Page 25 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

My fingers itch for my guitar just thinking about it. I glance down at my phone, my thumb hovering over Jinnie’s name in my contacts. I should text her, let her know I made it onto the plane safely. But what would I say? That I’m flying in a private jet while she’s probably sitting at home missing me?

“You can call your girlfriend when we land,” Liz says, noticing my hesitation. “Right now, we should talk about your image.”

I look up, confused. “My image?”

“How we’re going to market you.” She pulls out a sleek tablet and swipes through some photos. “The label’s thinking rugged country boy with an edge. The voice of small-town America with enough bad boy appeal to make the girls swoon.”

“I’m just me,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I write songs about what I know.”

Liz’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Everyone’s ‘just them,’ Jack. But to make it in this business, you need to be the version of you that sells records.”

The plane hits a patch of turbulence, and my stomach lurches. I grip the armrests, unsure if it’s the altitude or Liz’s words making me queasy.

“Don’t worry,” she says, mistaking my silence for nerves about flying. “We’re not going to change you too much. Just enhance what’s already there. That rawness is what’s going to make people go crazy for you. Our stylist will tap into that rawness.”

I nod deciding to trust the process. I knew there would be some style changes. That was cool with me. As long as they didn’t put me in flashy jumpsuits or tight jeans and big belt buckle I was pretty cool with things.

The flight was over before I knew it. When we touched down, Liz ushered me to a waiting car. I’ve never been chauffeured anywhere. This is wild.

The city hits me like a live wire. I was staring out the window trying to take it all in. I have never been to an actual city. Our town car glides past Beale Street, where crowds spill onto sidewalks, drinks in hand, moving to music I can feel in my bones.

I can’t help but smile. I can feel the vibe. Music is everywhere here. Signage for open mics, live bands and buskers on street corners are proof of the musical inclinations of this place. I’m going to fit right in. I hope I have time to check out some of the places. Unfortunately, my age is going to keep me out of most of the bars.

The car pulls to a stop in front of a tall building.

“Welcome home,” Liz purrs.

I look at her. “Here?”

The back door is opened by a man wearing a uniform complete with white gloves. Another man pulls my bag and guitar from the trunk. I quickly take the guitar.

Liz strolls across the lobby with me following behind like a lost child. I remind myself to keep my mouth shut. This is absolutely insane. Liz talks with someone in another uniform. Soon, we’re stepping into an elevator. I’m not sure how I feel about living more than two floors off the ground.

Is Tennessee prone to earthquakes?

A minute later, I’m standing in what I know is called a foyer. A massive painting of a guitar covers one wall. But that’s not what has my attention. My legs carry me toward the windows. The penthouse takes my breath away. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows with an amazing view of the city.

When I turn around to take in the vast space, I see it. My eyes nearly bulge out of my head.

A guitar—a brand-new Martin—propped on a stand in the living room.

I run my fingers along the polished wood. “This is mine?”

“All yours,” Liz says, handing me a keycard. “Courtesy of Rockline.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I murmur.

I love the guitar, but my guitar is well...mine. It’s familiar.

“I have a meeting,” Liz says. “Settle in and we’ll get started first thing in the morning.” She hands me a credit card. “This is for per diem.”

“For what?”

“Food, toiletries, whatever.” She waves her hand. “Order food. I’ll send a car in the morning.”

She leaves me standing there with the card in hand. I look around the place. The kitchen, living room, and dining room are all visible from where I stand. I walk down a short hallway and open a door. It’s a bathroom. I take myself on a tour and discover the place has three bedrooms.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one is the master.