“Why the hell did they do that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess you raised them right, Clayton.”
The bus was parked but the tension inside was anything but still. It should have been a great show at Red Rocks, the kind of night people talked about for years. Instead, Jamie sat stiffly by the window, arms crossed, eyes locked on nothing in particular. Clayton was on the other side of the lounge slouched deep into the couch, hat pulled low, fingers tapping idly against his knee. Neither had spoken since the doors shut behind them.
Outside the parking lot stretched empty under the dull glow of overhead lights. The crew had cleared out. The band was on their bus. The two of them remained, trapped in a silence heavier than the disaster of the night itself.
Buddy climbed aboard, his phone in hand and his expression even darker than before. “Jamie, Clayton—come here. Now.”
Jamie sighed, taking a seat on the couch. She hadn’t done anything wrong but she could already feel a lecture coming.
Buddy flipped his phone around. It was Shorty on FaceTime.
Fuck.
“You two need to knock this off,” Shorty barked. It was the first time she’d heard him raise his voice, especially at his artists.
“I didn’t do anything,” she defended herself.
Shorty wasn’t buying it. “Oh yeah? What about the guitar strings? The T-shirt cannon?” He folded his arms. “Buddy told me everything.”
Jamie was relieved he didn’t know about the bong water. That would have really set him off.
“They were just pranks,” she said, shrugging.
“I had to get even,” Clayton added. “She’s been kicking my ass.”
Shorty’s patience snapped. “I’ll be the one kicking both your asses if this doesn’t stop.”
Dad was mad.
“One more incident and I’m getting you your own bus, Jamie,” Shorty threatened.
“But—”
“But nothing.” His cowboy hat dipped lower as he shook his head. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Yes, sir,” Clayton said.
Shorty looked at Jamie, waiting.
She sighed. “Yes, sir. No more pranks.”
The call ended and Buddy gave a nod before walking off.
Clayton turned to her, extending his hand. “Truce?”
She arched her eyebrow. “I’d hardly call it a truce. I won—four pranks to two.”
“Truce, for now. Until the end of the tour.”
Jamie eyed his hand for a beat before shaking it. “Until the end of the tour. But the score stands.”
It was probably for the best that Shorty put an end to the pranks. The things Jamie had planned for Clayton would have landed her in serious trouble—maybe even in handcuffs. And with her exams coming up right after the tour ended she needed to focus on studying, not revenge.
After Denver they headed west, playing shows from Salt Lake City to Portland before heading south. The concerts were well-received but the energy behind the scenes still hadn’t bounced back. Everyone was polite but no one was having fun. The band kept things professional, the crew stuck to their routines, and even the girls had lost interest in the usual road-trip distractions. Long drives, bad food, and tension-filled silence had drained the excitement from the tour.
Tomorrow they were playing in Inglewood, a suburb of Los Angeles. Jamie wasn’t looking forward to it. She’d lived in LA for five years but it had never felt like home. The idea of going back twisted her stomach into knots.
