Would Derrick show up? Worse, would he bring Matilda? It would be just like him to try to rattle her, to make sure she knew he had the upper hand. She had to prepare for the worst.
During the six-hour drive south she tried to sleep but couldn’t. Every time she closed her eyes her mind spun with different scenarios. What would she say if she saw him? She’d put both Derrick and Matilda on the “no backstage” list, but that didn’t mean much. He was one of Hollywood’s biggest stars—rules didn’t apply to him. She’d seen it firsthand, watching him breeze past velvet ropes, ushered into sold-out restaurants while other people waited for hours. He never turned down special treatment.
As the bus sped toward LA she stared out the window at the passing lights, trying to calm the storm in her head. But the closer they got, the harder it became to breathe.
Tomorrow she’d have to face it.
Jamie rolled out of bed and walked toward the front lounge. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would help her fall asleep.
“Hey there,” Clayton whispered.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard his voice. She hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at this hour, but she wasn’t entirely unhappy about it.
“What are you doing up?” she asked, flipping on the kettle.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He lifted the length of rope in his hands. “Figured I’d tie some knots.”
She pulled a tea bag from the cupboard and tore open the package. “Does that happen a lot?”
“More often than not.” He twisted the rope between his fingers. “What about you?”
“Same.” She dropped the bag into a mug and poured steaming water over it. “I’m worried about playing LA—Inglewood, I mean.”
Clayton watched her closely. “Why?”
She sighed and sank onto the couch beside him. “I’m afraid Derrick might show up. With hisfiancée.”
“I see.” He scratched at his now fully grown-in beard. “Even if he does, you don’t have to see him.”
She blew gently on her tea. “Derrick can get in anywhere.”
“We’ve got extra security at the venue.” He placed the rope beside him. “And the threats—have there been more?”
She shook her head. “Not since St. Louis, I think.”
Clayton frowned. “That’s good.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. It almost makes me more nervous, like it’s the calm before the storm.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “I’ll talk to security.”
“Thanks, but it won’t help. You don’t understand—security guards are usually the problem. They love his tough-guy movies.”
Clayton’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll make sure they understand whose side they’re on.”
She sipped her tea, letting the warmth settle in her chest. They sat in silence for a moment, Clayton untying and tying knots, Jamie staring into her cup.
Then he broke the quiet. “I was thinking . . .”
“Careful.” She looked at him. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
He smirked. “Real funny. I’m serious.”
She raised her brow. “Oh?”
“I’m going to change the setlist. I want you to sing with me during the encore.”
She tilted her head, confused. “We already do ‘I Did a Good Job of Drinking.’ And lately I’ve been singing ‘More Bad Days Than Good.’”
