curb and rolled down its window. “Diana Prince?” the driver asked, and she nodded.
“Diana Prince?” Clayton asked.
“The secret identity of Wonder Woman.”