CHAPTER 7
JAMIE
T he following morning Jamie felt like a steaming pile of garbage. She took a hard swallow, her tongue fuzzy, tequila clinging to the back of her throat—another reason to stick with vodka. But there was no time to wallow. She needed to finish her album.
Slightly disheveled, she arrived at the studio to find Dusty and Evan working on her music.
She started singing the song they’d worked on yesterday, but something was off.
They tried various arrangements and different keys, but nothing seemed to click.
The lyrics felt like they belonged to someone else. Because they did.
In the early afternoon and no further ahead, Jamie picked up her Martin acoustic and played her version of “I Did a Good Job of Drinking.” She wanted to show them she could write her own songs, not just sing the lyrics others wrote.
Halfway through the song Shorty entered the control room, shook hands with the guys, and smiled. If he liked the song he could convince the label to include it on her album. Doofus and the suits were more likely to listen to a manager than an artist, especially a female one .
“That was great, Jamie!” Shorty’s voice boomed through the speaker. “I want to show you something.” He gestured for her to step out of the booth.
“What’s up?” she asked, hoping he liked the song.
“Come into Clayton’s room for a minute.” Shorty directed her down the hall.
“Do I have to?” She was still angry at Clayton for ruining her song in front of a live audience and pretending like nothing was wrong.
Shorty knocked on Clayton’s door but there was no answer, so he opened it. “Got a minute?” he asked, tipping back his cowboy hat.
“Sure thing,” Clayton said, sitting on a stool and strumming his guitar.
With some hesitation Jamie followed her manager into the room. Duke jumped off the couch, almost knocking her over.
“Duke!” Clayton went to grab him. “Down, boy!”
“It’s fine,” Jamie said, settling the dog.
Shorty pulled out his phone. “Great news, kids, your song is going viral, as they say. What a time to be alive!”
“What?” Jamie drew her eyebrows together. “What song?”
Shorty showed them a video on his phone, footage from last night. It had been viewed over a hundred thousand times.
“I don’t understand . . .” Jamie glanced at Shorty for clarification but received no response.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Clayton said. “Never gone viral.”
“That’s not what she said,” Jamie said, then paused. “I mean, how did they get this?” She turned to Clayton, tilting her chin down. “You said recording wasn’t allowed at the Bluebird.”
“It’s not.” He shrugged, handing Shorty back his phone .
“Jamie, it’s catching fire!” Shorty threw his arms up in excitement. “Hello, Nashville wants you to play it on their show tomorrow morning.”
She rolled her eyes, questioning why her manager would suggest such a thing. “I’m recording it for my record—”
“I’m recording it for my record,” Clayton told her, indicating no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
“Wait! Wait!” Shorty squeezed himself between the artists. “How did this happen? I had no idea you two were working on a song.”
Jamie raised her hand, eager to go first. “Clayton played a few chords and I sang my lyrics, and then he”—she pointed at him—“turned it into a fucking country song.”
Clayton appeared confused. “I thought we were co-writing?”
“I told you I don’t do that,” she said, annoyed. “Why would I write a country song with you? I’m not a country artist.”
“Listen up, kids,” Shorty interjected. “No matter the circumstances, people like it—a lot. Lisa said that it’s mostly country fans posting on social media.”
“See?” Clayton said with a smirk.
She would have slapped the grin off his face if she believed in violence. Not that she didn’t think about it—she did, and often.
“Of course you’d take his side.” Jamie sulked, crossing her arms. “Men always stick together. Anyway, what’s this Hello, Nashville thing all about?”
“Channel 4,” Clayton drawled, even though the question was aimed at Shorty. “Don’t you worry—we’ll make sure it’s more Johnny Cash this time.”
“Who?” she asked, messing with him.
“Good Lord, woman.” Clayton shook his head, pursing his lips. “You don’t know who Johnny Cash is?”
“Oh, sure.” She smiled, attempting to provoke a reaction. “He covered that Nine Inch Nails song.”
Jamie and Clayton began working on the arrangement for their live performance, but it was taking forever.
It frustrated her that he knew nothing about rock music.
He was familiar with only two genres: country and Americana, with the Allman Brothers being the most recent band on his radar.
She played him tracks from the Killers, Foo Fighters, and Imagine Dragons, but he only recognized “Believer” because some baseball player had used it as his walk-up song, which was kind of perfect, to be honest.
“What’s your walk-up song?” she asked.
“My what?”
“What song do you play when you’re walking on stage?”
“Oh, ‘Drag Racing My Heart.’”
“Isn’t that one of your songs?” She only knew that because he’d performed it on Star Factor the year she won.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned as if he were proud of it.
“You play your own song while walking on stage?” She burst out laughing. She’d never heard of anything so ridiculous.
“Why?” he asked defensively. “What do you play?”
She stopped laughing enough to answer, “‘Barracuda,’ by Heart.”
“Don’t know it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
The door to Clayton’s room opened and Ruth’s curly blond head popped in.
“Sorry for interrupting,” her assistant said apologetically. “Dusty mentioned you were in here working on a song together but I thought he was joking.” She pushed the door open wider. “I figured you’d want to see her.”
“Poppy Rose!” Jamie jumped from the couch and Duke barked with his tail wagging. She took her perfectly groomed poodle from Ruth’s arms and kissed her. “I missed you, Poppy!” She turned around. “Ruth, you remember Clayton?”
Ruth nodded and Clayton saluted her as if she were in the military.
“This is Duke,” Jamie added.
“Duke, sit.” Clayton gestured for the dog to respond but he didn’t listen.
“How is he around small dogs?” Jamie asked. Keeping Poppy safe was her top priority. She’d made a promise to protect her at all costs after rescuing her from a shelter in LA, where they’d found her wandering the streets, abandoned and starving.
“He lives on a ranch,” Clayton said. “He’s used to animals—horses, pigs, and chickens. Ain’t nothing more he loves than chasing them around the yard.”
She set Poppy down on the floor while Duke sniffed her rear end.
“Charming,” Jamie said, turning to her assistant. “How was LA?”
“Oh, fine,” Ruth said. “I thought you were working on your album?”
“Change in plans.” Jamie kept close tabs on her poodle. “We’re playing on Hello, Nashville in the morning.”
“Oh!” Ruth pulled out her phone. “The song from last night?”
“Yeah, but not as country.”
Ruth pointed at the door. “How are you going to manage that with Merle looking on?”
“You know who Merle Haggard is?” Clayton asked, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets .
“The Hag?” Ruth chewed her gum. “I’m an Okie from Muskogee. Well, just outside of Tulsa.”
“You’re not helping.” Jamie glared at her assistant, not wanting her to encourage him.
“James, you’ve always wanted to write a drinking song, and . . .” Ruth scrolled through her phone. “You’ve gained fifty thousand followers since this morning.”
“Is everything okay in here?” Dusty asked, standing in the doorway.
Duke ran up to greet him, but Poppy remained where she was when Jamie signaled her to stop. Poppy had excelled in her dog training courses, finishing first in her class.
“Sorry!” Jamie said, apologizing for keeping the producer waiting. “He’s trying to make it country and I’m going for rock.” She paused and added, “We both want it on our albums.”
Dusty, who was about the same height as Clayton, entered the room. “I love the song, Jamie, but it doesn’t fit on your record.”
“That’s what I told her.” Clayton sounded vindicated as Jamie contemplated new methods to kill him. Poison had worked well for the Russians.
“I’ll make it fit,” she argued.
“That’s what he said,” Clayton rebutted.
She ignored him and begged her producer, “Please!”
Dusty adjusted his glasses along the bridge of his nose. “It’s a country song.”
“Why is everyone against me?” She pouted, her bottom lip protruding.
“Sing it as a duet,” Ruth suggested, proposing a compromise.
Jamie scoffed. “I’m not putting a duet on my album, thanks.”
“That’s a downright fine idea!” Clayton flashed a mischievous grin .
Shorty stepped into the room. “What do you think, Jamie?”
Jamie sighed. She was reluctant to give in, but she didn’t like the thought of Clayton singing it solo either. “Fine, since everyone’s against me. But I want the lion’s share of the songwriting credit—and no fucking banjos.”
“The Nashville Rule applies here, Jamie.” Shorty tipped his hat.
“What?”
“The Nashville Rule,” Dusty repeated. “Everyone in the room gets an equal share of the song.”
Now I have to split the song with Old Hickory?
Jamie scowled at her manager. “This is your fault, Shorty.”
Early in the morning a car service picked up Jamie and Ruth and drove them to Channel 4 for her appearance on Hello, Nashville! Jamie still wasn’t thrilled about going but she pushed through it for the sake of the song.
“What time did you get in?” Ruth asked her boss, handing her a Starbucks coffee before entering the vehicle. Jamie and Clayton had stayed up late laying down tracks for their song and debating the acceptable level of “country.” For Jamie it was none, but they eventually found some middle ground.
Jamie glanced at her watch. “I’m not sure—it was late,” she said. “Thanks for moving us over to Shorty’s. I didn’t expect his penthouse to be so nice.”
“It’s super nice, right?” Ruth agreed. “How did it go at the studio? ”