Page 32 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

The reporter smirks. “Of course. Now, about your new look—”

And we’re off. Thirty more minutes of questions about my “style evolution” and “brand potential” and exactly zero about the damn songs.

By the fifth interview, I’m reciting answers like a script:

“Yes, the purple shirt was my idea.”

“No, I don’t miss small-town life.”

“Of course I’m grateful to Rockline for this opportunity.”

Each time, Liz nods along like a proud parent. Each time, something in my chest tightens.

Backstage at the last stop, I finally snap.

“None of them gave a shit about the music,” I mutter, pacing the tiny green room. “It’s all about the damn shirt.”

Liz doesn’t look up from her phone. “That shirt sold ten-thousand extra albums today. Fans want the fantasy, Jack. If you’d worn the damn pants that number would have been higher. They want to see you, Jack. And I mean all of you.”

“The fantasy?” I whirl on her. “I’m a musician, not a fucking boyband member.”

She finally meets my eyes, her expression cool. “You’re whatever sells records. And right now? This”—she gestures at my outfit—“is selling.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the door swings open.

“Mr. Hayes?” Some intern pokes his head in. “Billboard’s here for your walkout video.”

Liz stands, smoothing her pantsuit. “We’ll continue this later.”

But we don’t.

Three days later, the numbers come in. I’m number twelve on the Billboard 200. They think I might be able to make it to the number one spot if I keep up the press tour. The excitement feels muted, like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold. I barely listen as Liz rattles off the many appearances I’m going to be doing, including some in New York and then LA.

Liz is pacing the room, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She’s on the phone, rattling off dates and cities to someone on the other end. New York, L.A., Chicago—each word feels heavier than the last. My chest tightens.

“Jack,” Liz says, finally hanging up and turning to me. “This is it. You’re happening. We need to keep this momentum going. Go get dressed. The party is in an hour.”

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. My fingers absently strum an imaginary guitar, the melody of a new song forming in my head. It’s raw, unfiltered—nothing like the polished tracks on the album. I go into my room to put on the black suit. It’s designer...Lauren, I think. At least it’s relatively normal. Once dressed, the glam squad shows up to do my hair. I don’t even do my own hair anymore.

When we arrive at the hotel with a rooftop bar, there’s a red carpet and photographers lined up on either side. They snap my picture as I walk inside. I smile and wave to the fans that are waiting with the photographers.

It’s yet another launch party. I want to ask how many times we can celebrate the launch but figure that’s not something I’m supposed to ask. Execs I’ve never met clap me on the back.

“Kid, you’re a natural,” the CEO slurs in my ear. “Now let’s talk album two.”

My head snaps up. “Already?”

Liz materializes at my side. “Strike while the iron’s hot. We’re thinking more pop crossover this time. Maybe a duet with—”

“Whoa, whoa.” I set my drink down. “I’ve got a notebook full of new songs. Real ones. Not some—”

“Not some what?” Liz’s eyebrow arches. “Hit singles?”

The CEO chuckles. “Artists.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Look, kid, we know what sells. You want to keep making music? This is how.”

Liz’s hand finds my arm. “Trust us, Jack.”

I look around the room filled with people wearing expensive clothes and drinking champagne. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look nothing like the guy who used to play for tips at Aggie’s.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But I want input on the tracks.”

Liz squeezes my arm. “Of course you will.”