CHAPTER 11 #2
Clayton played the entire song, but some sections needed rearranging. She excelled at dissecting other people’s music, viewing herself more as a songwriter than an artist. Melodies and lyrics were her specialties.
“I’d switch the second and third verses and take out the last chorus.” She shrugged. “But what do I know about country music? ”
“Well, we’ve got the number ten country song in America.” Clayton put down his guitar and picked up the ropes again, twisting them into a pretzel.
“Whatever,” she said, downplaying their accomplishment. “I’ve already had a Top 5 record on Billboard’s Hot 100.” She walked to the stairs. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Me and Gus are staying on the bus.”
“Why?”
“It’s just one night, and there’s a shower here.”
At that moment she felt silly for booking a suite. Clayton had more money than her but lived below his means. His boots were a prime example of his frugality, and she was sure he’d wear them until they fell off his feet.
“Why did you buy this bus anyway?” she asked. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“I rent it out to artists when I’m not using it. Pays for itself and then some.”
She envied his side hustle, which brought in passive income when he wasn’t on the road. She wished she had another source of revenue since her songwriting royalties were almost nonexistent. She only made money while on tour because she’d never recouped the advances from her record sales.
And people think being an artist is glamorous.
“So I’ll see you later?” Jamie asked. “I’m heading over to the High Museum of Art. They have a Georgia O’Keeffe I want to check out.”
He looked up from his ropes. “Well, shoot. I’ll tag along with you.”
Me and my big mouth.
After Jamie and Clayton spent the day at the museum, where the country singer was inundated with autograph requests, the bus arrived at their scheduled interview at a radio station in Marietta, Georgia, half an hour from Atlanta.
Kissing up to DJs was part of the job if you wanted them to play your record.
Inside the studio a short man in a cowboy outfit stood from his chair.
His white Stetson sat a little too big on his head, casting a shadow over his squinty eyes.
He wore a black Western-style shirt with pearl snaps, its embroidered yoke looking straight off a honky-tonk dance floor.
His baggy jeans sagged slightly, cinched tight by a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, glinting under the fluorescent lights.
And then there were the boots—snakeskin, and so absurdly pointy they could have skewered a marshmallow.
“Clayton Langley,” the man said in a deep voice, extending his hand.
“Lucky Lou!” Clayton shook his hand and turned to Jamie. “Lucky Lou is the best DJ in all of Georgia.”
Jamie sized him up. Lucky Lou, huh?
He’d probably come up with the nickname himself, and judging by the sweat beading down his face, the closest he’d ever been to luck was losing a coin toss.
“Aww shucks,” Lucky Lou said. “How the heck are you, man?”
“Never better,” Clayton said. “This is Jamie Keaton.”
Lucky Lou tipped his hat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“Likewise.” Jamie gave him a broad smile and clenched her jaw at the thought of having to talk to him. “Where do you want us? ”
“If you could sit across from me, we’ll be ready when the song ends.”
Jamie and Clayton took their seats in black leather chairs, put on headphones, and waited as Lucky Lou counted down from three.
“We have a special treat for you today,” Lucky Lou said into the microphone. “Clayton Langley and Jamie Keaton are in the studio.”
“Happy to be here, man,” Clayton said. “And thanks for playing our record.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Jamie echoed.
“You’ve got to tell me, how the heck did this happen? A pop-rock princess and a country legend?”
Jamie locked eyes with Ruth on the other side of the booth and mouthed Legend.
“It was an accident,” Jamie said.
“I’d call it a happy accident.” Clayton shot her a wink. “We were recording at the same studio in Nashville, and Jamie had some lyrics—”
“All the lyrics,” she interrupted.
“Anyway, we played it at the Bluebird and people responded, so our manager said I should record it because, well, it’s a country song . . . but Jamie here wanted to turn it into a rock song for her album, so we settled on a duet but kept it country for y’all.”
Jamie rolled her eyes at Ruth and shook her head. She still planned on making it a rock song, maybe a death metal record to piss him off.
“It’s the most requested song at the station,” Luck Lou said, glancing at Jamie. “I hear you’re going on tour with Clayton, ma’am?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“Any plans on writing another song together?”
“No,” Jamie replied.
“Yes,” Clayton said without hesitating.
Murder for hire was definitely on the table .
Lucky Lou laughed. “You two are quite the pair, aren’t you?”
“Like gasoline and a match,” she muttered.
Jamie didn’t even glance at Clayton. She didn’t need to. That cocky silence said it all—and if she looked, she might just forget how badly she wanted to throat-punch him.
After the interview they took pictures with Lucky Lou and the staff. She forced a smile for the cameras, pissed at him for monopolizing the conversation and not allowing her to get a word in.
“What the hell was that about?” Jamie asked as they left the station.
“What?” Clayton stared at her blankly as they walked toward the bus.
“We’re not writing another song together.” They reached the bus and she turned around to face him. “Why would you say that?”
“People love the song.” He motioned for Gus to open the door. “Why wouldn’t we write another song together?”
“Jesus, Clayton. I’m not a country singer.”
She boarded the bus and entered Clayton’s room, slamming the door behind her.
Another man was trying to tell her what to do and she wasn’t having it.
It had taken her long enough to realize she’d confused attention with control—thinking every glance was care, when it was really just ownership.
No. Writing another song with Clayton was simply out of the question.
The radio interviews in Atlanta and Raleigh were more of the same.
Clayton handled most of the glad-handing—these were his people, after all—but the station staff were friendly to her, even welcoming.
This was a stark contrast to rock radio, where DJs acted like playing your record was a personal favor.
The promo tour was going fine but Jamie couldn’t wait to get off Clayton’s stupid bus. She was over his dad jokes, pointless knot-tying, and the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos wedged between the seat cushions.
At least DC was next. Finally she’d be the star—the one leading the interviews, waxing poetic about rock music while Clayton sat there twiddling his thumbs. The thought alone made her smile.
The next afternoon she and Ruth lounged in the back seat of their rideshare, the DC skyline flickering past tinted windows. Sunlight streamed in, casting warm streaks over Ruth’s freckled face as she scrolled through her phone.
“Where exactly are we headed?” Jamie asked. She stretched out her legs, her combat boots knocking softly against the door.
They’d left Clayton behind on the bus, feeding him some nonsense about needing to shop for “girl stuff.” He hadn’t questioned it, just grunted and waved them off, looking almost relieved to be spared a trip to some imaginary lingerie store.
“Maryland, it looks like.” Ruth tilted her phone sideways, chewing her gum.
“What’s in Maryland?”
“DC’s biggest country station.”
Jamie sat up. “What?”
“The contemporary hit stations aren’t playing your record,” Ruth said, still scrolling. “But it climbed to number three on the country charts.”
Jamie groaned and slumped back against the seat. “I can’t believe my first top-three record is a country song.” She stared out the window at the endless stretch of highway. They could have been driving anywhere in America. “Doesn’t he annoy the hell out of you?”
“Clayton? Not at all.” Ruth giggled. “He’s funny.”
“He thinks he is because you’re encouraging him.” Jamie rolled her eyes. “By the way, what’s up with Derrick? I haven’t heard from him.”
She hadn’t reached out first and she wasn’t going to. She’d stand her ground until he came around, like always.
“His movie premiere is tonight,” Ruth said, flicking her screen.
Weird .
Jamie and Derrick had blocked each other on social media, so she had no idea where he was. “He usually begs me to go to those.”
Derrick loved the whole power-couple thing, but she couldn’t have cared less. All she wanted was to write songs, win a Grammy, and live peacefully with Poppy far away from all this noise.
When they arrived at the radio station Jamie knew it would be a bust. She was expecting a DC-based station with a rock audience, but instead they ended up in some random country music pocket of Maryland called Rockville—the irony.
The host was friendly enough but clearly unprepared, flipping through a stack of crumpled notes like he’d printed them five minutes before she walked in.
Jamie tried to engage, forcing a polite smile as he stumbled through generic questions: “What’s your writing process?
” “Who are your influences?” She gave the shortest answers she could get away with .
When the host pivoted to a question about the evolution of country music, she gave up. She had nothing to add to this conversation, not when Clayton was sitting beside her practically vibrating with the need to jump in. This was his world, not hers.
After the interview Jamie hopped on the bus, knowing she was only forty minutes away from civilization. There wouldn’t be any cowboy hats or “howdy, ma’ams” in the nation’s capital.
“That went well,” Clayton remarked while shuffling a deck of cards on the table.
Jamie boarded the bus and stood over him. “You think?”
“Shoot yeah!” He kept shuffling. “They couldn’t get enough of us at the station.”