CHAPTER 25 #2
Finally they arrived in Cleveland and Jamie had a plan—but she couldn’t pull it off by herself. She needed Ruth and the band’s help, and they were more than willing to play along.
The night before Jamie had convinced Clayton to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They hadn’t been to any museums yet and she figured it was only fair—after all, she’d gone to the country version. He didn’t argue, especially after hearing there was a Bon Jovi exhibit.
When Jamie woke up that morning she put her plan into motion. She walked past the bunks to the front lounge, where Ruth was scrolling on her phone while Clayton watched baseball highlights.
She cleared her throat softly and let out a weak cough. “Ugh. I don’t feel great. All that cigarette smoke yesterday totally wrecked my lungs.”
Ruth’s head snapped up. “Oh no! Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
Jamie sniffled for effect and shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to gargle with warm salt water.”
Clayton glanced over. “You want to use my humidifier?”
She blinked. “You have a humidifier?” That actually surprised her.
“Yeah. A small one in my bunk. Helps with my voice.”
“I didn’t peg you as the type.”
He smirked. “Just practical.”
She hesitated, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll take you up on it.”
Clayton nodded and went back to knotting a piece of rope. “Are we still hitting the Hall of Fame?” he asked, hopeful.
Jamie faked another cough, just light enough to sound real but not overdone. “I think I should rest before the show. You and Ruth go. ”
Clayton frowned as the knot slipped through his fingers. “Won’t be the same without you.”
“I still want to go,” Ruth chimed in.
Jamie took a slow sip of water, stalling. “You should. It might be your only chance. Take Buddy—he knows all the stories.”
Clayton studied her for a moment, like he wasn’t quite convinced.
Jamie forced a tired sigh. “Go. Have fun.”
After a beat he nodded. “All right. But text if you need anything.”
She smiled weakly. “Will do.”
After Ruth and Clayton left, Jamie slipped inside the venue to meet the band. She needed to rehearse a new song for tonight, and faking an illness was the only way to do it without Clayton or Buddy catching on. Her revenge depended on it.
The first few run-throughs were solid, but she wanted perfection. They experimented with different arrangements until the song clicked into place. Johnny grinned and told her it was even better than the original—which said a lot.
Two hours later they wrapped up. Jamie felt confident her prank would top them all, and she could hardly wait for tonight’s performance.
Back in the bedroom she set the stage: cough drops, syrup, and a jar of Vicks VapoRub lined up neatly on the nightstand. She burrowed under the covers and practiced a weak cough, making sure every detail sold the lie.
When Clayton returned she’d be the picture of misery. And by the time she stepped on stage he wouldn’t know what hit him.
An hour later Jamie heard Ruth and Clayton step onto the bus. She quickly closed her eyes, feigning sleep.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
“Knock, knock,” Clayton said .
She forced a groggy tone. “Enter.”
The door creaked open and Clayton stepped inside, holding a brown paper bag. “Sorry,” he said, offering it to her. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Jamie took the bag, glancing at his new camouflage baseball cap that said rock & roll hall of fame .
“What’s this?” she asked, peeking inside.
“Chicken noodle soup.”
For a split second guilt flickered through her. But not enough to cancel her plan. Not even close.
“Thanks.” She pulled out the container, warmth seeping through her palms. “How was it?”
Clayton sat on the edge of the bed, his excitement palpable. “Well, I’ll be! That Bon Jovi exhibit alone was worth the trip. And you weren’t lying—Buddy’s the best dang tour guide. Knows more about Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd than a preacher knows the Good Book.”
She unwrapped the plastic spoon and dipped it into the soup, blowing on it before taking a careful sip. “Mmm. This is good.”
“They’ve got an Elvis display too. Tons of guitars, suits, pictures . . .” He shook his head with a laugh. “But not a single shot of Arthur.”
Arthur loved to brag about being friends with Elvis, but Jamie wasn’t buying it. “I swear to God, the ones in his office with Elvis are Photoshopped,” she said.
“Starting to believe that.” Clayton tapped the brim of his hat. “Got myself a souvenir.”
“I see that.”
Before he could respond Buddy poked his head through the door. “Soundcheck in five. Y’all ready? ”
Clayton glanced at her. “You up for it? The band can run through it without you.”
Jamie shook her head. “No, I’m good. The soup’s already working its magic.” She flashed him a smile, knowing she wasn’t done messing with him.
Soundcheck went smoothly, though she kept her voice softer than usual in case Clayton was listening. And she skipped rehearsing the new song on purpose. That one was for later.
When Buddy called for her in the dressing room she was almost giddy. But first she had a show to put on. She needed to deliver a performance so electric the crowd would demand an encore—something she never did. But tonight would be different.
She poured everything into her set, song after song, until the energy in the room buzzed with anticipation. Eight songs in she left them wanting more, slipping offstage while the band stayed put and the house lights remained low.
As always, Clayton was waiting in the wings. When she stepped backstage he was the first person she saw.
“Hell of a show,” he said. “Your voice sounded better than ever.”
“I’m going back out,” she said, grabbing a towel from Buddy. “I’m doing an encore.”
Before Clayton could respond she turned and strode back onstage, acoustic guitar in hand. She started to sing “More Bad Days Than Good.”
His number-one song.
The band followed her lead, playing it in a stripped-down arrangement that let her voice take center stage. The crowd erupted, singing along as she belted the chorus. Mid-song she glanced toward Clayton. He stood frozen, jaw slack, watching as she owned every note .
When the final chord rang out the audience roared. She thanked them, flashed a triumphant smile, and walked offstage—for good this time.
Clayton was waiting. “What the hell was that?” His voice was sharp, incredulous.
Jamie met his glare, unfazed.
“I told you not to fuck with me, Clayton.”
Clayton stayed mad for two days straight, barely speaking to Jamie or his band.
But it was worth every second. Her performance of the song had blown up on social media, with fans begging her to record it.
Even Shorty had called to say it wasn’t a bad idea.
But Jamie had no interest in turning his song into a single.
The next night in St. Louis, Clayton tried to get even by stripping the bus of all its toilet paper.
But his plan backfired spectacularly when Ruth was the first to use the bathroom.
Unbeknown to him, her assistant always carried Kleenex, just like she carried Sharpies in her back pocket, so she didn’t even blink at the missing bathroom tissue.
But the attempt still counted. And that meant it was Jamie’s turn for a prank.
At the next stop she paid a visit to the crew on Mr. White, knowing they’d be more than happy to help. Partly because they thought her next prank was hilarious and partly because they didn’t want to end up as her next targets.
She timed it perfectly, making sure to strike while they had the next two days off. It had to be now, before the twins joined them in Kansas City .
Back on Mr. Black she waited until Clayton left the bus. Once the coast was clear she emptied his humidifier and replaced it with the crew’s leftover bong water. She plugged it back in, tucked it neatly beside his bunk, and walked away like nothing had happened.
Jamie was already in the front lounge the following morning when she heard Clayton hacking up a lung in his bunk. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh too soon.
A second later he stumbled in, bleary-eyed and clutching his throat like he’d swallowed sandpaper. His auburn hair stuck up in every direction and he looked miserable.
“My throat feels awful,” he croaked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He took a long drink and then grimaced. “And my bunk smells like a doggone skunk.”
Jamie pressed her lips together, fighting the grin creeping up her face. “That’s weird,” she said, barely containing herself.
Clayton turned to her, eyes narrowing. “Jamie, what did you do?”
That was it—she lost it. Laughter bubbled out of her, shaking her shoulders as she curled into the couch. She tried to breathe, but every time she looked at his confused, suspicious face another round of giggles hit.
“I’m sorry,” she managed between laughs. “But it was too good to pass up.”
His expression darkened. “Jamie . . .”
“I put bong water in your humidifier,” she fessed up, wiping away a tear.
Clayton stared at her, blinking slowly. For a second she thought he might yell—or worse, plot immediate revenge. But instead he exhaled and nodded.
“Okay. That’s a good prank. ”
That caught her off guard. She expected swearing, maybe a threat, but not acceptance.
Before she could gloat he held up a hand. “All right, but let’s agree—no more damage. I still need my vocal cords in one piece, you hear, now?”
Jamie smirked. “Fair enough.” She shook his outstretched hand, trying not to laugh again.
He took another swig of water and winced. “My voice sounds like a damn bullfrog.”
Jamie leaned back, smirking. “I’m sorry, Clayton.”
But she wasn’t.