“I bet she’s more riled up about that breakup,” Clayton replied. “And Derrick Anderson? That no-good varmint is one hell of an asshole.”
“Are you still mad about what happened with Tammy?”
Clayton scoffed, “You don’t go telling another fella’s gal to shut up,” he said, rubbing his elbow, which was still aching. “Even though Tammy’s got herself a big damn mouth.”
Ten years ago Clayton ran into Derrick at Tootsie’s Lounge in Nashville. Derrick was there with some actors after a day of filming oneof his “tough guy” movies and, coincidentally, Clayton was with Tammy, celebrating his first top-ten single.
As the night wore on and the alcohol took hold Tammy got more belligerent, yelling at Clayton for stealing her spotlight. She claimed she was the country singer in the family and he’d be nothing without her. She always put on a show.
Overhearing this Derrick interrupted and asked if he was going to muzzle her, or something to that effect. The exact details were a little foggy, but it was enough to set Tammy off and she let profanities fly about how his movies sucked.
Then Derrick simply told her to shut the fuck up.
After a brief pause Nolan said, “You shouldn’t have punched him.”
Clayton shrugged. “I know, but Tammy was fixin’ to hit him and I thought better me than her.” He grimaced. “I thought he’d block it or something, showing off some of that fancy martial arts nonsense.”
Nolan chuckled. “He’s not an action hero in real life. He just plays one in the movies.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Clayton replied with a wry smile. “Hollywood’s a load of bull crap.”
CHAPTER 7
JAMIE
The following morning Jamie felt like a steaming pile of garbage. She took a hard swallow, her tongue fuzzy, tequila clinging to the back of her throat—another reason to stick with vodka. But there was no time to wallow. She needed to finish her album.
Slightly disheveled, she arrived at the studio to find Dusty and Evan working on her music. She started singing the song they’d worked on yesterday, but something was off. They tried various arrangements and different keys, but nothing seemed to click. The lyrics felt like they belonged to someone else. Because they did.
In the early afternoon and no further ahead, Jamie picked up her Martin acoustic and played her version of “I Did a Good Job of Drinking.” She wanted to show them she could write her own songs, not just sing the lyrics others wrote.
Halfway through the song Shorty entered the control room, shook hands with the guys, and smiled. If he liked the song he could convince the label to include it on her album. Doofus and the suits were more likely to listen to a manager than an artist, especially a female one.
“That was great, Jamie!” Shorty’s voice boomed through the speaker. “I want to show you something.” He gestured for her to step out of the booth.
“What’s up?” she asked, hoping he liked the song.
“Come into Clayton’s room for a minute.” Shorty directed her down the hall.
“Do I have to?” She was still angry at Clayton for ruining her song in front of a live audience and pretending like nothing was wrong.
Shorty knocked on Clayton’s door but there was no answer, so he opened it. “Got a minute?” he asked, tipping back his cowboy hat.
“Sure thing,” Clayton said, sitting on a stool and strumming his guitar.
With some hesitation Jamie followed her manager into the room. Duke jumped off the couch, almost knocking her over.
“Duke!” Clayton went to grab him. “Down, boy!”
“It’s fine,” Jamie said, settling the dog.
Shorty pulled out his phone. “Great news, kids, your song is going viral, as they say. What a time to be alive!”
“What?” Jamie drew her eyebrows together. “What song?”
Shorty showed them a video on his phone, footage from last night. It had been viewed over a hundred thousand times.
“I don’t understand . . .” Jamie glanced at Shorty for clarification but received no response.
