“Well, I’ll be damned,” Clayton said. “Never gone viral.”
“That’s not whatshesaid,” Jamie said, then paused. “I mean, how did they get this?” She turned to Clayton, tilting her chin down. “You said recording wasn’t allowed at the Bluebird.”
“It’s not.” He shrugged, handing Shorty back his phone.
“Jamie, it’s catching fire!” Shorty threw his arms up in excitement. “Hello, Nashville wants you to play it on their show tomorrow morning.”
She rolled her eyes, questioning why her manager would suggest such a thing. “I’m recording it for my record—”
“I’m recording it formyrecord,” Clayton told her, indicating no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
“Wait! Wait!” Shorty squeezed himself between the artists. “How did this happen? I had no idea you two were working on a song.”
Jamie raised her hand, eager to go first. “Clayton played a few chords and I sang my lyrics, and then he”—she pointed at him—“turned it into a fucking country song.”
Clayton appeared confused. “I thought we were co-writing?”
“I told you I don’t do that,” she said, annoyed. “Why would I write a country song with you? I’m not a country artist.”
“Listen up, kids,” Shorty interjected. “No matter the circumstances, people like it—a lot. Lisa said that it’s mostly country fans posting on social media.”
“See?” Clayton said with a smirk.
She would have slapped the grin off his face if she believed in violence. Not that she didn’t think about it—she did, and often.
“Of course you’d take his side.” Jamie sulked, crossing her arms. “Men always stick together. Anyway, what’s this Hello, Nashville thing all about?”
“Channel 4,” Clayton drawled, even though the question was aimed at Shorty. “Don’t you worry—we’ll make sure it’s more Johnny Cash this time.”
“Who?” she asked,messing with him.
“Good Lord, woman.” Clayton shook his head, pursing his lips. “You don’t know who Johnny Cash is?”
“Oh, sure.” She smiled, attempting to provoke a reaction. “He covered that Nine Inch Nails song.”
Jamie and Clayton began working on the arrangement for their live performance, but it was taking forever. It frustrated her that he knew nothing about rock music. He was familiar with only two genres: country and Americana, with the Allman Brothers being the most recent band on his radar. She played him tracks from the Killers, Foo Fighters, and Imagine Dragons, but he only recognized “Believer” because some baseball player had used it as his walk-up song, which was kind of perfect, to be honest.
“What’s your walk-up song?” she asked.
“My what?”
“What song do you play when you’re walking on stage?”
“Oh, ‘Drag Racing My Heart.’”
“Isn’t that one of your songs?” She only knew that because he’d performed it onStar Factorthe year she won.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned as if he were proud of it.
“You play yourownsong while walking on stage?” She burst out laughing. She’d never heard of anything so ridiculous.
“Why?” he asked defensively. “What do you play?”
She stopped laughing enough to answer, “‘Barracuda,’ by Heart.”
“Don’t know it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
