Manager's cell phone twerped, and he, still mulling over the problem of the gobsmacked audience and his capricious country star, absentmindedly plucked it from his pocket.
As he began to read the Google alert flicking across the screen, his eyes widened, bigger and bigger until his face looked like he'd just pooped worms.
A YouTube video just posted of Jay's rogue pop/jazz/crooner (re: decidedly anti-country) ballad had already raked in three and a half million views.
"What is it?" Jay asked, not caring. His deflated heart was quietly exploding all over the St. Augustine underneath his blue jean-ed bum.
"Nothing." Manager was in full on methamphetamine mode. "Let's go."
He flipped Jay's discarded cowboy hat off the ground with his boot, catching it midair and brushing off the dust in one fast left-handed motion, and grabbing Jay by the ear with his other hand.
Jay winced but stood anyway.
Manager smacked him in the belly with his own hat.
"Come on, Walker, get it together," he said.
Jay put on his hat.
They were headed to a post-concert press briefing at the Monster Truck display, where Jay would be photographed driving a Chevrolet.
Promotional consideration.
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