CHAPTER 1
JAMIE
“What the fuck, Shorty?” Jamie asked her manager, jabbing a finger at the shiny poster stuck to the back of her dressing room door. The absolute nerve of Clayton Langley trying to steal her spotlight when she was headlining the damn concert. “Why is Clayton’s name next to mine? He was a last-minute addition to the show. I mean, look at the size of that font!”
Scott “Shorty” Shorthouse, mid-fifties, strolled toward her unfazed, his black ten-gallon hat resting comfortably atop his silver hair. He was always calm and measured, qualities she usually found comforting. But right now she wanted to shake him.
“Your name comes first,” he reassured her, as if that solved everything. He’d been managing artists for over thirty years and was skilled at handling musicians and their egos—including hers. “Look at the poster. It says Jamie Keaton before Clayton Langley. And it’s a benefit concert for the children’s hospital.”
Jamie crossed her arms.Oh, great. Now I’m the asshole complaining aboutfont size.
But still. Why was Clayton’s name screaming at the audience when hers was only slightly louder than a whisper? She knew exactly why: Clayton Langley was the golden boy of country music and everyone bent over backward to keep his ego polished to a high shine.
Her stomach twisted with annoyance but she forced herself to unclench her jaw. She would not let him get under her skin. This time.
She exhaled through her nose to calm down, but it was futile. She hated Clayton Langley and had wished death upon him more than once.
After a brief pause she said, “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Shorty nodded. “You’re doing a good thing here, Jamie.”
“Just keep Clayton out of my sight.” She sat in front of the room’s illuminated mirror and shooed away a makeup artist trying to sponge her face with pressed powder. Unable to let it go, spun in her chair and squinted, scrutinizing the poster from top to bottom and left to right. “That picture doesn’t even look like me. My hair isn’t black, it’s dark brown . . . my eyes arecornflowerblue, not baby blue. And my boobs are definitely not that big. You know I hate photo editing with a passion.”
Shorty, who was actually tall, spun Jamie back around, leaned on the back of her chair and stared into the mirror. “You’re a classic beauty, Jamie. I don’t understand why you’re always trying to fight it.”
“Rock ’n’ roll isn’t fuckme, it’s fuckyou.” She flicked her wrist dismissively. “Just ask Chrissie Hynde.” The Pretenders’ singer had said as much in an interview. “What does ‘classic beauty’ even mean other than someone who’s white?” Shorty’s mouth twisted as if he were about to say something but he remained silent as she continued, “They didn’t change a goddamned thing on Clayton’s stupid face. He looks smug in that picture, like he thinks he’s hot shit.”
The door swung open and a young blond woman with curly hair rushed in. “Sorry, James! Hi, Shorty.”
“Hey, Ruth!” Shorty greeted Jamie’s assistant with a friendly wave. Ruth Abbott was sunshine personified, the best person ever created.
Ruth closed the door behind her and held out a bottle. “They only had this.” She handed Jamie the bottom-shelf vodka.
“Jesus, I hadonething on my rider,” Jamie complained, glaring at her manager as she cracked the bottle.
“I can see if Clayton has a bottle in his dressing room?” Ruth offered, chewing a piece of Juicy Fruit gum. The unmistakable scent of bananas, pineapples, papayas, and something you couldn’t quite put your finger on gave it away from across the room.
Jamie rolled her eyes at her assistant, offended that she would suggest such a thing. “I’d rather die than ask him for anything.” She was still furious with Clayton for fucking her over five years ago by refusing to let her open on his tour. Something about her being “too rock” for his audience. She almost didn’t sign with Shorty’s management company because of it; he’d been Clayton’s manager since time immemorial.
“On the bright side you’ve got enough whiskey for the Zac Brown Band!” Ruth laughed.
“The what-who band?” Jamie cranked her neck and pointed at the poster. “Do you think that looks like me? Be honest.”
Ruth studied the picture as if it were hanging in the Louvre. “Well, your hair isn’t that dark, your eyes aren’t that shade of blue, and you don’t have a tan. And your chest”—she looked at her boss—“isn’t that big.”
Satisfied with her answer Jamie smiled, knowing she was right. “Ruth, please take a picture and post it to my socials.”
Her assistant lined up her phone and said, “Cheese!”
Jamie laughed so hard at their inside joke that tears streamed down her face.
“So . . .”Shorty met Jamie’s gaze. “The label wants your record done for a summer release.”
“It’s not a record label,” Jamie said with a straight face. “It’s a puppy mill.”
Ruth snorted with laughter. Jamie could always count on her assistant to support her regardless of the situation. Ruth was the best friend she’d ever had. As a kid she’d moved around so often she was never in the same place when a new school year began.
Shorty shook his head. “Mike said—”
