“Doofus,” Jamie corrected him. “We call Mike Shrader what he is—a doofus.”
“He’s an accountant by trade,” Shorty said, almost excusing her record label’s president for his lack of personality and terrible fashion sense.
“Exactly.” Jamie nodded once. “He knows nothing about music.” She’d mistaken Doofus for a policeman the first time they met. A man with a crew cut and a mustache always put her on edge.
Holding his hat, Shorty hung his head. “He wants you to record the album here in Nashville.”
“What the fuck?” Jamie swiveled her chair to face him. “That doesn’t make sense for the record I want to make.” She was dying to make a hard rock album without any songs that would be considered pop.
Shorty shrugged. “The best musicians live here.”
“When does Doofus want me to start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jamie shot out of her chair. “It’s New Year’s!”
But that wasn’t the only reason she was freaking out. The label had sent her dozens of demos yet she hadn’t picked a single track for the new album. Everything was pop-rock: slick, polished, safe. She wanted grit. She wantedrock-rock.
“Think of it as a fresh start.” Shorty sounded optimistic, as only he could. He was the type of person who, whenever it rained, said, “We sure needed it!”
“What about my clothes, a place to stay . . . I’m tired of living in hotel rooms and ordering room service.” Jamie widened her eyes, realizing she didn’t have her dog. “What about Poppy Rose?” She’d given Poppy a middle name because she didn’t have one. Her mother had told her she’d chosen “Jamie” to suit a boy or a girl long before anyone used gender-neutral names for their children. “I left her in LA with Derrick. I thought we’d only be gone overnight.”
Derrick Anderson—Hollywood’s answer to Jason Statham but with hair—was Jamie’s ex-boyfriend and a total alpha-hole. The moniker of “America’s Macho Man” had gone to his head while the rest of him was all bluster, leaving the dangerous stunts to some guy who resembled him from a distance. They’d been together for five years and had broken up as many times—six when you count two months ago.
Shorty turned to Ruth. “Can you get her dog and her clothes?” The assistant nodded, already on her phone making the arrangements. “As for a place to stay, I own that condo building downtown. The penthouse is empty and there’s security around the clock.”
Jamie sighed. “This is so messed up.”
A chaotic childhood had wired her for structure. As an adult, she clung to routine like a life raft—schedules, plans, predictability. Surprises? Not her thing. Especially last-minute ones.
“Sorry, Ruth,” she added quietly. “I really thought we’d be home for once.”
“It’s totally fine.” She cracked her gum. “I love it here. The people are so nice, just like back home in Oklahoma.” Ruth took pride in being an Okie and told everyone she was from there.
“Do we have any say in this?” Jamie asked her manager, pleading with him to get her out of it. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in a place where honky-tonks were the main attraction and people were polite to a fault.
“I’m sorry, kiddo.” He adjusted the brim of his hat. “Not if you want that Grammy you’re always talking about.”
“You know I’d kill for one.” She put one hand on her hip and wagged her finger. “Fine, but tell Doofus no fucking banjos.”
Shorty left to watch Clayton’s set, since he was the top country artist on his roster. Their manager had a moral obligation to be there, not to mention a financial one. He was responsible for Clayton’s musicians, the house band for tonight’s performances.
Jamie poured another healthy slug of vodka into her glass and scrolled through her socials, jumping when her phone rang to CeeLo Green’s song “Fuck You.”
“It’s him,” Jamie told Ruth, hitting the answer button. “Derrick?”
“You called,” he muttered over voices in the background.
“I’m staying here in Nashville!” she shouted, covering her free ear. “Doofus wants me to start working on my album. Ruth’s flying out there to pick up Poppy tomorrow.”
“It sounds like you’re drinking.”
“Fuck, Derrick.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Please don’t give me a hard time. I’m headlining this benefit and going on right after Clayton Langley. You know how much I hate him.”
“I know.” Derrick sounded empathetic, to the slightest degree. “Hey, give Old Hickory a kick in the ass for me.”
“No.” She paced around the room in her stocking feet. “You know I don’t condone violence.” It wasn’t lost on her that Derrick pretended to kill people for a living. His movies were nothing but blood and guts,mostly murders for hire and that type of thing. But after the Vegas concert shootings she couldn’t watch anything to do with gun violence. She thought about it every time she went on stage, more concerned for her fans’ safety than anything.
