CHAPTER 9 #2
An older man with gray hair approached them. He wore a black vest that matched his pants and a white shirt, and his uniform included a shiny nametag above an emblem.
Clayton shook his hand. “Sonny, my man! Appreciate you doing this.”
“My pleasure!” Sonny seemed delighted to see Clayton, so she assumed he was a fan. Not everyone had great taste in music, so she didn’t hold it against him. “I’ve been here since the museum opened in 1967.” He pointed to his tag and smiled at Jamie. “Ma’am.”
“This is Jamie,” Clayton said.
“Anything for Clayton and his”—he flashed a shy smile—“lady friend.”
Jamie threw back her head in laughter. “No . . . no. I’m Jamie Keaton.” She could tell by his expression her name didn’t ring a bell, so she added, “I sang with Clayton on ‘I Did a Good Job of Drinking.’”
A light seemed to go off in Sonny’s head. “Sorry, ma’am. I thought you were a model or an actress.”
“Easy,” Clayton said. “Don’t give her a big head, now.”
Sonny led them through the museum, where gleaming instruments stood on display, elaborate stage costumes sparkled under the lights, and walls lined with vinyl albums told the stories of music legends.
Jamie marveled at the collections and how well they’d preserved the artifacts.
Their tour guide was knowledgeable about every item—its date, story, and relevance to the history of country music.
They listened to the earliest recordings of Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, and Johnny Cash.
She’d heard his cover of the Nine Inch Nails song and was familiar with “Ring of Fire,” but she didn’t realize June Carter Cash and Merle Kilgore had written it.
Jamie wanted to learn more about the Cashes and how they balanced their careers as husband and wife.
“I saved the best for last,” Sonny said, pointing at a glass case that contained an acoustic guitar, a stool, a pen, and a notepad. “Everything in here was used to create Clayton’s number-one hit, ‘More Bad Days Than Good.’”
She read the title card on the wall: 50 weeks at #1.
“Really?” She drew her eyebrows inward. “Fifty weeks at number one.”
“The all-time record,” Sonny noted.
Clayton’s dimples pressed into his cheeks. “Not bad for a country bumpkin.”
Jamie tapped on the glass. “Something’s missing in here.” She glanced at the floor and pointed at his feet. “You were probably wearing those shitkickers when you wrote it.”
He laughed. “You know, I probably was.”
Jamie felt inspired to write and couldn’t wait to finish her song. “Thanks for the tour, Sonny. I’m heading back to the studio.”
“I’ll join you,” Clayton said, trailing behind her as they exited.
At the studio Clayton’s gorilla-like hands swung open the vocal booth door. Jamie tensed. Couldn’t he take a hint? While it was nice of him to take her to the museum, she didn’t intend to make a habit of spending time with him.
“There’s pizza in my room,” he said. “Come and join me.”
She sat cross-legged on the floor, her guitar resting on her lap, fingers idly picking at the strings. “Thanks, but I need to finish this song.”
Just a few more lines. That’s all I need. One good lyric to tie the chorus together.
Clayton opened the door wider and Poppy sprang to her feet, tail wagging.
“You need to eat something, darlin’,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re wasting away to nothing.”
She blinked. That wasn’t something Derrick would have said.
Her ex-boyfriend had been obsessed with her weight, always commenting about portion sizes and how she “looked better” when she was a size zero.
Pizza had been off-limits. He used to joke about how much self-control she lacked, counting her calories like a WeightWatchers coach—or worse, that guy from NXIVM.
Her stomach tightened at the memory, the familiar shame creeping in. But Clayton wasn’t Derrick. He wasn’t analyzing her body like it was a math equation. He was just offering her pizza. Simple. No judgment.
Still, she hesitated.
Old habits die hard.
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. “I’ll eat later.”
But Clayton didn’t budge. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable expression of his. Like he saw right through her.
And that was dangerous .
“What kind of pizza?” Jamie asked, her stomach grumbling.
“Pineapple and mushroom—with extra cheese.”
She widened her eyes. “That’s my favorite!”
“Ruth told me.” Clayton wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue. “Sounds downright disgusting.”
“You’ve got every right to be wrong,” she shot back, lifting her chin in mock superiority.
He smirked. “That’s a great song title.”
Later, with nothing but a greasy, empty pizza box between them, Jamie melted into the couch, a deep, satisfied sigh escaping her lips.
The rich buttery crust, the gooey cheese stretching with each bite, the burst of pineapple’s sweetness against the earthiness of mushrooms—it was worth every single calorie.
Her stomach was full, her limbs heavy, and she was dangerously close to slipping into a glorious food coma.
But one thought nagged at her, the urge to snap a picture of the empty box and send it to Derrick to piss him off.
He’d lectured her endlessly about “clean eating” and “empty carbs.” Well, this was the most satisfying meal she’d had in ages.
And damn, it tasted like freedom.
“You know, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.” Clayton shrugged off his plaid button-down, revealing a white cotton T-shirt underneath. “Pineapple and mushroom—who would’ve thought?”
Jamie cradled her stomach, shifting her gaze from his belt buckle to his eyes. “Told you. It’s the perfect mix of sweet and savory.” She sat up from the couch and frowned. “Jesus, what happened to your arm?”
Clayton glanced at the faded scar along his elbow. “Tommy John surgery. From pitching.”
“Does it hurt? ”
He flexed his fingers. “Gets tight sometimes but it’s not that bad. Hurts sometimes when I play guitar.”
“Can you still throw?”
Clayton grabbed a guitar, resting it on his knee. “Well, my slider’s shit. That’s a breaking pitch.”
No shit.
It irritated her more than anything when men assumed she didn’t know anything about sports. She grew up in bars, casinos, and at the racetrack—anywhere her father could lose money. And, boy, did he.
“I know what a slider is,” she said. “AJ’s big on sports.”
“Who’s AJ?” Clayton asked.
“My dad, if you must know.”
“Are you two close?”
“No.”
“Well . . .” He examined his elbow. “That there surgery was a bust, and it ended my career”—Clayton snapped his fingers—“just like that.”
“Your career isn’t much better now.”
“At least I earned it.”
“Screw you.” He had no idea what she’d gone through. “I waited on tables for nine years, busting my ass at every open mic in Nevada before Star Factor.”
“Look, I apologize.” His dark eyes went still. “I did the same thing here in Nashville.”
“That’s different.” She waved dismissively. “You were already a baseball player and married a country singer. I came from nothing. Literally.”
“Now let me tell you, switching careers from being an athlete ain’t no easy ride. And don’t get it twisted—Tammy met a ballplayer, not some crooner.”
“She didn’t help you?” Jamie asked, her voice raised on the last word .
“Help me?” He blew out a breath. “Not on your life. She does nothing unless it’s to help herself.”
“What about your girls?”
“Serendipity,” he said, a warm smile spreading. “I always wanted kids, you know, but Tammy was hesitant. Those girls came as a surprise.”
“I’ll never have kids.” Jamie got up from the couch and whistled for her dog, curled up next to Duke. “Come on, Poppy!”
“Let them be.” Clayton picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Stay and have a drink with me.”
“Do you have any vodka?” she asked, assuming he didn’t. Besides, she’d already spent too much time with him and needed to get back to her music.
“No, but there’s some in the kitchen,” Clayton said. “It’s Dusty’s.”
“He won’t mind?”
“Mind? Are you kidding? He’s Canadian.”
They entered the kitchen and Clayton opened the cabinet above the fridge.
“Tall people,” he said. “Dusty and me—we’re the only ones who can reach it.” Clayton pulled down a bottle from the top shelf. The label read van gogh espresso: coffee flavored vodka.
She scrunched her nose, repulsed by the sound of it. “Coffee-flavored vodka?”
“It’s his thing.” He grabbed two tumblers and filled them with ice, then poured three fingers of vodka into her glass. “Go ahead and try it.”
Reluctantly she took the glass and let her lips hover over the rim. It tasted like Starbucks iced coffee with a hint of vanilla. “I like it,” she said, reading the label. “That makes sense.”
“What?”
“Van Gogh vodka—It’s from the Netherlands. ”
“Never been.”
“You’re kidding.” She grabbed the bottle and they walked down the hall. “The Van Gogh Museum is one of my favorites.”
“Didn’t he chop his ear off?”
“Yeah, and he would’ve cut the other one off if he’d heard your music.”
Clayton clutched his chest. “Shot through the heart.”
“And you’re to blame.”
“Blame for what?”
She stopped dead in her tracks. “Do you seriously not know that Bon Jovi song?”
Clayton looked at her blankly and opened the door.
She continued, “If I’m going to learn about country music, then you’re going to learn about rock.”
“Fair enough.” He poured a splash of whiskey into his tumbler and the ice cracked in the glass. “Who’s your favorite singer?”
Jamie sat on the couch. “Freddie Mercury—Queen. The band from the seventies, not the stone age . . . although I love them, too.” She laughed. “Let me guess, you’ve never heard of Queens of the Stone Age.”
Clayton shook his head. “I know ‘We Are the Champions’ and ‘We Will Rock You.’”
“‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is probably their best-known song, but I like ‘I Want to Break Free’ better.”
“Wayne’s World, right?” Clayton asked rhetorically. “Don’t know the other one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hand me your guitar.”
Jamie sang the first verse of her favorite Queen song but paused before the next verse, the love part. She returned the guitar to Clayton. “It’s kind of my jam.”
“What are you trying to break free from? ”
“Everything.” She took a sip of vodka. “Derrick, mostly. I think.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, that fella’s kind of a jerk.”
“He’s intense, for sure.”
“Intense is a euphemism for asshole.”
“He’s not exactly the president of your fan club either.” She motioned for Poppy to jump on the couch and Duke followed her like a shadow. “It’s kind of how we met.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember the finale of Star Factor? The year I won?” He nodded.
“While you were singing on stage with that country kid, Derrick was watching the monitor with the other contestants in the green room. He had a movie coming out so the studio made him go on Star Factor to boost his profile.” She poured more vodka into her glass of half-melted ice.
“He told us about the time you tried to fight him in a bar. Something about you throwing a sucker punch.”
“It wasn’t a sucker punch.” Clayton grabbed his left hand. “He was being downright rude to Tammy and I put him in his place.”
“With your fist?”
“Not my finest moment,” he admitted. “To be honest, I thought he was fixin’ to kick my ass, like in the movies, but he didn’t even hit me back.”
“He’s an actor, Clayton,” she said condescendingly. “With stunt coordinators and body doubles and scripts.”
“What about his fights in those Tactical Pursuit movies?”
“I’ve never seen them.” She shrugged. “I hate action films.”
“You picked the wrong guy.”
You think?