Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“You really don’t remember?” Stella Wrangler asked Jamie hopefully.
Jamie only vaguely remembered her from junior high. Stella was still petite, with a mess of wavy blond hair that overtook her small frame. She leaned in so close that the smoked chicken on her breath slapped him across the face.
“We necked outside the Piggly Wiggly at least twice.”
At Stella’s side, Abby Wrangler ceremoniously clinked wineglasses with her fraternal twin sister.
Abby was curvy, with an auburn, cheekbone-grazing bob that made her look much older than she was.
Jamie wouldn’t have guessed they were related if not for their violent orange spray tans and identical, ear-piercing cackles.
“We both did,” Abby squeaked.
No matter if it was a hometown concert or backyard cookout, Jamie was always cornered by a rotating cast of nosy neighbors and former classmates. They either treated him like a walking photo op or signpost for reliving the “good old days.”
Case in point, he found himself caught in the Wrangler sisters’ clutches, beneath a cabana festooned with twinkling fairy lights. The beaming women planned to drag him, kicking and screaming, down memory lane.
On a stage across from the pool, a local band played an enthusiastic cover of Tim McGraw’s “I Like It, I Love It,” sending the packed dance floor into a frenzy. Beneath the stately pinewood pavilion, long tables boasted Liza’s never-ending feast.
Jamie looked to Cory, who stood across from them, for help. His best friend ran a hand over his low-cut fade and laughed into his beer. Oh, he’d pay for that later.
Jamie took a swig of his own beer, fishing for one of his go-to lines that usually worked. “Those were the good old days, right?”
In fairness, Jamie had blocked most of junior high from his mind.
It was his darkest grieving period after his mother’s sudden death when he was thirteen.
Back then, he had done a lot of stupid things to avoid his feelings.
Stolen beer from his father’s mini fridge.
Missed curfews. And, yes, his fair share of heavy petting in darkened parking lots.
The sisters prattled on about junior prom, but Jamie wasn’t listening. He was scanning the crowd for Brinton. He needed to find an opening for them to talk. But each time he saw her, she was deep in conversation with someone else.
Doing the job he brought her there to do. Right.
Stella cupped one hand on his ass. She squeezed hard, ripping him from temporary solace.
“And if memory serves me right,” she purred, “you were very good on the dance floor.”
Jamie bristled, then quickly buried his annoyance beneath his practiced, for-the-cameras smile. Another thing he loathed about hometown parties: people thinking they could take a piece of him whenever they wanted because he was somewhat famous.
“Well, ladies, it was nice to catch up,” Jamie said through gritted teeth. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“You can’t leave so soon,” Stella whined.
“You just got here,” Abby drawled.
“You know what? I see our dear friend Sherlock, who we haven’t spoken to all night,” Jamie said. He slapped Cory’s bulging shoulder cap hard enough for him to get the hint.
Sherlock was the code name they’d used since sixth grade to escape any unpleasant scenario. “We can’t be rude. So, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Oh, right. Sherlock’s here. We couldn’t be rude,” Cory echoed, his Oscar-worthy acting skills coming in clutch.
They waved to the women, now with pronounced frowns on their faces, and retreated toward the pool. As they left, the sisters whispered in not-so hushed tones.
“He used to be better looking, don’t you think?” Stella accused.
“Hairline’s getting thin,” Abby hissed. “But bless his heart.”
Once they were out of earshot, Jamie and Cory busted out laughing.
Brinton had knocked out a few background interviews with other partygoers, quickly discovering that Iris locals were friendly, animated, and loved to gossip about their hometown hero.
The standouts included Mrs. Hollyhand, Jamie’s kindergarten teacher, with whom he regularly exchanged handwritten letters. And she still critiqued his penmanship.
Then there was Mr. Gilbert, who owned a convenience store, where an eight-year-old Jamie once shoplifted chewing gum. Mr. Gilbert revealed that Jamie felt so guilty, he returned every chewed-up piece in a sticky ball. He volunteered to work off his debt in the storeroom after school.
Bob Lowell played JV football with Jamie and once walked in on him “jackin’ the beanstalk” to an Angelina Jolie photo spread in GQ. This was surprising, because Brinton had pinned him as a Jennifer Aniston kind of guy.
Earlier that night, Brinton had caught sight of Jamie, wearing a white T-shirt that still managed to scandalize his body’s rigid peaks and valleys.
He was with a tall, handsome guy of even larger build.
The men were close to the stage with two blondes, both in strappy white sundresses that made their natural-looking tans pop.
The group laughed heartily, and one of the women clasped Jamie’s bicep. Against her wishes, Brinton’s heart stuttered. The women were gorgeous, exactly the type she expected him to go for. Not that she had any kind of claim to him.
That was at least an hour ago. Where the hell was Jamie now? It was getting late, and Brinton needed to get her story back on track. She scanned the patio until her eyes landed on the fire pit.
“I can’t believe old Sherlock still works.” Cory laughed through stretched breaths.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Jamie said, doubled over and clutching his ribs. “Though, I ought to ream you out. You were gonna let them double-team me if I didn’t call an audible.”
“Sorry, I’m a happily married man,” Cory said, his caramel cheeks stained pink with amusement. Slowly, he waved his gold wedding band in Jamie’s face.
In return, Jamie held up his bare left hand before flipping him off.
Cory swatted Jamie’s hand away as they approached the bar for another round. “You’re right. I know you’ve been on a cold streak, but you didn’t deserve that.”
“What do you mean cold streak? I’m thirty years old, practically live at my father’s house, and I get to binge all the bad reality TV I want. I’m livin’ good.”
They clinked their beer bottles, laughing.
Jamie took a sip. If tonight went the way he needed, there’d be plenty more beer in his future. He and Cory used to share tube socks and bunk beds. But now, he needed some honest-to-goodness advice.
“You ever needed to tell somebody something, but you didn’t know how?”
Cory smirked. “No, I’m not available to end your cold streak, but I’m touched.” He stopped laughing when Jamie’s expression grew solemn. He clasped Jamie’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Jamie caught him up about Brinton’s arrival and his father extending his “songwriting” deal. Outside of his team, Cory was the only person who knew about his father’s control and the ensuing lies bundled with it. He’d supported him in spite of it, and Jamie was grateful.
“I want to tell Brinton my plans to go out on my own, and soon,” Jamie said.
Cory knit his heavy brows together. “Shit, that’s a hell of a landmine.”
“This article might be my only shot to start over. But I need to do it in a way that I can still protect myself. In case…”
“Shit goes sideways? You know that’s a real possibility, right? Telling a journalist the one secret that can destroy everything.”
Jamie swallowed hard. He’d been avoiding that truth: that this article wouldn’t be the redemption he yearned for. It could end up worse.
“Yeah, I know.”
“But you trust her?”
“I want to. I think, if I talk to her, and show her I’m serious about this, I can trust her.”
Cory scratched his stubble. “When?”
“Tonight.”
“Lordy, Crawford,” he exclaimed, hands flying out to his sides. He rested his chin against his knuckles. The Thinker sculpture in real life.
“Okay, take her somewhere so y’all can be alone. Too many bystanders here. Then, make her feel comfortable. Spin it like you can both benefit from working together.”
Jamie nodded. “That’s what I was thinking too.”
“It’ll help her see you as a person, not some celebrity she’s writing about for a paycheck,” Cory added. “Which you need for this to work. And when you tell her, ease into it. Wait for the right moment.”
“How do I know when it’s the right moment? I’m running out of runway.”
“No clue, brother. But you’ll know. It’s sink or swim.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Sure, that seems easy enough.”
Cory grinned. “Because that’s the easy part. The hard part? You gotta keep her away from your daddy. If he finds out what you’re up to—”
“I know.”
Cory nodded. “Good. Go find her. I’ll cover for you here until Priyanka calls. I’m on diaper duty tonight. You got Sr. to deal with, but I’m far more scared of what my wife will do if I turn up late.”
Jamie pulled Cory in for a tight bro-hug. “Thank you, man.”
As his friend disappeared into the crowded dance floor, Jamie finally spotted Brinton on the farthest side of the patio, behind the dance floor.
Thankfully, she was alone. Jamie drained his beer and took long strides to catch up with her. But then she beelined for the firepit, right toward his father.
Shit.
Brinton couldn’t believe her timing. Nobody could give more context on Jamie’s journey than his father. She was relieved to knock out his interviews so early in her stay.
Tex tipped his wide-brimmed hat as they crossed paths, leaving Jamie Sr. alone. Her heart galloped in her chest as she approached.
Jamie Sr.’s long and lean silhouette was awash in a blaze of scarlet and saffron. He looked like a tableau from one of those old Westerns she used to watch with her own father.
From the cobalt Adirondack chair where he held court, Jamie Sr. offered a wry smile.
Brinton fidgeted with a few braids that had spilled over her shoulder. “I wanted to thank you again for hosting me and for the party. It’s great,” she said, trying to keep her tone even despite the stress drop-kicking her in the stomach.
“Mh-hmm,” he said, eyes fixed on the crackling flames.
She held up her voice recorder in one hand. “I was hoping I could get a quote from you. You’re one of the most successful country artists, well, ever. How do you feel about passing the torch to Jamie, who’s not only an up-and-comer, but your son?”
“Passing the torch, huh? Didn’t realize there was a name for it,” Jamie Sr. said impartially. Slowly, he rose from his seat. “It feels like a lot of blood, sweat, and tears coming to fruition. It feels like something I would do anything to protect and nurture. Do you know how that feels, Ms. Shaw?”
She cleared her throat. “Sure. Legacies help people make sense of life and their place in it. Do you agree?”
“You mind if we speak candidly?” he asked, nodding toward her recorder. “Off the record.”
She pressed the stop button. Jamie Sr.’s brown eyes glowed amber in the low light.
“I’m gonna protect my son’s best interests, even when he can’t do it himself. He can be impulsive, even reckless when he don’t feel in control. Been that way since he was a kid when he…”
Jamie Sr. stopped himself, then rolled back his shoulders.
“I’ve seen it to know that he needs somebody to guide him, to keep him on the right track.
So I’m not going to let him throw his life away.
That means keeping a close eye on you and that article of yours.
He’s friendly with young women like yourself, as I know you’ve heard, but I didn’t do all that I’ve done”—he motioned with his open palm to his surrounding kingdom—“to let him get distracted. Am I clear?”
Did he take her for some kind of notebook-wielding trollop?
Brinton wanted to unleash the hot current of fury lighting up her every neuron.
Throw that fancy Adirondack chair in the fire.
But Black women rarely had the privilege to exist peacefully in the world, let alone the luxury of being angry. Or to cry.
“What do you think I’m here to do?” she asked Jamie Sr. She was keenly aware that, this time, there wasn’t a quick exit plan.
He rattled the ice and whiskey in his glass, clicked his tongue. “I suppose we’ll find out eventually,” he said, disappearing through a side door and into the darkened main house.
As Brinton stood there, too stunned to move and so much unsaid coursing through her veins, her eyes found Sammi’s. Mid-twirl on the dance floor, she gave Brinton a thumbs-up. Lips formed into a half-baked smile, Brinton shot her one back.
Yee-freaking-haw.