Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Later that Tuesday afternoon, ear-splitting ticking grated Jamie’s already frayed nerves. He rubbed his throbbing temples as his eyes settled on the taunting seconds hand of his father’s antique clock.
Tick-tock, jackass.
Jamie wished to foil the impending trainwreck, but he couldn’t.
He shifted on the maroon leather couch inside his father’s office, quite possibly his least favorite place on the planet.
Here, Jamie Sr. courted ghostwriters, producers, and label executives.
Jamie was never invited to those meetings, of course. Another signpost of his powerlessness.
Across from Jamie, Tex and Sammi sat on matching leather armchairs facing Jamie Sr., who presided from his imposing cherrywood desk. Its broad Queen Anne silhouette never failed to make everyone else in the room appear half their size.
The three of them were going on about logistics for the upcoming tour. Jamie had tuned it out, instead waiting for the ticking to stop, when he’d sign that God-awful contract binding him to another two albums.
Hell, who was he kidding? He was never getting out now.
“You hear me boy?” his father asked. He held a thick stack of papers in his hands. “I asked how the interview with Ms. Shaw was going?”
“Oh,” Jamie mumbled. He hoped she’d gotten his package and wished to have seen her smile when she opened it. That smile would have cured him.
God, he wished she were there now. Jamie would apologize for asking her to jeopardize her career to save his. It was a bad hand all around. Brinton couldn’t help him, and he didn’t blame her.
“She’s good at her job.”
“How good?” his father asked sharply.
Good enough to know not to get entangled in my mess.
Jamie flicked his ring around his finger, but he didn’t feel any more soothed.
“It’ll be a great article. Got nothing to worry about.”
Not that his father ever worried.
Jamie Sr. grunted. “Kendall called this morning. Said you snuck off early from the party with Ms. Shaw?”
Sammi straightened in her chair, hands tightly balling the skirt of her strapless peach maxi dress. “Oh, I’m sure they were talking about the article, like we agreed.” Her eyes pleaded for him to take the bait. “Right, Jamie?”
“Um—yeah,” Jamie stuttered. He’d owe Sammi a whole field of flowers for trying to cover for him. “I told Kendall good-night and walked Brinton home.”
“That ain’t what it looked like.” Jamie Sr. slid his phone across the desk, revealing a photo of Jamie and Kendall at the party. Her chest pushed against his, their faces whisper-close. On the edge of the frame, Brinton looked decidedly uncomfortable.
Posted on Iris After Dark, an anonymous Instagram account devoted to hookups and gossip around town, the post claimed Jamie and Kendall were “canoodling over canapés” while Brinton was pegged as the sour-faced interloper.
Jamie was frequently the subject of conversation on the account’s feed. He could handle that. But he rued implicating Brinton in this Real Housewives of Bullshit–level nonsense.
Jamie pointed down at the photo, which silently mocked him. “That’s a bold-faced lie.”
His father’s scrutinizing look sucked the oxygen from the room. “I invited Kendall because it was good for people to see you together, get more mileage from that storyline.”
Jamie Sr. was an expert at stirring the pot and torching everything inside.
“It’ll be good for the album launch,” Tex added, blissfully oblivious to Jamie’s despair.
“I told you to be careful what you say around Ms. Shaw,” Jamie Sr. said, glowering at his son. “She’s a journalist, and when it comes down to it, she’s loyal to that magazine. Not you.”
The words lashed him. Jamie didn’t demand Brinton’s loyalty, and he respected her wishes. Yet, the hopelessness hacked at him. “I know, Daddy.”
Jamie Sr. nudged the stack of papers toward Jamie and held out a pen. “I’m giving you a lot of slack here, doing this interview at all. Don’t make me reconsider.”
Fuck, here it was. His past and future. A spectacular collision, and he was trapped inside as the flames raged. Jamie rose from the couch and walked to his father’s desk. He stared at the contract, where, at the bottom, a large X beckoned.
His eyes floated to the glossy fountain pen, still pinched between his father’s fingers. Jamie willed it to combust. A smoke bomb, earthquake, or freak hail storm would have also worked. Anything to buy him more time.
“Let’s get on with it,” his father snapped.
Jamie took the pen and rolled it between his fingers. He brought it down to the blank space, primed to engulf him and his dreams.
Suddenly, Sammi shot up from her seat, clutching her phone. “Butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”
Tex adjusted his black cowboy hat. “Well, don’t hold us in suspense.”
Characteristically, Jamie’s father didn’t say a word.
She grinned and spun on her cork heels. “Guess who’s headlining Yeehaw Fest next Saturday?”
Jamie dropped the pen, more than a little confused what this had to do with him. “Mother Teresa?”
“God rest her soul,” she volleyed back. “But no, my sweet little smart-ass. It’s you.”
Jamie’s neck jerked back at the timing. The performance was in just over a week. “I thought we weren’t playing until after the album launch?”
“That was until Luke Bennett had to pull out. On vocal rest for six weeks. Shame, I was looking forward to meeting him. Among other things,” she said, smiling wistfully. “Anyway, I called in some favors, and it’s all you, baby.”
“Well, how about that?” Tex howled, slapping his hands together.
Jamie was stunned. Three years ago, he was playing to crowds of a thousand or less.
Now, he was set to play for an audience of a hundred thousand.
It was cruelly poetic: the deeper the lie about his music became, the bigger his career got.
His shame swallowed him. It was an insatiable quicksand, no matter how hard he clawed.
Jamie rubbed his neck. The muscles had seized into one throbbing mass. He forced a smile from the dregs of his soul. “Wow, that’s—thank you.”
“You’re welcome. However, we need to get things moving with the promoters, including a photo shoot today. We gotta leave right now.”
“Me and your daddy will finalize the set list,” Tex said, rising to meet Jamie’s father at his desk.
“Great,” Jamie offered, still a little dazed as he started toward the door.
“Son—the contract,” Jamie Sr. said. He tapped his pointer finger on the documents. Jamie froze. Regret pricked the back of his neck.
“He’ll sign it tomorrow,” Sammi called from the hallway, yanking Jamie’s bicep. “We’re gonna be late.”
While prepping for a massive, last-minute show wasn’t on his bingo card, he was grateful for the escape route.
Jamie followed and closed the double doors behind him. “Hey, thank you for helping me back there. I—”
Sammi practically floated down the grand wooden staircase. “Oh, I didn’t do it for you. I don’t want your daddy to start meddling, as he’s wont to do. I like Brinton, and while you’re trying to play your daddy like the radio, I know you do too. I know your tells.”
She paused mid-step and narrowed her eyes.
“Is something going on between you and Brinton? As your publicist, I wouldn’t hate it, given how much attention y’all got after the Grammys.
Could be good for the album. But also, as your publicist, if there is, I need to know so I can manage it.
Or, at least, manage your daddy. I can’t do that if you keep me in the dark. ”
There wasn’t exactly not nothing going on. He’d revealed his deepest secret to Brinton. It hadn’t gone as planned, but he believed Brinton wouldn’t leak it.
And while he trusted Sammi, it’d be easier, for now, to keep her on a need-to-know basis. Right now, there was nothing to know. As for Brinton, he’d keep his promise and go for whatever story angle she wanted.
Then, he’d crawl back into his miserable hole.
“Nothing going on but the article,” he said.
When Jamie slid into the back of Michael’s waiting SUV, his phone buzzed. There were two new texts from Brinton.
Brinton: We need to talk…
Brinton: Somewhere we can be alone. Tomorrow?
She had made her decision. Yet, he needed the closure, even if it was a rusted shovel hollowing him bare.
A little nauseous with trepidation, he turned to Sammi, who watched him skeptically. “I got a favor to ask.”