Damn it. She’d almost forgotten about their bet. They’d made it after returning from Vegas, both nursing brutal hangovers from the awards night. It was a friendly challenge to see who could go the longest without drinking. She hadn’t even realized it was still a thing—let alone that it extended to the tour.
But there was no way in hell she’d give in.
Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t had a single drink this whole time? Not even one?”
Clayton smirked. “Not even a sip.”
The opening riff of “Barracuda” blasted through the speakers—her cue.
Jamie stood, rolling her shoulders back. “That’s me,” she said, heading for the door.
“Jamie!”
She turned around.
Clayton leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression. “Break a leg, darlin’.”
She took a steadying breath and followed Buddy toward the stage. Her pulse thrummed, adrenaline kicking in, readying her body for fight or flight. Deaner slipped her Les Paul Goldtop over her shoulder and winked, anticipating what was coming.
She may have carried a guitar instead of a rifle but make no mistake—she was walking into battle.
One she intended to win.
The band launched into the first song as she stepped onto the stage, waving at the crowd. Ruth had lied—there wasn’t an empty seat in sight. The audience greeted her with polite applause, nothing more. She stepped up to the mic and started to sing.
By the end of the song hands were clapping along, and she even caught a few hollers. She and the band played flawlessly, better than soundcheck. She had to admit: Clayton’s band was exceptional, maybe even better than hers. And hers was top-notch.
When the final note rang out she grinned, breathless, and thanked the Alabamians. Their cheers were deafening now, voices calling her name. She’d turned them. That electric feeling never got old, the rush of winning over an audience that started off indifferent. It had been a while since she’d had to fight for a crowd, and damn it felt good.
As she walked offstage Clayton was waiting in the wings, grinning like an idiot.
“How much did you see?” she asked, slipping her guitar strap over her shoulder.
“Every second,” he said. “How the hell am I supposed to follow that?”
“Sounds like ayouproblem.” She smirked. “See you at the encore.”
CHAPTER 24
CLAYTON
Clayton sat on a chair in his dressing room, his boots still on, his hat hanging low over his eyes. The roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears but tonight, for the first time in his whole damn career, he wasn’t sure they’d been cheering for him, especially during his encore.
He let out a long breath and pulled out his phone, thumbing through his contacts until he landed on his brother. The line barely rang twice before Nolan’s voice came through, groggy and annoyed.
“Clay? It’s past midnight, man. This better be good.”
“Oh, it’s something, all right.” Clayton tugged his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. “Figured you’d want to hear it from me before you saw it all over the dang internet in the morning.”
Nolan made a low noise. “Oh no, what did you do?”
Clayton let out a dry laugh. “Not me, jackass. Jamie.”
There was a pause then a sigh. “What happened? Did she quit already? Burn the venue down?”
“Worse.”
“Worse than burning down the venue?”
