“It was a benefit concert,” she explained.
“You shouldn’t work for free.” This from a man who’d never worked an honest day in his life.
“What’s up, AJ?” Jamie asked bluntly, losing her patience with him. She could only take him in small doses and felt anxious every time she spoke to him.
“Sweetheart, I’m in a bit of a jam.”
“How much?” It was incredible that a million dollars must have slipped through his fingers over the years, yet somehow he couldn’t rub two dimes together. Throwing money at the problem seemed like the easiest solution.
“Just five grand,” he said. The casino games echoed like pinball machines in the background. “I’ve got the spread covered for the bowl games today, so I’ll pay you back.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” she said, fully aware she’d never see the money again. AJ never followed through on his promises. That was the only sure bet in town.
Several hours later Jamie found herself at a recording studio on Music Row. She struggled to connect with the songs Doofus and the suits had sent her, and she was on her millionth take, gritting her teeth through it all.
“Sorry, guys,” she said to Dusty, her producer, who sat beside the bearded engineer in the control room. Jamie had requested a female producer for her next album, but the label had brushed it off as an inconvenience. Instead they hired a former rock producer who’d worked on the early Nickelback records. She used to cover “Burn It to the Ground,” so she knew his track record. And not for nothing, that song is a banger.
“Let’s start over,” Dusty said.
As she was about to begin the control room door swung open and a yellow Lab greeted everyone with enthusiastic tail wags and kisses.
“Who’s that?” Jamie asked into the microphone.
“That’s Duke,” the engineer said as the dog jumped on him.
“Can we take a break?” Jamie slipped off her headphones and walked into the control room. “Hi, Duke!” She crouched to the dog’s level and he bounded toward her, knocking her onto her butt. She laughed and tried to dodge his aggressive licks, but he was determined to clean her from head to toe.
“Duke?” a voice came from down the hall, followed by a sharp whistle. “Come here, boy!”
You must be joking.
“Hey, Dusty! Hi, Evan. I haven’t seen you all year!” Clayton entered laughing and hugged the guys. He wore a black-and-white plaid shirt, boot-cut jeans, a blue baseball cap stitched with a red “N,” and the same scuffed shitkickers he’d worn yesterday. “Duke!” His gaze locked onto the dog. “There you are.” His smile faded when he caught Jamie’s cool stare. “Hey, there.” His voice came out with a frog in his throat.
Jamie narrowed her eyes, steam rising from her skin. “If it isn’t the kissing bandit.” She wasn’t going to pretend like it didn’t happen. She was mortified that people had seen the picture, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d initially feared. Shorty and Lisa had done enough damage control to ensure it wasn’t trending.
Clayton massaged the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s five o’clock,” Dusty announced. “We’re heading out.”
“What?” Jamie asked, confused about why they were leaving so early. “We haven’t finished the song yet.”
“Folks end their days at five in Nashville,” Clayton stated plainly.
She glanced at Evan. “What time do you start?”
“We’re here at nine.” He twisted the knobs on the console before powering it down.
“Really?” The producers in LA worked late into the night—the later the better, and sometimes around the clock.
“I don’t mind staying,” Dusty said. “But the guys have families to think about.”
“I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow,” she assured them, waving as they left. Still sitting on the floor, she glanced at the country singer. “Well, my day’s fucked.”
“You can still write.” Clayton leaned against the doorframe and smiled. His dimples resembled pumpkin carvings, cut deep and precise. “Where’s your guitar?”
“The label doesn’t like my original songs.” Duke sprawled across her legs, his full weight resting on her thighs. “Some guy in Sweden wrote my singles. Some hit-maker.”
“Yeah, Mike sucks for—”
