Clay

april nashville, tennessee

If I die, it's Trina Hamilton's fault. She's hard to miss; statuesque blonde with angry eyes and tiny nostrils wearing top-of-the-line Tony Lamas so she can kick my ass at a moment's notice. When the early-morning sun finally burns through my irises and kills me dead, she's the one you want.

"Christ, Trina, it's barely seven."

My road manager flashes cool gray eyes at me while pressing her matte red lips into a thin line. Her expression hasn't changed in the minutes since she came pounding on my hotel room door. She's a study in stone, but not for long. Better to get this over with.

I mumble another curse, yanking the frayed brim of my baseball hat lower. "At least slow down. I have a migraine."

Trina whirls around and shoves a manicured nail in my face. "Don't," she spits, "pull that migraine bullshit, Clay. You look like death, smell like sewage, and if you think those glasses are doing anything to hide that black eye, you're sorely mistaken."

I scratch at the back of my neck, playing for time. "Are those new Lamas? Because dang, girl, they make your legs look incredi —"

She grabs my chin in a painful squeeze, her sharp claws digging into my bruised cheekbone. "Don't even try it. What happened to you last night?"

I wrench my face away. "Nothing serious. A little scuffle with some fans after the show."

Trina stares at me a long minute, and I start to fidget. It's her signature move. I might be a country music star, but Trina makes me feel like a middle schooler who just hit a baseball through her window.

"A little scuffle," she repeats slowly.

"Yeah. A scuffle."

"Really. Just a few good old boys shooting the breeze, probably," she offers with a too-bright smile.

"Right."

She nods and starts walking, her heels clacking on the asphalt and ringing in my ears. A couple of middle-aged tourists halt, curious, midway through loading their golf bags into a rental car to watch us. I tug the brim of my hat even lower and hustle to match her strides through the hotel parking lot.

"So, that's it?" That can't be it.

"No, Clay. That's not it. Your face is all over TMZ this morning. We, as in you and me, because I'm irrevocably tied to your fuckery, are due at the label at 8:00 A.M. sharp."

I release a slow breath. "Trina, I have a contract. They already started presale on the summer tour. It can't be that bad."

Trina's cackle is edged with hysteria. "That guy you punched after throwing a beer in his face and waving a knife —"

"Knife? Really? It's a Swiss Army pocket tool. Every self-respecting Boy Scout owns one."

She plows on. "He was the SunCoast Records CEO's youngest son. His legally old-enough-to-drink son, as a matter of fact. Which you are not. How you manage to get served time and time again —"

I roll my eyes. "I've been playing bars since I was fifteen, Trina."

"— when you are so publicly underage —"

I lift a shoulder and wince as pain shoots down to my elbow. Must have tweaked it last night. "I'm a celebrity."

Trina grunts, her derision clear, just as my phone chimes in my pocket. I pull it out, ignoring her.

SAW TMZ. ON MY WAY.

"Is that Fitz?"

I nod, texting back.

TOO LATE. TRINA'S HERE.

"You can tell that good-for-nothing fiddler he's on my shit list, too. He promised he'd watch out for you after the last time."

SORRY, BRO.

"I don't need a babysitter, Trina."

MAYDAY, MAYDAY.

"Obviously. Just get in the car, Clay."

* * *

We pull into the lot of SunCoast Records fifteen minutes early. Trina slams the door with her bony hip and pulls out a cigarette, lights it, taking a long drag, and leans back against her outrageous banana-yellow convertible.

"I thought you quit." Fitz Jacoby lumbers over from where he's parked his crotch rocket and tugs the stick from between her lips. He stomps it out with his boot, and she glares but doesn't protest. Trina might have said Fitz was on her shit list, but she'd never hold to it. No one could.

"I did, but then Clay happened. He's fixing to kill me and my career. I wish I'd never agreed to manage you guys."

"Aw, now, Trina, that ain't true. You love us." Fitz pulls some kind of fudgy granola bar from his pocket and hands it to her. "Have some breakfast. Have you even taken a second for yourself today? I bet not," he croons. "Probably been up since dawn fielding phone calls and emails. You take five right here. Have a bite, find your chi or whatever. I'll make sure Boy Wonder here makes it up to the office, and we'll see you there."

Before she can protest, he silences her with a look and a waggle of his rusty brows and grabs my arm, tugging me along. "One, two, three, four ...," he mutters.

"Clay needs a clean shirt!" Trina yells, and Fitz holds up a plastic shopping bag without even turning.

"How the hell did you have time to stop for a shirt?"

"I have spares," he says, his jaw ticking.

I blow out a breath, trying to shrug out of his grip. He doesn't let go, just keeps dragging me to the glass doors of the lobby. "It wasn't as bad as they made it sound."

Fitz doesn't say anything. Instead, he leads me straight past the security desk to a men's room. He checks the stalls before locking the door and shoves the plastic bag at my chest. "There's deodorant and a toothbrush in there. I suggest you use them."

I remove my hat and glasses and pull my bloodstained T-shirt over my head before leaning over the sink. I turn on the cold full blast, splashing my face and rubbing the sticky grime and sweat from my neck. Fitz hands me a small hand towel, and I pat my skin dry. I use the deodorant — my usual brand — and brush my teeth. Twice.

"I like the shirt," I say.

"You should. You own three of them already."

"I have a contract."

Fitz laughs, but it's without humor. "Man, I don't care about your contract. You could've been seriously hurt. You could've been shot. You could've got in a car accident. You did get in a fistfight like some kid."

"He started it," I say, but Fitz is already holding up a calloused hand in front of his face, cutting me off.

"We don't have time for this. We're going up there, and you aren't gonna say shit in your defense. You're gonna say 'Yes, sir' and 'Yes, ma'am,' and you're gonna eat whatever crow they throw in your face and pray to God Almighty they don't sue you for breach of contract. Do you hear me?"

I sprint to the toilet. The coffee burns as it comes up.

"Christ," Fitz is saying when I come back to the sink, but he doesn't seem as mad. I splash more water and brush my teeth again, and then he holds the door open for me. As I pass, he...