“Jamie’s fine,” she replied while shaking his hand. “Do I have to call you Deaner, or is Dean all right?”
He shrugged. “Everyone calls me Deaner.”
“Okay, Deaner . . .” The word felt strange on her tongue. “Would you be interested in helping me with a little prank?”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah.”
“You don’t even know what it is or who it’s on.”
“Doesn’t matter. A good prank is a good prank.”
At that moment she knew she’d found her soulmate prankster.
“What’s the heaviest gauge of string you’ve got?” she asked, giving him a wry smile.
He rummaged through a box of strings. “D’Addario XL,” he said. “They range from 13 to 72.” He handed her the package. “Why?”
She inspected the package and nodded. “Before Clayton’s encore I’d like you to string these on Johnny’s guitar.”
“They’re not easy to play,” he noted with a shake of his head. “Hard on the fingers.”
“But Johnny will still be able to play it?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Only for ‘I Did A Good Job of Drinking,’” she explained. “Then you can switch his guitar out.”
“Sure, no problem. But he’s not going to like it.”
“Good,” she said, before exiting the bus.
In the dressing room Ruth helped Jamie get ready for her performance. Nerves coiled tight in her chest, making it hard to breathe. The thought of playing in front of Clayton’s audience sent a tremor through her hands as she leaned toward the mirror, eyeliner poised. She dragged the pencil along her upper lid but the line wavered, her unsteady grip betraying her.
“Give me that,” Ruth said, snatching the eyeliner from her hand and fixing the mishap.
“What if they hate me?” Jamie fretted.
“Who?” Ruth asked.
“Clayton’s fans.”
“Relax, they’re Alabamians,” Ruth replied, reaching for the mascara. “They won’t start throwing things, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Alabamians?” Jamie echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know they were called that.”
“Look up,” Ruth instructed while applying mascara to her lashes. “Most people will be at the concession stand grabbing drinks or merch or stuck finding parking. It won’t be a full house.”
“You’re right,” Jamie agreed. She’d often skipped the opening acts, arriving just in time for the headliners. These fans were no different.
But she needed a drink. And bad.
Jamie got dressed in black leather pants, a denim shirt, and Frye Harness boots—a blend of rock and country that felt entirely her own. A knock at the door interrupted her. Buddy was there, reminding her she had five minutes left. There was no backing out now. To think that fiveyears ago she’d been furious with Clayton for not inviting her on tour, and now she could barely handle the pressure.
“Knock, knock.” Clayton stepped into the room, already dressed for his performance. “You ready?”
Jamie sighed, dropping her head before looking up at him from her chair. “I could really use a drink, Clayton.”
His lips pressed together, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “I’ll get you one if you want, but you’re going to lose that bet.”
