Arthur loved to brag about being friends with Elvis, but Jamie wasn’t buying it. “I swear to God, the ones in his office with Elvis are Photoshopped,” she said.
“Starting to believe that.” Clayton tapped the brim of his hat. “Got myself a souvenir.”
“I see that.”
Before he could respond Buddy poked his head through the door. “Soundcheck in five. Y’all ready?”
Clayton glanced at her. “You up for it? The band can run through it without you.”
Jamie shook her head. “No, I’m good. The soup’s already working its magic.” She flashed him a smile, knowing she wasn’t done messing with him.
Soundcheck went smoothly, though she kept her voice softer than usual in case Clayton was listening. And she skipped rehearsing the new song on purpose. That one was for later.
When Buddy called for her in the dressing room she was almost giddy. But first she had a show to put on. She needed to deliver a performance so electric the crowd would demand an encore—something she never did. But tonight would be different.
She poured everything into her set, song after song, until the energy in the room buzzed with anticipation. Eight songs in she left them wanting more, slipping offstage while the band stayed put and the house lights remained low.
As always, Clayton was waiting in the wings. When she stepped backstage he was the first person she saw.
“Hell of a show,” he said. “Your voice sounded better than ever.”
“I’m going back out,” she said, grabbing a towel from Buddy. “I’m doing an encore.”
Before Clayton could respond she turned and strode back onstage, acoustic guitar in hand. She started to sing “More Bad Days Than Good.”
His number-one song.
The band followed her lead, playing it in a stripped-down arrangement that let her voice take center stage. The crowd erupted, singing along as she belted the chorus. Mid-song she glanced toward Clayton. He stood frozen, jaw slack, watching as she owned every note.
When the final chord rang out the audience roared. She thanked them, flashed a triumphant smile, and walked offstage—for good this time.
Clayton was waiting. “What the hell was that?” His voice was sharp, incredulous.
Jamie met his glare, unfazed.
“I told you not to fuck with me, Clayton.”
Clayton stayed mad for two days straight, barely speaking to Jamie or his band. But it was worth every second. Her performance of the song had blown up on social media, with fans begging her to record it. Even Shorty had called to say it wasn’t a bad idea. But Jamie had no interest in turning his song into a single.
The next night in St. Louis, Clayton tried to get even by stripping the bus of all its toilet paper. But his plan backfired spectacularly when Ruth was the first to use the bathroom. Unbeknown to him, her assistant always carried Kleenex, just like she carried Sharpies in her back pocket, so she didn’t even blink at the missing bathroom tissue.
But the attempt still counted. And that meant it was Jamie’s turn for a prank.
At the next stop she paid a visit to the crew on Mr. White, knowing they’d be more than happy to help. Partly because they thought her next prank was hilarious and partly because they didn’t want to end up as her next targets.
She timed it perfectly, making sure to strike while they had the next two days off. It had to be now, before the twins joined them in Kansas City.
Back on Mr. Black she waited until Clayton left the bus. Once the coast was clear she emptied his humidifier and replaced it with the crew’s leftover bong water. She plugged it back in, tucked it neatly beside his bunk, and walked away like nothing had happened.
Jamie was already in the front lounge the following morning when she heard Clayton hacking up a lung in his bunk. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh too soon.
A second later he stumbled in, bleary-eyed and clutching his throat like he’d swallowed sandpaper. His auburn hair stuck up in every direction and he looked miserable.
“My throat feels awful,” he croaked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He took a long drink and then grimaced. “And my bunk smells like a doggone skunk.”
Jamie pressed her lips together, fighting the grin creeping up her face. “That’s weird,” she said, barely containing herself.
Clayton turned to her, eyes narrowing. “Jamie, what did you do?”
