You'd Be Mine Page 8

  What am I doing here?

  He drops his hands from his guitar and flips over the paper in front of him as if to hide it. Too late.

  “What?”

  I swallow, realizing I’ve spoken out loud. “I said, ‘Too late.’ I already heard you.” His eyes widen slightly, and I gesture to the open window. “Don’t worry. Only me. I came by looking for Kacey.”

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m just messin’.” Clay’s from southern Indiana originally, but a year on the road has tightened his accent. Now, however, it’s looser—softer, somehow. As though being caught out and exposed has thickened his tongue and sent him south toward the Bible Belt.

  I run my fingers through my hair, but my hand sticks in a patch of curls. “Look. I know I don’t have your sales or CMAs, but I do know real music. That was not nothing. That was the best damn something I’ve ever heard. Why’re you hiding that?”

  Clay blinks, his face a mask of indifference, but I swear I can feel his appreciation. “No one wants to hear that. They come to me for a good time.”

  “Maybe so, but surely you see you are so much more than a good time.”

  A shadow passes over his features. “A good time is what pays for this tour and that fancy bus you’re riding in and your band, and really, it’s paying you for the right to be all high and mighty about what music is real or not real, so forgive me if I don’t give a shit about what some internet sensation thinks about my work.”

  I stumble back, slapped by the sting of his words. He closes his eyes, and the brief moment of camaraderie between us snaps.

  “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  He lays his guitar on the seat beside him and gets to his feet. “No. You did. Don’t backpedal now.” He’s smiling, but it’s the cruel kind of smile. “You think you’re the only one who can write about something real? You aren’t. I’ve been singing for crowds for a few years now, Annie Mathers, and I know a thing or two. So don’t jump on my tour and give me all those gooey-eyed stares like I’m different than you thought. I’m not. This is who I am.”

  I reach for the door, feeling humiliated. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  Clay turns, swinging his arm and accidentally knocking over a bottle that falls to the floor with a clatter, and I flinch. His eyes widen but then harden. “You did. We aren’t friends, Annie. And I’m not your mentor like Patrick Royston or any of those other washed-out stars who fawn over you. And I’m sure as hell not Johnny to your June, so I’ll thank you to remember that. You work for me. That’s it.”

  “You’re right. I know that. I’ll get out of your hair. I shouldn’t have come.”

  As I close the door behind me with a slam, I hear his voice through the open window again. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

  * * *

  My encounter with Clay rattled, wrung me out, and then spit me out, so hours later, all that’s left is pure fury. Rationally, I know he was embarrassed I’d heard him being vulnerable. I get it. Fine. And I probably did sound high-minded approaching a megastar like him and cooing over his private songwriting. But I ain’t no newbie. I was raised up by legends in the school of music. To call me an “internet sensation”?

  Oh no, he did not just say that.

  Call it my stubborn pride, or maybe I’m my father’s daughter, but who the hell does he think he is saying I work for him? Like I’ve ever once looked to him to be my mentor? Or my Johnny? What the actual eff is that about? It wasn’t my idea to do that stupid photo shoot, and I’m not the one whose manager is dropping hints at attraction between us.

  No, sir. That ain’t me.

  Maybe I should give Southern Belle a call. Maybe Clay needs a little reality check. Internet sensation. Puh.

  My anger carries through to showtime, and when I tape up my revised set list, Kacey and Jason exchange nervous looks.

  “Um, Annie, I’m all for being adventurous, but are you sure you wanna do ‘Coattails’? It’s brand new. The label hasn’t given it a pass yet.”

  I throw him a glare before replacing the giant Gucci sunglasses wardrobe provided for nights when I’m performing facing the sunset. “Whose name is on the top of that paper, Diaz?”

  Jason’s lips twitch, and he affects a cowboy stance. “Annie Mathers, ma’am.”

  I grab my guitar and head for backstage. “Don’t you forget it.”

  The crowd in Biloxi is the biggest yet in the week we’ve been on tour. Connie pulled me aside this afternoon to tell me there would be a film crew taking live footage to incorporate for a music video, and I’m tickled at the turnout. I stride across the stage in my brand-new black Tony Lamas with pale pink scroll, feeling the fringe on my vest swing against my skin. One week in and I’m full-on Nashville. Back in Michigan, I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the fringe and leather feel like home.

  “Hey, y’all! My name’s Annie, and the gorgeous fiddle player beside me is my cousin, Kacey, and that good-looking goofball on the drums is my best friend, Jason Diaz. We’re called Under the Willows, and we’re here to show you a good time, so let’s get things started!”

  We open with a cover, this time Reba’s “Fancy.” It’s part of my personal crusade to introduce these little girls to some music appreciation. Maybe Clay’s right about that. Maybe I do have some lofty ideals about country music.

  Someone clearly needs to, even if it’s just some internet-famous eighteen-year-old with frizzy hair.

  After “Fancy,” we jump right into “Should’ve Been You,” which has been gathering steam and is the reason for the film crews today. Keeping them in mind, I milk the story of Jason breaking my heart and make sure his biceps get plenty of airtime with a drum solo.

  I slow it down for a bit, throwing in my take on Dolly’s “Jolene” before pulling out my ace in the hole. My body is literally vibrating with anticipation. I hope he’s listening. Of course he’s listening. In fact, I glance stage left and see his cap in the shadows next to Fitz. I nod once and turn to my mic.

  “Y’all have been fabulous tonight! Truly, you make a girl feel so welcome. I might need to come back to Mississippi when this tour’s all wrapped up.” A cheer rises up, and I grin. I pull the mic off and start for the front of the stage, adding a little swagger to my step, and I wink at the red light blinking of the video cameras still aimed at my face. Perfect.

  “We wanna play one more for you guys tonight before we let the big boys hit the stage. Is that all right?” Another cheer. “This one’s brand spanking new. Never heard before, so it’s an exclusive for y’all. You don’t mind being my tester crowd, do ya?

  “I know there’s been all sorts of rumors about me and a certain country boy…” Cheers erupt, and I smirk. “Well, I’m here to set the record straight. I don’t need no ball cap–wearing, Levi-filling, sweet-crooning man in my life. I don’t need no ‘Coattails’!”

  Jason hits his cue with admirable intensity, and I glance at Kacey, whose eyes are twinkling as she raises her bow and gives me a nod of approval. I close my eyes and sing.

  You might think I’m here to

  Crowd your photo ops or

  Dim your glaring spotlight,

  Shamelessly name-drop

  But I’m too far along now

  And I’ve got my own thing going

  Or I’d be damned to follow

  Down where your rapids flowin’

  You had better check yourself

  Cuz, boy, I ain’t draggin’ on no coattails

  Your style just ain’t mine

  Your drama is too much for me

  Your ego’s outta line

  So fire up those engines

  Saddle up your horse

  Be ready for this rodeo

  I’ll be right up front a’ course

  With my sunshine vocals

  And my wild-ass hair

  I’ll thrill all the locals

  You just pull up a chair

  You had better check yourself

  Cuz, boy, I ain’
t draggin’ on no coattails

  Your style just ain’t mine

  Your drama’s too damn much for me

  Your ego’s outta line

  Put those bedroom eyes away, boy,

  And hush up that pretty mouth

  I ain’t got time for your up and down

  I ain’t got no patience for your pout

  I’ve got my guitar and my pen

  My fiddler and my best friend

  The sweet Lord up above

  And you’re just a walkin’, talkin’ sin

  You had better check yourself,

  Cuz, boy, I ain’t draggin’ on no coattails

  Your style just ain’t mine

  Your drama’s too damn much for me

  Your ego’s outta line

  At last I’m coming to the part I rewrote just this afternoon. My face flushes hot, and anger spikes in my veins at his audacity to call me out when I was just encouraging him. I lean in even closer to my mic, my lips curling in an ironic smile.

  Take some notes,

  Jot this down

  I’m not here for you

  You can’t mess me ’round

  I don’t need this

  You ain’t no Cash

  And I’m not a Carter,

  I do just fine on my own

  This ain’t charity, it’s a barter

  So you had best check yourself

  Cuz, boy, I ain’t draggin’ on no coattails

  Your style just ain’t mine

  Your drama’s too damn much for me

  Your ego’s outta line

  By the end, the crowd is doing a passable job of singing along. I’m holding the mic out to the crowd and clapping for their efforts. A loud cheer rises up, and before I can guess why, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Kacey points her bow stage left. Clay’s stepped out of the shadows and is standing on the edge of the stage. I freeze, my adrenaline still pumping in my veins. He removes his cap, his eyes locked on mine, and holds it to his chest bending forward in a small bow. Then he raises his head, an amused smirk lighting his lips. He replaces his cap and gives me a small clap before waving to the crowd and slinking back into the shadows.

  I giggle and turn to face the crowd. “Clay Coolidge, everyone!”

  I don’t know for sure, but I think that means I won this round.

  9

  Clay

  friday, june 7

  daytona beach, florida

  country 500

  Daytona means the first festival of the season. Three days of country’s biggest artists playing to seventy-five thousand strong at NASCAR central. It’s like the redneck Woodstock of the South. Last year, I was so intimidated, I puked all over the legendary Grant Matthew’s boots the first night. His publicist sent me the bill. He still hasn’t quit calling me Puker Coolidge every time our paths cross, which is unfortunately often. Country music is like high school. Everyone knows everyone.

  This year I’ve managed to capture the main stage the first night, which means Willows have it before I do. Since it’s a festival, people have been camped out all day, drinking and causing a ruckus in the hot sun. By 8:00 P.M., when Willows is prepping to get onstage, the crowd is already at a roar. The stage is giant and centered in the middle of the even larger racetrack. Barely a scrap of grass can be seen, people are so packed in. The label’s got to be thrilled. Summer’s barely gotten started, and already we’ve gained momentum.

  Not half-bad for a girl who hasn’t even cut her first album.

  Because, let’s face it, Annie’s pulled in more than her share. I can reconcile this despite what she might think of me after I drove her out of my trailer. I was angry—still am. Her “Coattails” was smart as hell, and it pisses me off she seems impervious to the boozy industry standards I’ve been given.

  I know I’m not being fair. She knows I’m not being fair. For now, that has to be enough. She still invaded my privacy and butted her nose in my business—still felt it was her place to comment on my music.

  I take my spot in the wings, and Fitz does an admirable job of pretending it’s not unusual for me to be here, hovering, instead of on the bus, where I spent last summer whenever my opener would take the stage.

  “So that’s the famous Annie Mathers.”

  I don’t bother looking. I recognize that voice. Been halfway expecting it, even. “That’s her.”

  “I’m not gonna lie, Clay, I kind of hate you for scoring her. Wherever did you find her?”

  “Michigan,” I say.

  Lora Bradley nudges my shoulder with a laugh. “For real? Talk about off the map. Well, she’s a doll. What’s she doing with the likes of you?”

  I shrug. “Stealing the show, I think.”

  “Aw, now ain’t no one gonna replace you and your good-old-boy anthems. You’ve cornered the market. These summer festivals were practically made for you.”

  I hold back my eye roll. Lora’s almost as good at bullshitting as she is at belting out power ballads. Lora Bradley started off a beauty queen before turning her vocals into a career that easily spans the pop and country music charts. She’s smart as a whip and so ambitious it makes most people uncomfortable. Last summer was both of our firsts at Daytona. We spent the entire weekend together, and I never heard from her again. Until the next time our schedules intersected, anyhow. She’s pretty harmless, but Fitz doesn’t like her. Or he doesn’t much care for our arrangement. He thinks she’s using my name.

  Believe me, the irony hasn’t been lost.

  “What do you want, Lora?”

  I feel her fingertips trail up the back of my thigh and around. “Same as last year. You up for it, or are you busy lusting after the Tragic Miracle out there?”

  My eyes snap to hers, and she smirks knowingly. “It’s not like that between us. She’s talented.”

  Lora takes a half step back, leaning against a giant black speaker stand, amusement clear on her pretty face. “I see. We’re all talented, Clay.”

  “I’ll be at your trailer around midnight,” I say tersely, turning back to the stage.

  “Well, aren’t you the charmer.” Her voice has an edge to it. “I won’t beg for it, Clay. I have plenty of other options, even if you are my first choice.”

  “I’m sorry, okay?” I try to sound like it, but I probably fail.

  Lora narrows fine brows before squeezing my hand and letting it drop. “It’s fine. This is just for fun, Clay. No strings. No pressure. If you’re no longer up for that…”

  “I am,” I insist. “I’ll see you after the show.”

  Lora slinks off, and I return to my watching. Annie’s kicked off her boots and is hopping along to her own song, twisting this way and that, making the crowds fall in love with her. I think of the deviously stubborn pride painted across her face when she first sang “Coattails” last weekend. A big old fuck you to me after I’d tried to put her in her place in my trailer.

  I grin at the memory. As they often do—far more than she realizes, I’m sure—her eyes dart to the wings, where I’m standing in the shadows. I touch the brim of my cap in salute, and she winks, spinning back to the audience lightly.

  When the song ends, I realize I’m still grinning like an idiot after her. I swallow my smile, suddenly uncomfortable, and reach around, patting my back pocket where my grandpa’s old flask is settled.

  I have my own show to get ready for.

  * * *

  Lora was right: I was meant for stadiums in the summertime. We’re two birds of a fame feather, Lora and me. She’s not one to care for the softer side of music. Give her booze, big hair, and prewritten tracks to work her impressive vocal runs over. She’s Vegas country. Carrie Underwood spliced with a Kardashian. She’s good for a last-minute hookup, top-shelf liquor, and a pragmatic view of the industry.

  We’re what stadium tours are all about. Lora wouldn’t be caught dead in a tiny little dive bar like Lula May’s and would never let me hear the end of it if she ever caught me singing some hills song in my bus.
If Annie is the good angel on my shoulder, pushing me to do better, Lora is a heady compromise of all sorts of things I’m not legally old enough to know about. Not bad, necessarily, but probably not good.

  That about sums me up. Not bad, but probably not good. Tonight, I happen to be a little inebriated—but if I forget some of my own lyrics, the crowds don’t mind. They live for it. We’re a stadium full of sinners who desperately want to feel better than we had when we came in.

  That’s my job, and I’m the fucking best at it.

  It’s not like I have to sing. They’re all chanting the lyrics at the top of their lungs anyway. I just laugh and hold the mic out like I can capture their individual melodies and amplify them over mine.

  Fine tanned legs in daisy dukes,

  Pretty girl, come on closer, give a scoot

  Honey sweet tea glistens on your lips,

  Lean in, baby, wanna give you a kiss

  Holes in jeans,

  Mud on my tires

  Fish on my line

  Cold beer, hot fire

  But ain’t nothing compare to you, baby

  Nothing in the South can compare to you and your—

  Fine tanned legs in daisy dukes,

  Pretty girl, come on closer, give a scoot

  Honey sweet tea glistens on those lips,

  Lean in, baby, wanna give you a kiss

  Thankfully my fingers move of their own volition, plucking out the correct chords after more than a year of almost constant play. Even so, by the time we hit the encore set, I toss my guitar to the side and motion for Fitz to take the lead. His nostrils flare for a split second, and he presses his lips together before turning a blinding grin toward the screaming crowd.

  This is where I know she got to me. Suddenly, after two years on the road, I feel like I have to prove my salt. Which is ridiculous. This crowd, seventy-five thousand strong, should be proof enough.

  But it’s not. It’s like she’s created this fissure in my self-worth. As Clay, I sing songs people like. There’s never been anything wrong with that. What does she expect from me?