CHAPTER 11 #4
Ten minutes later the car arrived at Atomic Billiards. The narrow brick building looked kind of sketchy but its ratings were solid. Regardless, she liked dive bars, having grown up in them. Even though she was underage, AJ had brought her along.
Clayton opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”
Jamie hesitated. Stepping into this place felt like a bad idea—like walking straight into a trap. But refusing would make her look weak and she’d be damned if she’d give him that satisfaction. Chin high, she crossed the threshold .
Just off the landing a flight of stairs led into the basement. The geometric wallpaper and modern chandeliers gave it a funky vibe, but something about the enclosed space sent a prickle down her spine. Footsteps echoed as Clayton followed, too close behind her, and she stopped on the last stair.
“Relax, darlin’,” he drawled. “I don’t bite.”
Jamie shot him a glare over her shoulder. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
The pool hall wasn’t too busy—only three tables were in use. Despite its seedy exterior the inside was clean and bright, with colorful Christmas lights strung along the bar, reminiscent of the Bluebird.
“Vodka soda?” Clayton asked, already heading to the bar.
“Ketel One, if they have it, please.”
“Coming right up.”
As he got their drinks she racked the balls with practiced ease.
She’d downplayed her skills, claiming she’d only played a few times, but AJ had taught her the game back in childhood.
Though she’d considered hustling Clayton by letting him win the first round, she decided to run the table and end the match fast instead.
“Here,” Clayton said, handing her a tumbler with a short straw. “Ketel One and soda.”
“Thanks.” She took a sip and nodded. “Do you want to break?”
“Ladies first.”
“So you’re going first?”
He laughed and took a sip from his bottle. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
She chalked her cue and drew it back, then struck the cue ball and watched as the stripes and solids scattered across the table. Two striped balls dropped into the pockets. “I’m highs. ”
“That’s okay,” Clayton said. “I like solids.”
“No, you like plaid,” she replied, then shook her head. His dad jokes were starting to rub off on her. “I take that back.”
She could feel his eyes on her as she lined up her next shot, but she wasn’t nervous. It was skill, not luck, on her side, and she couldn’t wait to show him. “Nine in the corner pocket,” she called, confident it would drop.
“Nice shot.” He pulled up a stool and took a seat.
“You’re going to need a more comfortable chair. You’ll be sitting for a while.” She smirked. “Watch and learn something, darlin’.”
The next four shots went into their designated pockets, leaving only the eight ball remaining. The last shot was tricky—she’d have to bank it off the rail, but it was doable for someone with her ability. “Eight ball, corner pocket.”
Clayton rose from his stool and assessed her shot from across the table. “That’s impossible.”
She took her time, inching back the cue stick and striking the white ball against the rail, confident she had the perfect angle. The cue ball ricocheted off the rail, grazing the side of the eight ball before disappearing into the pocket. “Booyah!”
“You ran the table,” Clayton said, sounding amazed.
“That I did.”
“Winner gets the next break,” Clayton said, pouting.
He looked like a big kid sitting on the stool, his baseball cap turned backward, messy strands of hair sticking out from underneath.
The glow of the lights carved sharp lines along his jaw, but it was the smirk tugging at his lips that caught her attention.
“No, you go ahead.” Jamie leaned back against the table, crossing her arms as a slow smile edged up the corners of her lips .
His smirk deepened. “Afraid I’ll wipe the floor with you?”
She huffed a soft laugh. “Hardly.”
Clayton grabbed his cue, rolling his shoulders like he was gearing up for a title fight. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest, but she refused to notice.
No, stop looking.
His break was swift and powerful, the crack of the balls echoing in the bar—but none sank. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
Jamie pushed off the table and stepped up beside him. “That’s cute. You tried.”
He scoffed. “Oh, you think you’re funny?”
“Yes, I do.” She lined up her shot and ran the table, sinking the eight ball like it was second nature. She straightened, tapping her cue against the felt with a little flourish.
Clayton blinked. “You straight-up lied to me.”
“About what?” She leaned her hip against the table, twirling the cue between her fingers.
His gaze flicked from her hands back to her face. “About only playing a few times.”
“A few times this year ,” she corrected, tilting her head. “You should ask better questions, Clayton.”
He exhaled a laugh, stepping into her space—not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “You like making me look bad, don’t you?”
“It’s not my fault you set the bar so low.”
His grin was slow and dangerous. “All right, darlin’. Next game I’m raising the stakes.”
Jamie arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what do I get when I win?”
His smirk widened. “You’ll just have to find out.”
Jamie barely got any sleep with the adrenaline coursing through her veins and the looming four a.m. call time for their flight to New York City.
But exhaustion didn’t matter, not when she was about to step onto a stage that felt like home.
Rise & Shine America . A national audience. And best of all, New Yorkers.
On the plane Ruth leaned over and said, “I see you went to the hotel bar last night.”
Jamie frowned. “What do you mean?” She hadn’t told her anything.
Ruth raised her phone.
Jamie’s stomach dropped.
No. Fucking. Way.
There it was, plastered all over Old Timey’s feed: a picture of her sipping a martini, with Clayton lurking in the background like they were on a date.
“He was supposed to delete it,” she muttered, snatching Ruth’s phone for a closer look.
“Who?”
“Clayton.” Her jaw clenched. “He made the bartender delete this last night.”
Ruth lifted her brow. “Guess not from the trash.”
Jamie tightened her grip around the phone. Of course. Because why should anything go her way? Now there was one more damn picture of her and Old Hickory floating around, feeding the never-ending rumor that they were a thing .
“How long did you stay?” Ruth asked, chewing her gum as she flipped through the in-flight magazine. The soft hum of the airplane engines filled the space around them, a steady white noise beneath the occasional ding of the seatbelt sign.
Jamie shifted in her seat, holding Poppy in her lap. “I left as soon as this picture was taken.”
Ruth’s gaze flickered from the phone to Jamie. “You got in kind of late,” she said, her tone light but laced with curiosity.
Jamie exhaled sharply, pressing her head against the stiff seat back. “Yeah, Clayton and I played pool.” She reached for her water bottle, twisting the cap with too much force.
Ruth smirked, popping a bubble before nudging Jamie’s elbow. “I think he’s growing on you.”
Jamie snorted, taking a slow sip before side-eyeing her friend. “Yeah,” she deadpanned. “Like a tumor.”
A car service picked them up at JFK and headed straight for 30 Rockefeller Plaza—better known as 30 Rock.
Before winning Star Factor Jamie hadn’t even known it was a real place.
Now, as the car pulled up to the entrance, a cluster of paparazzi—paps, to their prey—waited on the sidewalk, cameras poised.
She couldn’t tell if they were there for her or Clayton—not that it mattered.
She wasn’t stopping. She’d learned that lesson early on.
At first she’d tried to play nice with the press, believing if she gave them what they wanted they’d return the favor. Instead they twisted her words, snapped unflattering photos, and sold outright lies to the highest bidder. It was all a game to them.
“These fucking idiots,” Jamie said, looking out the window of their SUV. She turned her gaze forward, ignoring the flashing bulbs as the driver opened her door .
Time to step back into the spotlight.
Ruth glanced up from her phone. “I’m going to check us in.” They were staying at the St. Regis Hotel courtesy of Rise & Shine America. “Unless you want me to leave the dogs in the car and come inside?”
“No, that’s okay,” Jamie said. “I can manage myself.”
“Then why do you need Shorty?” Clayton asked, but she ignored him.
Jamie stepped out of the SUV, shielding her face from the cameras, and ducked aside so they couldn’t capture a good picture.
“Any comment on Derrick?” one of the paps asked, then another. They were always searching for gossip when they were broken up, only to use it later as punishment when they got back together.
“Are you having an affair with Clayton?” someone in the crowd asked. She nearly laughed out loud but stopped herself, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
As if.
“Howdy folks!” Clayton stepped out of the SUV. “Thank y’all for coming!”
“Clayton,” Jamie hissed, gesturing for him to walk faster. “You can’t be friends with these people. They’ll use your words against you.”
He tipped his hat back. “I’m friends with just about everyone,” he said. “Why are they nosing around about Derrick?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “His movie premiere was last night.”
“Well, well, look at you keeping tabs on him.”
“I’m not keeping tabs on him. Ruth told me, for your information.”
A Rise & Shine America producer met them at the entrance and showed them to their dressing rooms. God, Clayton was so infuriating.
Pfft. Keeping tabs on him . Just one more press appearance and she could return to Nashville.
Her album was at a standstill because of this stupid record.
But country music had taught her one thing—if she ever wanted to win that Grammy, she’d have to write the songs herself.