You'd Be Mine(71)

“They won’t be interested in Jefferson Daniels. He doesn’t bring in the crowds.”

Fitz looks pointedly around the bar, folks still pouring in even though it’s filled to the brim and my set is already half over.

I chuckle darkly. “This is nothing, and you know it.”

Fitz shifts his eyes, picking at the label again. I glance at my watch. Four and a half minutes to go.

“There’s a way they’d let you play as Jefferson Daniels. It’d be a boost to your career, even.”

I choke on a swallow of root beer, fizzing painfully in my sinuses. “Don’t even say it,” I sputter between hacking.

“Why? It was her idea. She cares. Loves your new stuff. You know she’s always been a fan of the classics.”

“You showed her my new stuff? Come on, Fitz. That was for you to learn, not to share.”

“And I learned it. I’m ready to go. She happened to come by once or twice while I was practicing.”

For some reason, knowing she’s heard my raw cuts makes me feel all exposed and vulnerable, and I don’t like it. Clay Coolidge was a tested-out persona. I was confident in his appeal. I’m far more unsure of myself now. Especially opposite Annie.

“It feels a lot like taking advantage.”

Fitz huffs and points to the stage behind us. “What you just played up there? ‘Better Man,’ was it? That was the best song I’ve ever heard. From anyone. Not just from Clay or Jefferson. Anyone.”

He glances down at his phone and smirks before turning it to me so I can read.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT

Trina.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“Don’t even act like you’re mad. You know there were at least a dozen people live streaming that song tonight from the bar. I just happen to have a heavier social media following.”

His phone dings again.

I’M CRYING. ANNIE IS CRYING. JASON JUST “WENT TO PISS” BUT WE ALL KNOW HE’S WEEPING IN THE BATHROOM. GIVE CLAY OUR LOVE.

Kacey. I sigh heavily.

His phone keeps dinging, and I raise my hand before he shows me more.

“Later. I have a set to finish.”

“In two minutes,” he says. “So, CMAs? Duet with Mathers? Because she’s not going to leave me alone after this.”

“Is this before or after I hand her the award for Best New Artist?” I ask snarkily, ignoring the rush in my veins at the mere idea of singing with her again. I don’t care about the millions watching. I could sing in a gas station with her and my life would be made.

Fitz is unfazed. “Don’t be ridiculous; I don’t know the schedule. If they’re smart, though, right before.”

I groan. “Did you know this is literally the first week we haven’t been in the tabloids?”

“No, but I find it very telling that you do.”

I wave him off. “A duet would clinch the speculation forever.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

I narrow my eyes. It might be, just not for me. I feel different. Whole. Alive and happy. Secure. It seems too much to hope I’m any better for her than I was this past summer, though. “You’re only looking to perform stadiums with your girlfriend again.”

He smirks. “I like hotel sex.”

I wince at the gleam in his eyes. “I need to get back to my set.”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

“That means I have to work and I’ll … think about it.”

Fitz settles back in his seat, taking a long draw from his root beer, looking satisfied. He has every right to. It has to be me who gives her that award, and if that means I have to play every Clay Coolidge song to do it— Well, I would.



* * *



Three days later, I wake to barking at my front door.

I straighten, placing my bare feet on the worn rag rug my grandma made decades ago, and throw a T-shirt over my bare chest.

“Hush up, Brinks,” I mutter to the blue-gray pit bull yapping at the door. I slide the sheers aside and scowl before pulling my door wide. Grabbing ahold of Brinks’s collar, I let Jason Diaz in.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s ten in the morning; why’re you still sleeping?” he asks instead.

“First of all, who are you to judge? And second, I work late. Fell asleep watching TV.”

Jason pushes past me, walking straight to the fridge and tugging it open with a clatter of condiments.

Ignoring his all-too-familiar lack of manners, I pull out my coffeepot and scoop in fresh grounds. “Want some?” I ask.

“Sure.”

He moves to my cabinets, opening and shutting them in turn. I finish with the water and sit down at the table, scratching behind Brinks’s ears before he flops on his side, exhausted from his early guard effort. He’ll probably nap all day after that.

“If you’re looking for booze, you won’t find any. I gave up on the stuff.”

“That’s what Fitz said,” he mutters, still searching. “But I don’t believe it.”

He finishes with the last cabinets, and I point him to the bedrooms. “Go ahead and look. Search the place up and down. If I wanted a drink, though, I work at a bar. You’ll just have to believe me. You can ask Petey, but he wouldn’t serve me if I asked. Not until I’m legal, anyway. Said it’s not worth losing his liquor license.”