Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Inside Jamie’s father’s studio, the recording booth was cramped, but it had space for a stool, an easel for lyric sheets, and Jamie’s favorite acoustic guitar.
In the control room, through a massive window by the door, Tex, producer Tom Hathaway, and songwriter Melvin Scott huddled closely around Jamie’s father, whispering conspiratorially.
Jamie was a puppet, and those four men pulled the strings.
Jamie raked his hair from his weary eyes. “I think we got it. We did it at least twenty times already.”
Even if Jamie wanted to retake that wretched bridge—which he didn’t—he was spent.
The interview with Brinton earlier that afternoon had thrown him for a loop.
To learn how much distress he’d unintentionally caused her with his Grammys speech snuffed out any goodwill he’d hoped to earn.
Had he done enough to reassure her that he wasn’t an asshole?
That he was more than the reputation that preceded him?
Shit, what if he hadn’t? He couldn’t get a solid read on her, and she seemed to watch him like he’d grown another head.
Was she the right person to reveal himself to?
For his half-baked plan to work, at the very least, he needed her to like him.
To trust him, and to want to help him. If their first interview was an indicator, it would take more than two weeks to earn her trust, and for good reason.
She’d been through hell. Largely because of him.
Revealing himself to Brinton wouldn’t work. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the realization sank in. He needed a new plan to come clean. But how?
Tom glanced at Jamie’s father, who nodded. “It’s not really flowin’. Let’s try it again.”
Melvin, a stocky Nashville veteran in his 50s with leathered skin, hadn’t spoken directly to Jamie even once.
He had worked with all the major players but rarely as a ghostwriter.
That, apparently, was another string Jamie’s father had pulled to ensure this album came together exactly as he wanted.
He whispered something to Tom, who laughed dryly, which pissed Jamie off.
“If you ask me—and I know you didn’t—what if it’s the lyrics?
This bridge feels inauthentic,” Jamie said.
Was there a diplomatic way to say I’d rather my balls catch in a zipper than sing these words?
Cringing, he read aloud from the lyric sheet.
“You want love/But I need space/Baby my heart beats/At a different pace/I can love you right/But only for tonight. I wouldn’t say anything like this to a woman. ”
He didn’t want a serious relationship, but he wasn’t intentionally trying to be a dick either. “This is my chance to talk about my life and really say what I’m about, right? That’s what all the best artists are doing now—peeling back the layers.”
Before he released his debut, Jamie showed his father a few songs he’d written for the first time.
They represented what he thought being in love felt like.
Of course, he’d never experienced it himself, but he liked the idea of connecting with people over something universal.
So many artists he admired did it seamlessly, including his father. He wanted that too.
But Jamie was devastated when his father laughed in his face, calling his lyrics “a dogfight of clichés.” So, he stopped trying. Then he won the Grammy, which became an unexpected push to un-suck his life. He had no idea if his writing had improved—nobody had seen or heard it.
The men were quiet.
“Lyrics are fine and work with your personal brand,” Jamie Sr. said, finally. “We did thirteen songs like this for your debut. Now, you got a Grammy.”
At the reminder, Jamie’s chest tightened. He closed his eyes, hoping to block out his inadequacy. “I’ve been working on something that feels more…like me.” He held up the brown leather-bound notebook atop his stool. “How about we lay it down and see—”
His father didn’t let him finish. “Dammit, Jamie. I’m not paying for studio time to ‘lay it down and see.’ Do it again, and let’s move on.”
Adrenaline snaked through Jamie’s veins, and he wrung his hands to stop himself from slamming the easel against the wall.
“Why don’t you take five? Rest your voice,” Tex said with the skill of an FBI hostage negotiator. “Come back, and we’ll lay it down again.”
Usually, Jamie would have sucked it up and shut his mouth. But then he remembered what Brinton had said: he put himself in a specific hole, this damn early grave. He had to stay vigilant with his plan to break free and needed a platform with some credibility.
What if he leaked the news himself on a burner Instagram account his team couldn’t access?
Gracious, that wasn’t what he wanted at all.
It was egotistical to admit, but he wanted people to take this announcement seriously and for it to have some permanence beyond an algorithmic feed. He wanted to point back to it, years later, with pride. A Landmark article would’ve done it in spades, but now, that was out of the question.
Jamie exhaled, his breath acidic against raw vocal chords. At least this was the last album he had to make with his father’s cronies. He’d get through this, then figure out a new, feasible way to start over.
“I’ll miss working with you, Melvin,” Jamie grumbled into the mic, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t lost in translation.
His father chuckled, low and easy enough to make Jamie’s spine straighten.
“Actually, the label loves the early cuts we’ve sent, as I knew they would.
And the Landmark article is icing on the cake.
So I’ve extended Melvin and Tom’s contracts for the next two albums. You’ll have your new papers to sign tomorrow. ”
Ain’t that some shit.
Jamie flexed his fist as his pulse jabbed his temples. “The next two albums?”
“Gotta strike while the iron’s hot. You understand, son?”
Jamie shouldn’t have been surprised. This was always the way with his father. He was the boss—the big man with big plans. Jamie spun his gold ring around his pinky, each revolution revving his agitation. “Yeah, I understand.”
He understood, now, his father would never stop playing these games. He had two choices: do nothing or, for the first time, go against his father. And it had to happen that night.
Brinton inhaled through her nose, filling her belly with positivity, and exhaled negativity from her parted lips. Yet, somehow, there was no drowning out the nagging buzz filling the space between her ears.
Nerves. Butterflies.
Either way, she felt the vicious sting nearly every waking moment.
She inhaled positivity again but caught a glimpse of her puffed, reddened cheeks in the white wicker-framed bathroom mirror and felt ridiculous. Brinton paused the aggressively woo-woo meditation app on her phone and yanked out her earbuds.
The party started an hour ago and she was still at the guest house, sitting cross-legged on the cold marble floor.
Not only was she forced to attend this party, with this crowd of strangers, but she had no viable angle for her article other than Jamie was sorry for embarrassing her. That wouldn’t work.
Her mother would have said she was being too hard on herself, but Brinton knew what was on the line: her dignity. Earlier, she’d scoped out the patio, mapping out escape routes back to the guest house in case she got too overwhelmed. The absolute last thing she needed tonight was a panic attack.
She FaceTimed Shay, who answered on the first ring.
“Tell me I can still back out,” Brinton whispered, knees pressed into her chest.
“Why are you whispering?” Shay asked casually, waving a banana in her free hand like a magic wand as she perched atop their mother’s granite kitchen island. “Also, where are you? That all-white room is giving off hostage vibes.”
“I’m at Jamie’s house. Well, his dad’s house.
” Brinton squeezed her knees tighter, trying to breathe through the invisible chisel needling her temples.
“But I have to meet him at this party where I won’t know anyone but him.
And I’m scared I’m gonna screw it all up or embarrass myself again. So, tell me to quit and come home.”
Shay leaned closer into the screen. “Why are you sitting like that? Did Jamie tie you up? Wait, that is kinda hot.”
“Shayla, how do they let you out of the house?”
“Consensually, of course! Didn’t think the man had it in him. But I like it.”
“No, he didn’t tie me up!” Brinton snapped, panning the screen down to her unbounded hands and feet. “Can you just agree with me for a minute?”
Shay paused to chew. “Depends. Are you trying to talk yourself out of interviewing the man who, as you believe, can fast track that career you keep griping about?”
“I mean, yes—”
“Then absolutely-fucking-not. You’ve already talked to him and survived, right?”
“Barely.” Brinton still hadn’t found a way to get the stain out from her Grammys dress. “Anyway, Rich says I need a juicy angle.”
“Leave it to that clown to ruin the word juicy.”
Against her might, Brinton giggled. “Yeah, and I probably won’t get that from Jamie without pinning him down.”
“Now, that’s an idea I can get behind.”
At Brinton’s guttural groan, Shay rolled her eyes.
“Look, you’re brilliant, and you spend all day researching people, places, and things for Landmark.
I also know you’re anxious right now, so maybe it feels harder to summon that sexy sleuth inside.
But just slow down, remember that you busted your ass to get there, and let this new world guide you.
There’s a treasure trove at your disposal.
Everything you need to know about the man is already there. ”
“Shit, you’re right,” Brinton breathed. She wiped her sticky free hand on her jeans. “He’s gotta have some snaggle-toothed Little League photos lying around or something. I could start there, with a few easy questions about his past. Get him talking?”
“There she is! Now don’t call me back until you do.” Shay cocked a brow. “Or if he lets you tie him up. Then definitely call me back.”
Twenty minutes later, after a quick shower, Brinton changed into a black tank top and matching belted midi skirt with pockets.
It was the most casual outfit she had packed.
Pushing her braids off her shoulder, she slipped in her favorite gold hoops and stepped into a pair of black platform Mary Janes.
In the massive vanity mirror, she smiled.
She looked better than she’d hoped. Plus, she was wearing her good bra.
Yee-freaking-haw.
On the marble countertop, a small framed silver photo caught her eye. A young Jamie Jr. and a supermodel-beautiful blonde, whose bright smile lit up the sun-faded image. She kissed his cheek as they posed in front of the spinning teacups ride at Walt Disney World.
It had to be Jamie’s mother, judging by the uncanny likeness.
MaryBell Crawford died of natural causes when Jamie was a teenager. At least that’s all Brinton could find online about her. Not much else had been published because she died long before social media’s rise. She was also married to a notoriously private music icon.
In her research, Brinton hadn’t found a single article where Jamie had mentioned his mother.
Why is that?
The question looped in Brinton’s mind as she plodded downstairs and through the front door. It was obvious how Jamie’s father had influenced his career. Was there something untapped about his mother? That was a hell of an exclusive—and something Jamie’s Country Boy Charm couldn’t evade.
Because Brinton wouldn’t let him.