Clayton raised his beer, cap pulled low, and shot her a sheepish grin. She didn’t light up or anything but was weirdly relieved.
He stood from his stool and walked over just as the couple sitting to her right was leaving. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the vacant seat beside her. He wore a white button-down shirt under his suede jacket. It was the first time she’d seen him not in plaid.
She shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
“Well, in that case . . .”
“Thanks for the drink.” She took a sip and closed her eyes as the smooth blend of vodka and olive brine slid down her throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you: having a drink.” He took a swig from his bottle to prove his point and sat on the stool next to her, his boots thudding against the floor.
“You have beer on your bus.”
“That I do.” He chuckled. “Look, I didn’t feel comfortable with you being alone in a bar.”
She swiveled her stool and fanned out her arm. “I’m hardly alone.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You don’t need to take care of me.” She took another sip of her drink. “Or any man, for that matter.” She’d been taking care of herself for as long as she could remember.
“Okay, let me finish my beer and leave you be.”
“As I said, it’s a free country.”
“I pay my taxes, darlin’.” He winked. “Tell me how you beat me.”
“I’m good at blackjack.”
A flash jolted her from her seat, and she turned her head toward the bartender. Old Timey had snapped her picture. She raised her hands to shield her face but it was too late. “No pictures, please.”
Clayton stood from his seat and reached across the bar, snatching Old Timey’s phone from his hand. “Hell, no. I’m deleting this.” He scrolled through the phone and tapped on the screen. “You trying to get yourself fired, man?”
“Sorry!” Old Timey exclaimed, pressing his palms against his cheeks. “I’m a huge fan!” he shrieked. “Me and the girls saw you the last time you played here.”
Like Cher, she had a huge gay following, which thrilled her immensely. She never understood homophobes like AJ and his friends. What was there to be afraid of? She shared Cher’s sentiment that gay people often felt out of place, and she’d never felt like she belonged either. The day after she performed her rock rendition of “Believe” on the finale ofStar Factor, Cher sent her a note saying she was a big fan. But Jamie couldn’t believe the music icon had emailed her, thinking it was from a fake account. A few months later Shorty told her Cher’s manager hadreached out to him for her information, but by then she felt like an idiot for not responding.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Clayton said, holding the phone over his head. “Apologize to her.”
Old Timey lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Jamie.”
“Miss Keaton,” Clayton corrected him.
“I’m sorry, Miss Keaton.” He half-smiled, still giggling softly to himself. “I didn’t know the flash was on.”
“Still not okay.” Clayton pressed the phone to his chest. “Where’s your manager?”
“Clayton . . .” Jamie shook her head, not wanting to make a scene. “Give him back his phone. I just want to leave.”
“Have another round on me,” Old Timey offered.
Clayton hesitated before handing the phone back. “Thanks but no thanks, buddy.”
Jamie slid off the barstool with a huff, her fingers tightening around the glass before she set it down. The bitter taste of disappointment clung to her tongue as she strode toward the lobby, each thud of her boot heavier than the next. She should have known better than to think she could have one quiet drink withouthimshowing up to ruin it.
“Hey!” Clayton’s voice echoed behind her. “Wait for me.”
She stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Did you forget something?”
