“That’s not the point,” she said, fixing her gaze. “He’s gone over the time limit.”
“Think of the children.” Shorty winked, turning his attention back to the country artist. At least Clayton’s band was good—no, great. She couldn’t believe how well they’d played her songs at soundcheck without even practicing.
She noticed a bottle of Ketel One on the drum riser. “Is that my vodka?”
“Sorry, it seems they mixed up the dressing rooms.” Shorty turned his head and frowned. “I don’t think either of you should be drinking until the show’s over.”
“Shorty, the kids would want us to drink.” She lifted her empty cup. “It’s New Year’s!”
The audience in the front row cheered as she walked across the stage. She blew them a kiss and waved. The wooden pews at the Ryman Auditorium reminded her of being in church with Derrick, but religion wasn’t her thing. It wasn’t Derrick’s thing either, but he went to please his mother, who was best friends with ol’ JC.
Jamie sat on the drum riser and poured herself a double shot of vodka.
When in Rome.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clayton boomed into the microphone, “Miss Jamie Keaton is in the house!”
The stage lights shone on her face and the crowd erupted.
“Do you like the view from there, darlin’?” the country singer asked with his back toward her.
The audience laughed as Clayton turned around, stretching a grin across his hillbilly face. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of his pewter belt buckle, directing her gaze to his dark, soulless eyes. He wore a blue and white plaid button-down shirt open to his chest, and his shaggy auburn hair appeared red under the lights.
The production assistant handed her a microphone and she tapped on the windscreen to ensure it was on. “I’d rather look at your ass than your face any day, Clayton, but sometimes I can’t tell them apart.”
The audience roared with laughter and she took a sip of vodka.
“Come, sing a song with me.” He stomped toward her in a pair of worn cowboy boots and swung his guitar to the front, revealing the engraved letters on his leather guitar strap:c-l-a-y-t-o-n. He turned to the crowd and asked, “Y’all want to hear us sing?”
“Yes!” they cheered, and Jamie almost choked on her vodka.
I’m going to kill you.
But then she remembered Tennessee had the death penalty, so she stood from the riser and put her hand on her hip. “You don’t know any rock songs.”
“You don’t know any country songs,” Clayton countered. “Well, maybe one. I bet you know ‘Islands in the Stream’ from all that karaoke.”
It was a jab at her for winning a singing competition, but she’d rather die than let Clayton Langley outdo her. She finished the last sip of vodka and smiled at Ruth and Shorty’s astonished faces on stage right.
The band began to play and Clayton was the first one up. His brooding eyes locked onto hers as his perfectly square jaw moved when he sang the opening verse. He towered over her by more than a head, even with her boots on. She wasn’t short; according to the doctors’ charts she was average height, maybe even slightly above.
Jamie knew he’d been a baseball pitcher back in the day—a southpaw, obviously—but she didn’t know much about his short time in the majors. She only half-listened when Shorty talked about him, which, considering their history, was almost never.
She joined in on the next part, singing in her low, raspy voice. She gave him a fake smile and shot darts with her eyes—bullseyes. She struggled through the rest of the song, avoiding his gaze during the “making love” parts.
After Clayton played the final note on his guitar, he held Jamie’s hand and they bowed as the audience applauded. They waved to the crowduntil the descending gold curtain obscured them from view and she could finally give him a piece of her mind.
“What the fuck was that about?” she asked, wiping the cooties from her hand.
He flashed a toothy grin. “What?”
She lowered her chin and looked up at him. “First, you went over your time, and second, I didn’t agree to sing with you, for your information.” The lines on his cheeks were pronounced from his dimples, and he looked every bit his thirty-five years. He was the same age as Derrick, but her ex-boyfriend injected Botox like a diabetic with insulin.
“The guy before me started late and I didn’t want to disappoint the fans,” he explained as Buddy, the tour manager they shared, handed him a beer and a towel.
“Then you should’ve stayed home,” she said. “You’re lucky I love Dolly.”
“What doyouknow about Dolly Parton?” Clayton snorted and stepped closer, the fumes from his cologne invading her nostrils. He smelled like a sandalwood candle but lacked the brightness.
