He switched on the high beams. It was a dark winter night and his truck crawled up the driveway, the ground crunching under the tires. Tennessee was cold in January, especially where he lived—the middle of nowhere—and the muddy driveway froze solid at night until the sun came up.
The lights were on inside his house—Nolan, no doubt. After Tammy left, his brother had become a permanent fixture at his home, though he wasn’t sure whether Nolan was there to keep him company or the other way around.
Clayton opened the front door and Duke whizzed by, causing him to steady his balance on the frame before entering the house. He smiled at another yellow Lab sitting by his brother’s feet, looking for permission to greet him. Duchess was from the same litter as Duke, but only one dog listened, and it wasn’t his.
“Go say hi, Dutch,” Nolan said, and the dog dashed over. “You’re home early.” He glanced at his watch. “I thought you’d be at the studio all night.”
“I’m heading on over to the Bluebird,” Clayton said. “Jamie and I wrote a song together and I’m plumb itchin’ to try it out.”
“You wrote some lyrics?” Nolan asked, his tone skeptical. Clayton often leaned on his co-writers for words, even if his number-one song was all his.
“Not quite,” Clayton replied with a shrug. “Hey, you ever heard of a band called the Killers?”
Nolan opened the fridge. “Yeah, sure. I went to college, remember?”
“What’s wrong with your house?” Clayton frowned as he pulled a smorgasbord of leftovers from the fridge.
“You’ve got better grub,” Nolan said. “The song you wrote—what’s it called?”
“‘I Did a Good Job of Drinking.’”
“You sure did.”
“Now why the hell did you send Jamie roses?” Clayton blurted out, remembering the mix-up that nearly drove him batty when she’d told him what kind they were.
“I thought you liked her?”
Clayton nodded. “I think she likes me too.”
Nolan shook his head. “She was giving you a pretty hard time at the studio.”
“We just mess with each other,” Clayton said, lifting the brim of his baseball cap. “It’s what we do.”
Nolan grinned. “You sure do like feisty women, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I sure do.”
CHAPTER 5
JAMIE
During the ride back to her hotel Jamie thought of a few good lines she should have used on Clayton. She’d never go on a date with someone so annoying. At least he’d helped with her song, so maybe he was good for something. But probably not.
The door beeped open and she walked into her hotel room, doing a double-take as she passed the mirrored closets. She frowned at her shirt. Clayton was right: if she was going to perform at the Bluebird tonight, perhaps wearing a “country music sucks” shirt wasn’t the brightest idea. She inspected the clothes in her closet but everything was black except for a pair of stretchy blue jeans she wore when traveling.
She walked across the living room and opened Ruth’s adjoining door. Her assistant was a few inches shorter but wore the same size, so she was confident one of her tops would fit. She found a denim shirt in her closet, identical to the wash of her blue jeans. She’d never worn denim on denim, but there were no fashion police in Nashville. People were committing high crimes and misdemeanors on the regular.
After she showered and got dressed Jamie loosened the bun she’d twisted earlier. She needed to look the part in front of the country music fans and become a chameleon. She applied a heavy spackling of makeup, curled her hair into soft waves, and slipped on Frye Melissa Button boots—the closest she’d ever get to wearing shitkickers.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through a feed—she needed to feel bad about herself before she could play music. When she was in middle school she used to cut her thighs with a razor, but now people sliced her open using 280 characters.
The tweets read:
@saintsNOLA67your ugly
Spellcheck is free, buddy.
@dollyfan44everhow dare you sing dolly!
