“Why do you keep it here instead of at your house?”
“Inspiration for what I want: Best Country Album.” He pulled up a stool and grabbed an acoustic guitar from the rack. “I know it must sound stupid—greedy, even.”
“Not really,” she said, removing a half-eaten bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos from the couch before sitting next to Duke. “I want a Grammy for Song of the Year—the best song, regardless of genre.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather be a songwriter than an artist. Did you know I auditioned for Star Factor with an original song?”
He shook his head and grabbed the bag of Cheetos. “You want to split them?”
“No thanks.” Derrick didn’t permit junk food or anything non-organic in the house.
Duke’s ears perked when the bag crinkled.
“Your loss,” he said, shoving the worm-like puffs into his mouth.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
A deck of Bicycle playing cards rested on the side table, easily recognized by the ace of spades on the box. As a child she’d learned to count using those cards; her father had taught her to play blackjack instead of riding a bicycle. AJ was a gambler, but unlike the one in the song he didn’t know when to fold ’em. But he did know when to run.
She studied the picture on the back of the door. She didn’t know who the man was but he had some age on him, that was for sure. He wore awhite cowboy hat with a denim shirt, and his sharp blue eyes resembled colored crystals.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Clayton pointed his red-stained finger at the door. “That? Merle Haggard.” She gave him a blank stare. “Are you serious?” He rubbed his left elbow against his side. “The Hag?”
Her phone rang, and she realized it was Derrick.
“Sorry, I need to take this.” She rose from the couch and strode into the hall, shutting the door before answering. “What do you want?”
“Clayton Langley?” Derrick huffed on the other end.
“It was a kiss at midnight,” she said flatly. “Not that it’s any of your busin—”
“How dare you try and hoard media attention when I’ve got a film coming out!” He was more focused on his career than their relationship, which didn’t surprise her.
“Jesus, get over yourself.” She was not in the mood to argue. It was the only thing he was good at, other than pretending to be someone else.
A man’s voice echoed behind her, “Clay? Are you here?”
“What the fuck, Jamie?” She could almost feel Derrick’s neck cords bulging through the phone, like he was seconds away from transforming into the Incredible Hulk. “Are you with him right now?”
“We’re on the same label,” she said. “He must be in the building somewhere.” She didn’t feel guilty about lying because he wouldn’t have believed her.
“We’re done,” he said, his voice resolute.
“You can’t break up with me when we’re broken up.”
A Clayton Langley look-alike approached her. His cheekbones were chiseled and his dark eyes exuded kindness. He wore a navy jacket,light-wash blue jeans, and tan cowboy boots that matched his hat—a real-life Marlboro Man.
“Listen, Jamie, I—” Derrick’s voice trailed off as she hung up on him. She flashed a flirtatious smile at the handsome wrangler.
The man gave her a toothy grin with dimples noticeably absent. His hair was a darker shade of brown than Clayton’s, wavy beneath his hat.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said, his voice higher in pitch than deep. “I’m Nolan.”
“Jamie.” She shook his hand and immediately lost interest. AJ had always said you could tell everything by a man’s handshake—probably the only true thing to come out of his mouth.
