Page 26 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

I take pictures of everything—the skyline view, the king-sized bed, the kitchen with every gadget possible and send them to Jinnie.

Me: Wait till you see this place. You’re gonna love it.

Three dots appear. Disappear. And then quickly appear again.

Jinnie: Wow. Have fun.

I frown at the screen. She’s probably busy.

I text her a few more times, but her replies are always delayed and short. I unpack my meager belongings and then settle in. My gaze is on the city lights below. I know I should get some sleep, but I don’t know how I’ll manage.

The following morning, I’m up early. I wait in the lobby for the car Liz promised to send. Soon enough, I’m walking into the offices of my new label. I’m ushered into a conference room. The label head, a silver-haired guy in a suit that costs more than, shit, anything I’ve ever owned, shakes my hand.

“We don’t just sign anybody, son,” he says, sliding a thick stack of papers across the conference table. “But you? You’ve got it.”

The contract looks like a novel. Tiny print, clauses, percentages.

“I should probably read—”

“Standard boilerplate,” the lawyer interrupts, tapping page twelve. “Just need your John Hancock here and here.”

Liz leans in. “Trust me, Jack. This is your dream, remember?”

I hesitate. Jinnie’s voice whispers in my head—”Make sure you read everything”—but the label exec is already handing me a pen.

I sign. Yeah, maybe I could have fought harder for a bigger percentage, but considering I have nothing, anything is good. After talking with a few more executives, I’m led downstairs. There are a series of doors with lights overhead.

“This is us,” Liz says.

She opens the door and we walk into an actual recording studio. I’ve only seen them in movies and YouTube videos.

The control room is all blinking lights and giant speakers. The engineer, a guy named Dex with tattoos up to his neck, leads me into the booth. He hands me a pair of headphones. “Just lay down a scratch track first. Don’t overthink it.”

They’ve given me about three minutes to get my bearings. Liz is standing behind Dex, her eyes on her phone. A couple of the executives are sitting on the couch.

The red light flashes and Dex gives me a thumbs up. I launch into the song that got me here. I don’t have my guitar, which is my crutch, but I still manage to sing. Even if my hands do feel empty.

When I finish, the room erupts.

“Holy shit,” Dex says.

Liz beams. “Told you he was special.”

The label exec whispers something to her. She walks into the booth. “They want to fast-track your first single. We’re talking radio play, music video, the works. Get comfortable being in here. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

My heart pounds. This is it. This is really happening.