She blinked. “What?”
“Aristotle.” He grabbed a coffee from the drink carrier and passed her the other. “C’mon, let’s have a listen.”
“I’ll have Evan set up the control room.”
“Not the control room, darlin’.” Clayton shook his head. “You got to crank it up in a car—or, in my case, a truck—to get the full effect.”
“A truck? Why?”
“Because that’s where people are going to hear it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
As soon as the truck doors slammed shut regret settled in, heavy and unshakable. She hadn’t even let Ruth hear the final mixes. That stung. Ruth had always been her sounding board, the one person she trusted to give it to her straight.
But she needed an outside perspective, someone who wasn’t tangled up in her world.
Not that Derrick had ever been helpful. He’d always had plenty to say, full of opinions despite knowing nothing about music. Criticism had been his specialty, whether she’d asked for it or not.
She scrolled through her playlist and found the strongest song on the record because she wanted to know right away if he thought it was shit. As the opening notes filled the truck she sat back in her seat, arms crossed, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
Clayton nodded with the beat, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. When the chorus hit he raised his eyebrows, but his expression gave nothing away. Was that a good sign? A bad one? She couldn’t tell.
And now, hearing it again, she wasn’t sure ifsheliked it.
Had the mix always sounded this thin? Were the harmonies too busy? God, that lyric in the second verse—she should have rewritten it. The outro dragged. Had the outro always dragged?
Her stomach twisted and she pressed her nails into her palm to keep herself from reaching for the volume knob. She should have played him something else. Something safer. Maybe she shouldn’t have played him anything at all. Imposter syndrome was in full effect now, a voice whispering in her ear that she had no business making music, that she should quit this ridiculous dream and go back to waiting tables where at least she knew what the hell she was doing.
When the outro ended silence stretched between them.
Clayton turned to face her, his mouth slightly open like he was about to say something—but he didn’t.
The longer he sat there, the worse it got.
She forced a laugh, though it sounded weak even to her ears. “It’s fine if you don’t like it,” she said dismissively. “I’m not sure I like it, to be honest.”
“Don’t know what to say.”
And just like that she wanted it gone. Shelved. Buried. Locked away in the label’s vault, never to become exposed. No one would ever hear this record—not if she had any say.
“That song right there . . .” He pointed to the dashboard. “That’s a hit.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Clayton.”
“I’m not, darlin’,” he said, all easy confidence. “I’d put that song on my album.”
Jamie let out a dry laugh. “It’s not a country song, for your information.”
“Every song’s a country song if you try hard enough.”
She rolled her eyes. “I disagree.”
He leaned back, smug as ever. “You’ve got every right to be wrong.”
“Stealing my lines, now?”
“More like borrowing.” He made a circle with his index finger. “Fire up the next song.”
