CHAPTER 17 #2
An awkward silence settled over the room before Jamie crossed her arms. “You can leave too. And don’t let the door hit you where the Lord split you.” She smirked. “I learned a little Southern talk.”
Clayton exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and Jamie couldn’t help but notice—annoyingly so—how thick and enviable his auburn hair was. Women would have killed for it. And it was wasted on him.
“I’m real sorry, Jamie.” His voice was quieter than she expected. “Never meant for this to happen. ”
She let out a slow breath, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, me neither.”
His gaze softened. “How are you holding up?”
She lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. There was no point in answering that.
A beat passed before he changed the subject. “How’s the record coming along?”
“It’s basically done.” She hesitated, then decided to be honest—he’d understand. “But I don’t know if there’s a hit on it.”
“What does your A&R guy think?”
The so-called creative genius in charge of her songs thought it was “awesome . ” But Arthur also thought CDs were making a comeback and once suggested she cover a Steely Dan song “for the kids.” Why were record labels still clinging to guys who got their start when Elvis was topping the charts?
She rolled her eyes. “Arthur loves it.”
“Arthur’s still kicking around, huh?” Clayton chuckled.
“Barely. Last week he told me streaming was just a phase.”
Clayton let out a short laugh. “And yet he’s the one deciding what’s a hit?”
“Terrifying, right?”
He shook his head. “Can I hear it?”
Jamie wrinkled her nose. “You want to listen to my record?”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. Normally she’d say no. Dusty, Evan, and Shorty were too close to be objective. But Clayton? He didn’t know the first thing about rock music. If he hated it, it wouldn’t sting too much.
Maybe that made him the perfect person.
“Is it mixed?” he asked.
“Evan’s been mixing as we go. ”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem,” she said, then pointed a finger at him. “But you have to promise to tell me the truth.”
“A promise made must be a promise kept.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Aristotle.” He grabbed a coffee from the drink carrier and passed her the other. “C’mon, let’s have a listen.”
“I’ll have Evan set up the control room.”
“Not the control room, darlin’.” Clayton shook his head. “You got to crank it up in a car—or, in my case, a truck—to get the full effect.”
“A truck? Why?”
“Because that’s where people are going to hear it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
As soon as the truck doors slammed shut regret settled in, heavy and unshakable. She hadn’t even let Ruth hear the final mixes. That stung. Ruth had always been her sounding board, the one person she trusted to give it to her straight.
But she needed an outside perspective, someone who wasn’t tangled up in her world.
Not that Derrick had ever been helpful. He’d always had plenty to say, full of opinions despite knowing nothing about music. Criticism had been his specialty, whether she’d asked for it or not.
She scrolled through her playlist and found the strongest song on the record because she wanted to know right away if he thought it was shit. As the opening notes filled the truck she sat back in her seat, arms crossed, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
Clayton nodded with the beat, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. When the chorus hit he raised his eyebrows, but his expression gave nothing away. Was that a good sign? A bad one? She couldn’t tell .
And now, hearing it again, she wasn’t sure if she liked it.
Had the mix always sounded this thin? Were the harmonies too busy? God, that lyric in the second verse—she should have rewritten it. The outro dragged. Had the outro always dragged?
Her stomach twisted and she pressed her nails into her palm to keep herself from reaching for the volume knob.
She should have played him something else.
Something safer. Maybe she shouldn’t have played him anything at all.
Imposter syndrome was in full effect now, a voice whispering in her ear that she had no business making music, that she should quit this ridiculous dream and go back to waiting tables where at least she knew what the hell she was doing.
When the outro ended silence stretched between them.
Clayton turned to face her, his mouth slightly open like he was about to say something—but he didn’t.
The longer he sat there, the worse it got.
She forced a laugh, though it sounded weak even to her ears. “It’s fine if you don’t like it,” she said dismissively. “I’m not sure I like it, to be honest.”
“Don’t know what to say.”
And just like that she wanted it gone. Shelved. Buried. Locked away in the label’s vault, never to become exposed. No one would ever hear this record—not if she had any say.
“That song right there . . .” He pointed to the dashboard. “That’s a hit.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Clayton.”
“I’m not, darlin’,” he said, all easy confidence. “I’d put that song on my album.”
Jamie let out a dry laugh. “It’s not a country song, for your information. ”
“Every song’s a country song if you try hard enough.”
She rolled her eyes. “I disagree.”
He leaned back, smug as ever. “You’ve got every right to be wrong.”
“Stealing my lines, now?”
“More like borrowing.” He made a circle with his index finger. “Fire up the next song.”
They listened to the album from start to finish but he wasn’t much help—he liked everything. At least he agreed with her on which songs should be singles and offered a few decent notes. Otherwise he was kind of useless.
“I still feel like I’m missing a song,” she said, tapping her fingers against her knee.
Clayton stretched his arms behind his head. “I’m sure it’s missing you too.”
She shot him a look. “I’m serious. The song I started at your house—‘When We Two Parted’—I never finished it. I couldn’t figure out the verses.”
“Want my help?”
She folded her arms. “You’ve helped enough, thanks.”
His smirk didn’t budge. “I’m being serious.”
Jamie hesitated. “I don’t want to co-write.”
“The song’s all yours.”
That caught her off guard. She studied him, suspicious. “What’s the catch?”
Clayton leaned forward, grinning like he’d already won. “You presenting with me at the ACMs next month.”
Jamie exhaled hard through her nose. She should have seen that coming. “Fine, I’ll do it. But only for the gift baskets.”
Back inside the studio, Jamie picked up Poppy and her guitar from the recording space and headed toward Clayton’s writing room.
The last thing she wanted was for him to help her, but she was on a deadline to finish her record and had no choice.
She was desperate to finish “When We Two Parted” and put it on her album.
She knocked on the door and he cracked it open an inch. “I should warn you,” he said. “Duke’s inside.”
“I suppose he can’t get her pregnant again.” She looked at Poppy and made a pouty face.
He opened the door wider. “That’s a solid point.”
She entered the room and Poppy yapped her head off until she put her down. Duke ran to greet her and they acted like star-crossed lovers who hadn’t seen each other in decades.
“Oh my God,” she said, watching the scene unfold. “They’re so happy to see each other.”
Duke could hardly contain his excitement, his tail wagging wildly as he spun in circles. But when he finally stopped he approached Poppy with a gentle nudge, as if he somehow understood.
“Guess you’ll be high-tailing it back to LA when your record’s done?” Clayton asked.
She pointed at Poppy and shook her head. “No, she can’t fly this pregnant. I don’t have a choice. I’m being held hostage.”
“Sorry.” Clayton took a seat on the stool and grabbed his Gibson. “Play me what you’ve got.”
She sat on the couch and played him her breakup song, strumming through the parts that weren’t done .
Clayton leaned back in the chair across from her, silent as the raw melody filled the space between them. Her fingers hesitated over a chord then moved on, skipping sections she hadn’t quite worked out.
When she stopped, she kept her eyes on the guitar. “It still needs work.”
“Play it from the top.”
She did.
This time he joined in, his effortless harmonies sliding into place like they’d always been there. The melody she’d been chasing for weeks he nailed in two minutes.
Jerk.
She ended the song and shook her head. “I hate you, Clayton.”
“Sorry.” He put his guitar down and shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
“Help?” She tilted her head, drawing out the moment just to mess with him. “You saved my breakup song.”
His eyes lit up, his smile quick and easy. “You like it, then?”
“No, Clayton.” She let the silence hang for a beat before exhaling. “I love it.”
His brows lifted. “Glad to hear it. But . . .” He let out a low whistle. “I thought my breakup song was harsh. But yours? Brutal.”
“Exactly what I was going for.” She laughed. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He reached behind him, popped open the bar fridge, and grabbed a beer. “Drink? We should celebrate.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I hate beer. Unless it’s Corona.”
Without missing a beat he reached back and pulled out a clear glass bottle. “I know.”
Her stomach did a little flip. “How do you know?”
“You told me at the Bluebird.”
She frowned, searching her memory. “I did? ”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded and opened the bottle with a Jack Daniel’s church key.
She arched an eyebrow. “Do you have an endorsement deal I don’t know about?”
He chuckled, passing her the beer. “Nah. Just a souvenir.”
She hesitated, rolling the bottle between her palms. The question had been sitting in the back of her throat for a while, but now, with the quiet between them, it pushed its way out.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He glanced at her, amused. “That is a question,” he said with a smirk. “Go ahead, shoot.”
She exhaled, her fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. “Did you have more bad days than good when you were married?”