CHAPTER 23 #2
Staring in the mirror, she noticed her skin looked more youthful and her eyes less puffy.
Since her Vegas trip she hadn’t consumed a drop of alcohol, and the benefits were showing.
Realizing even one drink the night before would disrupt her studying she’d quit cold turkey, with Clayton joining her in the commitment.
In fact, they’d been so drunk in Vegas she even forgot to pick up their gift baskets—her sole reason for going.
She retrieved her study books from her bag and made her way to the front lounge. “Did you put toiletries in the bathroom?” she asked Ruth .
Without looking up from her phone, Ruth replied, “No. James, we’ve got another problem.”
As the bus pulled away, new drama unfolded. “What is it?” Jamie asked.
“Memphis Girl is back at it,” Ruth said, turning her phone around. “This email says you’re dead if you go on tour with Clayton.”
Clayton stepped closer to the assistant. “Who’s Memphis Girl?”
“The person who’s been threatening her,” came her quick reply.
Pausing and rubbing his elbow, Clayton remarked, “Tammy’s from Memphis.”
Ruth’s eyes widened. “Do you think it’s her?”
“Don’t know,” Clayton admitted, a trace of worry in his voice. “It’s possible.”
“You haven’t heard from her in months,” Jamie reminded him.
“I’m going to call Shorty and let him know,” Ruth said. “Do you mind if I use the bedroom?”
“Be my guest,” Jamie replied, settling onto the couch and opening her books as her assistant stepped off to call her manager.
Clayton sat beside her. “Are you worried?”
“I’m more concerned about passing the language part of my exam than some stalker,” Jamie said.
He grabbed the flashcards from the table and said, “Let’s start with language arts.”
For the next hour she worked through his questions, getting most of them right but still falling short of perfection. Each mistake felt like a personal failure, a reminder that if she’d read more as a child or stayed in school through her senior year this embarrassment might have been avoided .
Ruth emerged from the bedroom and pulled aside the curtain of her bunk. A few balloons floated out. She snatched one, frowning. “What the heck?”
Jamie and Clayton turned.
“What?” Clayton asked, standing up. Then his lips curled into a slow grin. “Let the games begin.”
Ruth looked between them, still confused. “What happened?”
Clayton bent down, grabbed a bright red balloon from under the bunk, and smirked. “Looks like someone pulled a prank.” With dramatic sweeps he yanked back the curtains, revealing hundreds of balloons crammed into every bunk, a chaotic rainbow.
“Your band?” Jamie chuckled, nodding in approval. “That’s a pretty good prank.”
Ruth opened the bathroom door and more balloons floated out.
Clayton sighed and said, “We’ve got to get them back.”
During the drive to Birmingham they brainstormed practical jokes—discarding those that were either too cruel or too risky. When Clayton’s band finally arrived at the venue they were in for an unexpected shock.
When they pulled up to the venue, Jamie couldn’t wait to get out. A prank was already planned for that night and she was determined to kick it off. Although Clayton had offered to go first, she insisted if she wanted to be accepted by the guys the first practical joke had to come from her.
“Where are you headed?” Clayton asked.
“I’m off to see the guitar tech on Mr. White,” Jamie replied .
“Mr. White?” he echoed.
Jamie nodded. “I’ve named the buses Mr. White and Mr. Blue, and our bus is Mr. Black.”
“Why those names?”
“Haven’t you ever seen Reservoir Dogs?”
“No,” he admitted.
The answer didn’t surprise her.
Stepping off the bus Jamie made her way toward Mr. White parked by the curb. After knocking on the door the driver opened it—a face that seemed vaguely familiar, leaving her to wonder if he’d ever driven on one of her tours.
“I’m Jamie,” she said, extending her hand.
He shook it and replied, “Russ.”
She hesitated. “Do I know you?”
“No, I’m Gus’s brother. We look alike.”
“Funny—you and your brother both have names that rhyme with ‘bus’?” she teased.
“Occupational hazard,” he replied with a chuckle. “Are you looking for someone? Buddy’s inside the venue.”
Jamie nodded. “I’m here for the guitar tech.”
Russ pointed toward the back of the bus. “Oh, Deaner. I think he’s stringing up some guitars.”
They were only three hours into their tour and the bus already reeked.
She recognized the familiar stench of body odor—one she’d grown accustomed to from living with AJ, who only showered when he had a date, whether with a woman or for a court appearance.
Moreover the cigarette smoke was even more overpowering than that of a casino, a consequence of the cramped space and lack of ventilation aside from the windows .
“Dean?” She walked to the back and noticed their bus slept ten to Clayton’s six—and it was in much worse shape.
“Yeah?” a man with his long hair tied in a ponytail replied.
“I’m Jamie.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, pausing his work on an acoustic guitar as he extended his hand. “Deaner.”
“Jamie’s fine,” she replied while shaking his hand. “Do I have to call you Deaner, or is Dean all right?”
He shrugged. “Everyone calls me Deaner.”
“Okay, Deaner . . .” The word felt strange on her tongue. “Would you be interested in helping me with a little prank?”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah.”
“You don’t even know what it is or who it’s on.”
“Doesn’t matter. A good prank is a good prank.”
At that moment she knew she’d found her soulmate prankster.
“What’s the heaviest gauge of string you’ve got?” she asked, giving him a wry smile.
He rummaged through a box of strings. “D’Addario XL,” he said. “They range from 13 to 72.” He handed her the package. “Why?”
She inspected the package and nodded. “Before Clayton’s encore I’d like you to string these on Johnny’s guitar.”
“They’re not easy to play,” he noted with a shake of his head. “Hard on the fingers.”
“But Johnny will still be able to play it?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Only for ‘I Did A Good Job of Drinking,’” she explained. “Then you can switch his guitar out.”
“Sure, no problem. But he’s not going to like it.”
“Good,” she said, before exiting the bus.
In the dressing room Ruth helped Jamie get ready for her performance.
Nerves coiled tight in her chest, making it hard to breathe.
The thought of playing in front of Clayton’s audience sent a tremor through her hands as she leaned toward the mirror, eyeliner poised.
She dragged the pencil along her upper lid but the line wavered, her unsteady grip betraying her.
“Give me that,” Ruth said, snatching the eyeliner from her hand and fixing the mishap.
“What if they hate me?” Jamie fretted.
“Who?” Ruth asked.
“Clayton’s fans.”
“Relax, they’re Alabamians,” Ruth replied, reaching for the mascara. “They won’t start throwing things, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Alabamians?” Jamie echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know they were called that.”
“Look up,” Ruth instructed while applying mascara to her lashes. “Most people will be at the concession stand grabbing drinks or merch or stuck finding parking. It won’t be a full house.”
“You’re right,” Jamie agreed. She’d often skipped the opening acts, arriving just in time for the headliners. These fans were no different.
But she needed a drink. And bad.
Jamie got dressed in black leather pants, a denim shirt, and Frye Harness boots—a blend of rock and country that felt entirely her own.
A knock at the door interrupted her. Buddy was there, reminding her she had five minutes left.
There was no backing out now. To think that five years ago she’d been furious with Clayton for not inviting her on tour, and now she could barely handle the pressure.
“Knock, knock.” Clayton stepped into the room, already dressed for his performance. “You ready?”
Jamie sighed, dropping her head before looking up at him from her chair. “I could really use a drink, Clayton.”
His lips pressed together, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “I’ll get you one if you want, but you’re going to lose that bet.”
Damn it . She’d almost forgotten about their bet.
They’d made it after returning from Vegas, both nursing brutal hangovers from the awards night.
It was a friendly challenge to see who could go the longest without drinking.
She hadn’t even realized it was still a thing—let alone that it extended to the tour.
But there was no way in hell she’d give in.
Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t had a single drink this whole time? Not even one?”
Clayton smirked. “Not even a sip.”
The opening riff of “Barracuda” blasted through the speakers—her cue.
Jamie stood, rolling her shoulders back. “That’s me,” she said, heading for the door.
“Jamie!”
She turned around.
Clayton leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression. “Break a leg, darlin’.”
She took a steadying breath and followed Buddy toward the stage. Her pulse thrummed, adrenaline kicking in, readying her body for fight or flight. Deaner slipped her Les Paul Goldtop over her shoulder and winked, anticipating what was coming .
She may have carried a guitar instead of a rifle but make no mistake—she was walking into battle.
One she intended to win.
The band launched into the first song as she stepped onto the stage, waving at the crowd. Ruth had lied—there wasn’t an empty seat in sight. The audience greeted her with polite applause, nothing more. She stepped up to the mic and started to sing.
By the end of the song hands were clapping along, and she even caught a few hollers. She and the band played flawlessly, better than soundcheck. She had to admit: Clayton’s band was exceptional, maybe even better than hers. And hers was top-notch.
When the final note rang out she grinned, breathless, and thanked the Alabamians.
Their cheers were deafening now, voices calling her name.
She’d turned them. That electric feeling never got old, the rush of winning over an audience that started off indifferent.
It had been a while since she’d had to fight for a crowd, and damn it felt good.
As she walked offstage Clayton was waiting in the wings, grinning like an idiot.
“How much did you see?” she asked, slipping her guitar strap over her shoulder.
“Every second,” he said. “How the hell am I supposed to follow that?”
“Sounds like a you problem.” She smirked. “See you at the encore.”