CHAPTER 25
JAMIE
T heir next show in Atlanta went off without a hitch, and Lucky Lou from the radio station had nothing but praise for Jamie’s performance. He was several beers deep when he said it so she took the compliment with a grain of salt, but it was still nice to hear.
Sobriety had changed the way she saw everything. She could spot the drunk ones instantly—the glassy eyes, the slurred words, the false confidence that came with one too many. It was like watching the world in high definition while everyone else moved in a blur.
They were on the road to Jacksonville, Florida, with a couple of days to kill before their next concert.
Jamie was studying in the bedroom when the distant wail of sirens caught her attention.
At first she didn’t think much of it—until the bus slowed and eased onto the shoulder.
Frowning, she closed her book and peered out the window, catching the flash of red and blue lights in the side mirror.
She stepped into the front lounge. “What the hell? ”
Clayton sat on the couch, casually tying knots in a length of rope, completely unbothered. Across from him Ruth was on FaceTime with Nolan, but she quickly ended the call.
“We’re being pulled over,” Clayton said, his focus still on the rope in his hands.
“For what?” Jamie crossed her arms.
“I wasn’t speeding,” Gus called from the driver’s seat, his voice defensive.
Clayton shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Jamie wasn’t convinced. Nothing about flashing lights and sirens ever meant nothing.
Gus opened the door and two uniformed policemen walked up the steps. One was short and white, the other tall and Black. The taller officer had an air of authority about him, like he was in charge.
“License and registration,” the shorter officer said, his tone clipped. “I’m Officer Bradley, and this is Officer Walker.”
Gus handed over the documents. “Why’d you pull me over? I wasn’t speeding.”
Officer Walker studied him. “Are there any weapons or drugs on the bus?”
“No,” Gus said evenly. “Not that I know of.”
Walker nodded but his expression remained unreadable. “Mind if we take a look around?”
Jamie glanced at Clayton, unsure if refusing was even an option.
After a moment Bradley and Walker stepped past them and made their way down the narrow aisle. They peeked behind curtains, opened a few compartments, and disappeared into the bedroom.
Jamie drummed her fingers on the armrest, shifting in her seat. What the hell were they looking for? They weren’t exactly cartel leaders .
A minute later Officer Bradley’s voice came through his radio. “All clear.”
Gus got up, his patience thinning. “You still haven’t told me why you pulled us over.”
Walker pulled out his phone. “Your license plate.”
Gus crossed his arms. “It’s registered in Tennessee.”
Walker turned his phone so Gus could see the screen. “Then why does it say POTUS and have DC plates?”
Gus blinked. “That’s not ours.”
“I took this picture when I pulled you over,” Walker said flatly.
Jamie leaned forward. Their tour bus? That made no sense.
Bradley flipped open a notebook, scribbling something down. “Where are you headed?”
“Jacksonville,” Gus said.
“For what purpose?” Bradley barely glanced up as he wrote.
“We’re on tour,” Clayton cut in. “We’ve got a show there on Friday.”
Bradley’s pen halted mid-word. His gaze flicked up. His brow furrowed. Then his eyes widened. “Oh my God.” He pointed at Clayton. “Are you . . . wait. Are you Clayton Langley?”
Clayton looked amused. “Yeah.”
Bradley’s entire demeanor shifted. He quickly tore a page from his notebook and held it out. “Could I, uh, could I get an autograph?”
“Sure.” Clayton chuckled and took the pen. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Aaron,” Bradley said, his fanboy excitement barely contained.
Walker, still unimpressed, exhaled loudly. “Right. That’s nice. But can someone explain why you have a presidential license plate on this bus? ”
Before anyone could answer a blur of navy and chrome roared past them, horn blaring. Jamie turned just in time to see Mr. Blue rolling down the highway, honking its horn.
Jamie groaned. Of course.
“I think our band just pranked us,” she muttered, torn between irritation and admiration. Johnny was pissed after his guitar strings had been swapped—rightly so.
Walker shook his head. “You shouldn’t play games like this. Impersonating Ground Force One is a federal offense.”
Ruth, silent until now, swallowed hard. “Are we getting arrested?” Her voice was small.
“Not today.” Walker shot them all a warning look. “But you need to remove that plate. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” Clayton said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Right away.”
Jamie and Clayton were going to get back at them—it was just a matter of time.
At this rate someone would end up arrested before the week was out.
The musicians had grown wary, double-checking their instruments before every show.
But Jamie and Clayton weren’t amateurs. They weren’t going to pull the same prank twice.
Touring up the East Coast from North Carolina to Maine, Clayton had a field day telling dad jokes about Bangor.
The audience wasn’t nearly as amused as he was.
Jamie, on the other hand, was killing it.
Word had spread about her performances and sold-out crowds showed up early to see her. Some even wore her merch .
The drive from Bangor to Cleveland was long and uneventful, but Jamie didn’t mind. It gave her time to study. She hadn’t missed a single question since somewhere in Florida.
“Knock, knock.” Clayton tapped on the bedroom door.
“Enter.” Jamie set down her highlighter.
He pushed the door open with a grin, cocky, unshaven, and clearly up to something. Two weeks on the road had left him with a scruffy beard that only made him look smugger.
“It’s time, darlin’.”
She arched an eyebrow. “For what?”
“A prank.” His grin widened. “We’re going to hustle them at poker.”
Jamie straightened. Now he had her attention. “What?”
“That’s all they do—play poker on the bus.”
“I don’t play for money.”
“Neither do they.” He leaned against the doorframe. “They play for smokes.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, but I think we can clean them out.” He rubbed his hands together like a villain plotting world domination. “We need signals.”
“Like in Rounders?” She smirked. “Never mind. I doubt you’ve seen it.”
He ignored that. “Why leave it to chance?”
Jamie tilted her head, studying him. “I’ll only agree on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
Her smile turned sly. “I win the showdown. No exceptions.”
At the next designated stop the buses pulled into a diner. Over sandwiches and sodas Clayton casually suggested a game, and no one needed convincing .
Jamie tried to steer them toward playing on Mr. Black, but the musicians wanted to smoke, so Mr. Blue it was. No one argued. Everyone agreed Buddy should deal—he was the only person both sides trusted.
Six people played since the small table couldn’t accommodate the whole band, but the loser of each game would swap out for an alternate.
Three hours later, as Clayton had predicted, he and Jamie had pretty much cleaned them out. The pot was so full that cigarettes kept rolling off the table, but no one was ready to quit. In what was undoubtedly the last game, the tension was thick enough to spread on toast.
Jamie shifted in her chair, the heavy smoke making it difficult to breathe. She knew it would wreak havoc on her voice but she needed to focus—winning was more important.
“Mind if I crack a window?” she asked, already reaching for the latch.
Johnny and Chico, the drummer, were the only musicians left in the round, and she could smell victory. As long as Clayton didn’t screw it up.
Buddy burned a card and dealt the turn. She kept her expression neutral, watching everyone else instead.
Chico took one look and folded with a disgusted grunt.
Johnny, though, raised, pushing in his last few cigarettes like they were worth a fortune.
But Jamie wasn’t fooled. His tell was as clear as ever: an extra-long drag of his smoke. He was bluffing.
Clayton adjusted his baseball cap, signaling to her that his hand was crap. Jamie’s wasn’t great either, but her golf bag flush—all clubs—gave her enough confidence to stay in. They both called.
Buddy burned the last card and flipped over the river. Jamie barely glanced at the table. Instead, she watched Johnny. There it was—the long drag. He was done.
Or was he ?
Johnny flicked his gaze between her and Clayton like he was watching a tennis match. He hesitated, stretching the moment, drawing it out just enough to make her question everything. Then, with a sigh, he tossed his cards down and leaned back.
Fold.
They’d won.
But they still had to fake the showdown, make it look legit.
Clayton went all in. So did she.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Buddy said.
Clayton turned his cards over—full house.
Jamie slammed hers down.
The fucker had won.
“Read ’em and weep,” he said with a wink, gathering up the cigarettes piled on the table.
She stayed quiet, not letting the band see how badly they’d just been hustled. But inside? She was burning. Fuming. She had to get even. No, more than even. She had to make him pay.
Clayton grabbed an empty shopping bag, held it at the end of the table, and used his forearm to sweep in his winnings. “Good doing business with you folks,” he said, heading toward the front of the bus.
“C’mon, man, you don’t even smoke,” Johnny said.
Clayton turned back, his smirk lazy, his eyes locking on Jamie. “Smoking ain’t good for you.” With an infuriating tilt of his head, he added, “You coming?”
Jamie stared him down. “No. I’m not.”
Just when she’d started to like him, just when she thought, maybe, he wasn’t so bad, he’d gone and fucked her over.
Now she was plotting her revenge.