“Only when it’s baseball season.” He strummed his guitar. “It’s called ‘You’ve Got Every Right to Be Wrong.’”
“That’s my line.”
Clayton played the entire song, but some sections needed rearranging. She excelled at dissecting other people’s music, viewing herself more as a songwriter than an artist. Melodies and lyrics were her specialties.
“I’d switch the second and third verses and take out the last chorus.” She shrugged. “But what do I know about country music?”
“Well, we’ve got the numbertencountry song in America.” Clayton put down his guitar and picked up the ropes again, twisting them into a pretzel.
“Whatever,” she said, downplaying their accomplishment. “I’ve already had a Top 5 record on Billboard’s Hot 100.” She walked to the stairs. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Me and Gus are staying on the bus.”
“Why?”
“It’s just one night, and there’s a shower here.”
At that moment she felt silly for booking a suite. Clayton had more money than her but lived below his means. His boots were a prime example of his frugality, and she was sure he’d wear them until they fell off his feet.
“Why did you buy this bus anyway?” she asked. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“I rent it out to artists when I’m not using it. Pays for itself and then some.”
She envied his side hustle, which brought in passive income when he wasn’t on the road. She wished she had another source of revenue since her songwriting royalties were almost nonexistent. She only made money while on tour because she’d never recouped the advances from her record sales.
And people think being an artist is glamorous.
“So I’ll see you later?” Jamie asked. “I’m heading over to the High Museum of Art. They have a Georgia O’Keeffe I want to check out.”
He looked up from his ropes. “Well, shoot. I’ll tag along with you.”
Me and my big mouth.
After Jamie and Clayton spent the day at the museum, where the country singer was inundated with autograph requests, the bus arrived at their scheduled interview at a radio station in Marietta, Georgia, half an hour from Atlanta.
Kissing up to DJs was part of the job if you wanted them to play your record.
Inside the studio a short man in a cowboy outfit stood from his chair. His white Stetson sat a little too big on his head, casting a shadow over his squinty eyes. He wore a black Western-style shirt with pearl snaps, its embroidered yoke looking straight off a honky-tonk dance floor. His baggy jeans sagged slightly, cinched tight by a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, glinting under the fluorescent lights. And then there were the boots—snakeskin, and so absurdly pointy they could have skewered a marshmallow.
“Clayton Langley,” the man said in a deep voice, extending his hand.
“Lucky Lou!” Clayton shook his hand and turned to Jamie. “Lucky Lou is the best DJ in all of Georgia.”
Jamie sized him up.Lucky Lou, huh?
He’d probably come up with the nickname himself, and judging by the sweat beading down his face, the closest he’d ever been to luck was losing a coin toss.
“Aww shucks,” Lucky Lou said. “How the heck are you, man?”
“Never better,” Clayton said. “This is Jamie Keaton.”
Lucky Lou tipped his hat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“Likewise.” Jamie gave him a broad smile and clenched her jaw at the thought of having to talk to him. “Where do you want us?”
“If you could sit across from me, we’ll be ready when the song ends.”
Jamie and Clayton took their seats in black leather chairs, put on headphones, and waited as Lucky Lou counted down from three.
