“We have a special treat for you today,” Lucky Lou said into the microphone. “Clayton Langley and Jamie Keaton are in the studio.”
“Happy to be here, man,” Clayton said. “And thanks for playing our record.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Jamie echoed.
“You’ve got to tell me, how the heck did this happen? A pop-rock princess and a country legend?”
Jamie locked eyes with Ruth on the other side of the booth and mouthedLegend.
“It was an accident,” Jamie said.
“I’d call it a happy accident.” Clayton shot her a wink. “We were recording at the same studio in Nashville, and Jamie had some lyrics—”
“All the lyrics,” she interrupted.
“Anyway, we played it at the Bluebird and people responded, so our manager said I should record it because, well, it’s a country song . . . but Jamie here wanted to turn it into a rock song for her album, so we settled on a duet but kept it country for y’all.”
Jamie rolled her eyes at Ruth and shook her head. She still planned on making it a rock song, maybe a death metal record to piss him off.
“It’s the most requested song at the station,” Luck Lou said, glancing at Jamie. “I hear you’re going on tour with Clayton, ma’am?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“Any plans on writing another song together?”
“No,” Jamie replied.
“Yes,” Clayton said without hesitating.
Murder for hire was definitely on the table.
Lucky Lou laughed. “You two are quite the pair, aren’t you?”
“Like gasoline and a match,” she muttered.
Jamie didn’t even glance at Clayton. She didn’t need to. That cocky silence said it all—and if she looked, she might just forget how badly she wanted to throat-punch him.
After the interview they took pictures with Lucky Lou and the staff. She forced a smile for the cameras, pissed at him for monopolizing the conversation and not allowing her to get a word in.
“What the hell was that about?” Jamie asked as they left the station.
“What?” Clayton stared at her blankly as they walked toward the bus.
“We’re not writing another song together.” They reached the bus and she turned around to face him. “Why would you say that?”
“People love the song.” He motioned for Gus to open the door. “Whywouldn’twe write another song together?”
“Jesus, Clayton. I’m not a country singer.”
She boarded the bus and entered Clayton’s room, slamming the door behind her. Another man was trying to tell her what to do and she wasn’t having it. It had taken her long enough to realize she’d confused attention with control—thinking every glance was care, when it was really just ownership. No. Writing another song with Clayton was simply out of the question.
The radio interviews in Atlanta and Raleigh were more of the same. Clayton handled most of the glad-handing—these were his people, after all—but the station staff were friendly to her, even welcoming. This wasa stark contrast to rock radio, where DJs acted like playing your record was a personal favor.
The promo tour was going fine but Jamie couldn’t wait to get off Clayton’s stupid bus. She was over his dad jokes, pointless knot-tying, and the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos wedged between the seat cushions.
At least DC was next. Finally she’d be the star—the one leading the interviews, waxing poetic about rock music while Clayton sat there twiddling his thumbs. The thought alone made her smile.
The next afternoon she and Ruth lounged in the back seat of their rideshare, the DC skyline flickering past tinted windows. Sunlight streamed in, casting warm streaks over Ruth’s freckled face as she scrolled through her phone.
