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.
Finally they arrived in Cleveland and Jamie had a plan—but she couldn’t pull it off by herself. She needed Ruth and the band’s help, and they were more than willing to play along.
The night before Jamie had convinced Clayton to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They hadn’t been to any museums yet and she figured it was only fair—after all, she’d gone to the country version. He didn’t argue, especially after hearing there was a Bon Jovi exhibit.
When Jamie woke up that morning she put her plan into motion. She walked past the bunks to the front lounge, where Ruth was scrolling on her phone while Clayton watched baseball highlights.
She cleared her throat softly and let out a weak cough. “Ugh. I don’t feel great. All that cigarette smoke yesterday totally wrecked my lungs.”
Ruth’s head snapped up. “Oh no! Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
Jamie sniffled for effect and shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to gargle with warm salt water.”
Clayton glanced over. “You want to use my humidifier?”
She blinked. “You have a humidifier?” That actually surprised her.
“Yeah. A small one in my bunk. Helps with my voice.”
