But they’re just mistaken
I did a good job of drinking
Hell, yeah!
Clayton held the last note on his guitar while she tapped her lips, feeling embarrassed that it wasn’t good enough to share with him. She was overly protective of her songwriting, not allowing anyone to hear it until it was finished.
“I’ve got some other lyrics,” Jamie said as she picked up her phone. “Hold on.”
“You went and wrote a country song.” His dimples caved in. “A damn good one!”
“It’s not a country song,” she said, feeling insulted. “In my mind it’s a Killers song.”
“A murder song?”
“No.” She curled her lips at the corners. “The Killers, like the band.” She kicked the ropes away with her boot. “Speaking of murder, what are these for?”
“I tie knots when I’m thinking.”
“Into lassos or something?” She imitated the action.
He leaned over his guitar and picked up a piece of rope. “These aren’t long enough to make lassos.” He tied the ends together. “An overhand bow.”
“That seems pretty useless.”
“Knots come in handy.” His gaze steadied on her face. “Let’s go to the Bluebird tonight.”
“The Bluebird? Like on the show Nashville?”
“Never seen it, but I’d imagine so. The Bluebird’s a hub for songwriters.” He glanced at her chest and cleared his throat. “You might want to change first, though.”
She leaned back and pulled on her long-sleeved shirt. It saidcountry music sucks. “Oh, it’s a joke.” She half-smiled, forgetting she had it on. “I thought Shorty would be here, but I guess he’s been busy today—thanks to you.”
“Sorry about that.” He lowered his head and gazed at the floor. “Not that it’s any excuse, but I drank too much and—”
“You mean, you did a good job of drinking?” she corrected him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. He shifted his guitar from his lap and flashed the pewter Jack Daniel’s logo on his belt buckle. “They put vodka in my dressing room instead of whiskey and I knocked back a few shots.” He shuddered and closed his eyes. “I started the new year with a heap of regrets, not any resolutions.”
“Shorty gave us the wrong dressing rooms,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I think it was on purpose.” She stood from the couch and Dukejumped down. “We probably shouldn’t be seen together at the Bluebird. People will talk. You know, gossip.”
“Let’s give them something to talk about.”
“What?”
“It’s a song . . . never mind.” He rested his guitar on his knee and strummed a chord. “Besides, I didn’t ask you on a date or nothing.”
She placed a hand on her hip. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
CHAPTER 4
CLAYTON
Clayton left the studio and drove his trusty old pickup south on I-65. “I think I’ve got a shot with her,” he told Duke, who sat in the passenger seat like a human. “We wrote one fine song together.” He’d suggested heading over to the Bluebird as an excuse to see her without being too obvious. Having been out of the dating game for so long he didn’t rightly know his way around it. He chuckled to himself, recalling when he signed up for Tinder last year—and no one believed it was him, not even the dang app that had flagged him.
Thirty minutes later he turned into an unmarked driveway that once had alangley ranchsign at the gate. Several years ago some fans discovered where he lived and his father, a large-animal veterinarian like his brother, removed the sign and nailed it to the barn closest to the main house to prevent any further disturbances. The Langleys had lived on the same land for over two hundred years, with armies destroying their fields during the Civil War. They didn’t speak much about those days, his great-grandad had said, and it was just as well since there wasn’t much to be proud of.
After his first record went gold, Clayton bought the neighboring parcel of land and the one next to it for his brother. He always wanted to stretch out and expand his wings as far as his Tommy John surgery, to replace a damaged elbow ligament, would allow him. He needed to stay close to his family, especially his mother. Like any Southern woman, she was devoted to her grandchildren.
