CHAPTER 21 #4
She stepped into the bedroom and slipped on a black dress. She’d probably be the only presenter not wearing sequins or a cowboy hat.
When she walked into the living room Ruth’s eyes went wide. “You look great, James!”
The hairstylist unrolled her curlers, shaking out soft waves before misting them with a finishing spray that smelled faintly of vanilla. Jamie stepped to the full-length mirror and gave a slow twirl. “Not bad, considering the day I’ve had.”
Ruth grinned. “It’s all smooth sailing from here on out.”
At the MGM Grand Garden Arena, the same show producer led them backstage and opened Jamie’s dressing room door. With all the commotion earlier she hadn’t realized there was no booze in her room.
“Where’s my vodka?” she asked the producer.
He pointed to the fridge of sparkling water. “That’s all that was on your rider.”
Shorty.
“Thank you,” Ruth said. “We’ll sort it out. I’m sure you’re busy.”
Jamie took a seat and wiggled her feet. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn heels. “This is just great. ”
“Do you want me to get you a drink from the green room?”
“No, that’s okay.” She stood up. “I’ll come with you.”
This time the green room was jam-packed and no one could move, but she knew where the bar was, so they headed in that direction. A few yards away she spotted Clayton at the bar. Thank God he was tall.
As they approached, Clayton saw Jamie and smiled.
The people in line got their drinks ahead of her, and she tried to squeeze through the crowd. Then she stepped forward and nearly died. Clayton wore a black suit with a black tie and his black cowboy hat topped off his outfit.
“Clayton looks handsome,” Ruth said behind her.
Jamie turned her head and said, “He looks okay, I guess.”
Clayton looked her up and down when they finally got to the front of the line.
“Wow! You look gorgeous.”
“Hey! Where’s Steve Trevor?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. You look divine,” he said in his English accent.
“Thank you,” she said. “You don’t look bad yourself.”
He passed her a drink that sat on the bar and handed a bottle of water to Ruth.
“Thanks,” Ruth said, grabbing the bottle. “I’m going to find Reba.”
“Reba’s her new bestie,” Jamie told him.
Clayton laughed and pointed to her beverage. “It’s Ketel One and soda.”
“How did you . . . ?”
He slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a discreet flask tucked into his pocket. “I sent Lisa on a covert mission,” he explained.
She laughed. “Lisa came over to steal my vodka? ”
He nodded. “Guess who’s here?”
Her face went numb at the thought of AJ. Clayton gestured to the far corner of the room. “Shorty’s over there talking to Doofus.”
Whew!
“Doofus,” she repeated, holding her chest. “Jesus, you scared me. Is that why you’re standing over here?”
“No, I’m standing here because it takes a goddamned hour to get a drink around here.”
“Shit.” She looked at Clayton. “I think we’ve been spotted.”
Shorty and Doofus were making their way to the bar. Since neither of them drank, she assumed they were coming over to strike up a conversation with either her or Clayton.
“Hi, Jamie,” Doofus said, shaking her hand. There he stood, same navy suit, same crew cut, same mustache.
“Hi”—she stopped herself from saying Doofus—“Mike.”
Clayton tipped his hat. “Howdy, Mike.” She was hoping he’d use his Steve Trevor voice, but no such luck.
“You look nice,” Shorty said, lightly tapping his water bottle against her glass. The familiar clink of a non-alcoholic drink always unsettled her. “Mike and I were just talking about your record,” he continued.
“Oh?” Jamie couldn’t wait to hear what was coming next.
“The album artwork . . .” Doofus paused. “I don’t like it.”
“The artwork is the artist’s decision,” Clayton interjected. “It’s in our contracts.”
“Have you seen the artwork?” Doofus asked him.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” he lied. “And I love it.”
“I don’t know much about art.” Doofus waved his finger. “But I do know you two should write another song together.”
Jamie and Clayton looked at each other, confused .
“The last song I turned in for my record was a co-write with Clayton.”
“What? Arthur didn’t tell me.” His face turned crimson. “I’ll have to give it another listen.”
After Shorty and Doofus left she turned around and grabbed Clayton’s arm, and they exploded in laughter. They were laughing so hard that people were staring, but they couldn’t help themselves. It was the funniest thing ever.
“ I’ll have to give it another listen .” Jamie mimicked his voice. “Fuck off already.”
“How did he not know? He’s the label’s president.”
“I don’t care.” She took a sip of her drink. “I’m just glad it’s on my album.”
The stage manager approached them with a clipboard and said, “I’m bringing you backstage. There’s a presenter on before you, then a performance.”
Clayton downed his whiskey and Jamie took her drink with her as they followed him through the crowd, where they met Shorty and Ruth in the waiting area.
From where they stood the back of the stage was in clear view as Old Dominion set the tone, igniting the audience into a frenzy.
Strangely no one sported a cowboy hat—instead, they resembled a rock band with a country soul.
She paused, trying to recall why that name was familiar, until a flash of memory brought her back to the T-shirt worn by the Bluebird bartender.
After finishing their song the band hurried down the steps. The guys exchanged warm hugs with Clayton, a familiar face, and soon it was time for the next presentation: New Female Artist of the Year .
The pre-taped announcement blared over the speakers, “Please welcome our next presenter, the star of Tactical Pursuit: Revenge, Matilda Graham.”
Jamie dropped her glass and it smashed on the ground. Her mind raced as she stared at the scattered shards of glass. I must be hearing things. There’s no way Derrick’s girlfriend is here. The internal debate churned as she struggled to reconcile her assumptions with the startling reality.
Ruth knelt to gather the scattered shards of glass while Matilda, draped in a nearly transparent gold dress, gracefully ascended the steps.
“Are you okay?” Ruth asked, now standing, as an attendant cleaned up the mess.
“I’m . . . I’m speechless.” She darted her eyes toward Shorty. “Did you know about this?”
“I sent you the run of show,” he said, sounding confused. “I thought that’s why you didn’t want to come.”
“I didn’t want to come because of my dad.” She grabbed her hair with both fists. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
“You didn’t send it to me.” Ruth raised the phone in her hand.
“Yes, I did,” Shorty said, pulling out his phone. “I sent you an email on March 21.”
Ruth scrolled through her phone, her head drooping as she murmured, “Oh my God.” Her eyes widened in shock. “I missed it,” she admitted softly. Tears welled as she continued, “It was the day after the puppies were born and I wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry, James. This is all my fault.”
After the presentation Jamie quickly composed herself, determined not to show Matilda any sign of defeat. She’d already endured enough humiliation for one day .
Matilda descended the steps in her gleaming four-inch strappy gold stilettos, each step a confident display of her poise. Meanwhile Jamie crossed her fingers, secretly hoping the actress might stumble—a minor mishap, nothing severe, a small misfortune that was well deserved.
“Hi, Jamie!” Matilda said, walking toward them.
“Hi, Matilda.” Jamie smiled with all her teeth. She’d see who the better actress was.
Matilda extended her hand and Jamie greeted it with a gentle shake. Matilda placed her left hand over Jamie’s, allowing the sparkle of the diamond on her ring to catch the singer’s eye. Noticing her gaze lingered a moment too long, Matilda withdrew her hand.
“Are you engaged?” Jamie asked, flabbergasted. Engaged? How could they be engaged? They’d only been together for a couple of months.
Matilda flashed her left hand in front of her face. “It happened yesterday.” She giggled, admiring her ring. “I wasn’t even expecting it.”
Jamie recalled the infamous 1997 Holyfield-Tyson bout had taken place in this very arena. AJ, who had attended the match, vividly recounted how Iron Mike had bitten off part of Holyfield’s ear. Jamie struggled to restrain herself from inflicting an even harsher consequence on Matilda.
“Is Derrick here?” Jamie’s voice came out sharper than she intended, her pulse spiking. A cold dread coiled in her stomach—she wasn’t sure if she wanted to run or fight if he was in the building.
“No,” she replied with a sulk. “He had to stay in LA.” With a shrug she added, “Some work thing.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she continued, “He said to say hi to you and Clayton.”
“Is that right?” Clayton interjected as Jamie was left speechless.
“Yeah, he said he’s happy for you. But . . .” Matilda hesitated.
“But what?” Clayton prompted .
“He doesn’t think it’s a good match . . . musically,” Matilda laughed. “He said Jamie isn’t a country singer.”
“Well, he ain’t no martial artist,” Clayton shot back.
“He’s not?” Matilda looked at Jamie and she shook her head. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” She shrugged. “Anyway, tootle-oo! I’ve got a plane to catch.” She clicked her heels toward the exit and disappeared from their sight.
As the performer wrapped up her song, Jamie’s palms turned clammy. The stage manager appeared, pressing an envelope into her shaking hands.
“Clayton!” She grabbed the arm of his jacket. “I can’t go out there.”
“Let me handle it.” He grabbed her hand and led her up the stairs as the announcer introduced them to a roar of applause and cheers.
The teleprompter scrolled to their lines, indicating it was Clayton’s turn to speak.
“Howdy, Vegas!” he said, and the women in the audience screamed. “Jamie . . .”
She turned her head and gave him a look of bewilderment.
He went on, “Now, some folks are saying you ain’t much of a country singer.”
The crowd laughed and she played along with his ad-lib. “That’s true, Clayton.”
“Now, I reckon we’ve got the number-one country song in America.”
“That’s also true, Clayton.”
“So, that makes you a country singer in my books.” The audience cheered. “I’d say you’re more of a country singer than that action hero—one who ain’t no martial artist and sure as heck doesn’t do his own stunts.”
The crowd roared with laughter, and she laughed too. “You’ve got every right to be right, Clayton.”
He read from the teleprompter. “Let’s hear the nominees for Best Group of the Year!”
“Let’s do it!”
The pre-taped announcement introduced the nominees amid bursts of laughter. Clayton had just murdered her ex-boyfriend in front of 17,000 people and a live television audience. She could picture Derrick at home, tossing an energy drink at the TV in exasperation.
Jamie opened the envelope and said, “The winner is . . . Old Dominion!”
Old Dominion took the stage and Clayton presented them with their trophy. Jamie and Clayton stepped aside to allow the band to deliver their acceptance speech.
Clayton leaned over and whispered in his English accent, “How are you, love?”
“I’m grand, Clayton.” She smiled at him. “Just grand.”