You'd Be Mine(26)
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.