Page 48 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Sixteen

Jack

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THE STUDIO WALLS ARE closing in on me.

I stare at the half-written lyrics scrawled across the notebook page—another dead-end chorus, another verse that doesn’t say what I mean. My guitar sits abandoned on the couch. I’ve tried everything. Liz tried to insist I use the song the guys helped me write, but when I got in the booth, I couldn’t do it. It didn’t feel like my words. I wasn’t skilled enough to fake emotion. Dex had quickly grown frustrated with me and we scrapped the session.

That’s happened three days in a row now. I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots like it might shake something loose in my head. My hair feels too long now. I was cool growing it out, but now it’s driving me crazy. When I asked Liz for the name of a good barber she nearly had a heart attack. Apparently, I’m not allowed to cut my hair, and if I did, there is only one person she’ll allow to do it.

So, I got a trim. Like less than a centimeter and it’s driving me crazy. Everything does these days. I feel like I’m wearing a hair suit. The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should, each second a reminder of how much time I’ve wasted.

Liz is going to call soon—she always does after a failed session. I’m not ready to hear the disappointment in her voice again. She’s not yelling at me, not yet, but I can feel it building. That cool, measured tone she uses when she’s holding back, when she’s calculating how much longer she can wait before she starts cutting her losses.

I know I’m going to be dropped from the label if I can’t get my shit together. I made it this far and I don’t want to fail now. But I honestly never expected it to be this much pressure. I thought I’d put out an album and ride the success for a while.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. These people all work around the clock. I met another artist who laughed when I told him I was hoping to take a couple of weeks off to go home. Home to Jinnie. He told me that wasn’t going to happen.

My chest tightens. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be back in Wisconsin, working the farm or stacking shelves at the hardware store, not sitting in some fancy Memphis studio trying to be something I’m not. But that’s the thing—I don’t want to be those things either. I never did. And now that I’m here, now that I’ve got this chance, I’m blowing it.

I slap the notebook shut and toss it onto the coffee table. It slides off and lands on the floor, pages splayed open like it’s giving up too. I don’t blame it. An image of my father’s satisfied smile with an ‘I told you so’ look in his eyes makes me want to scream.

I cannot fail.

Dex pokes his head into the writing room, takes one look at my face, and sighs. “Still nothing?”

“It’s all garbage.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” he says, scratching his beard. “Just play what you feel.”

“That’s the problem.” I rub my temples. “I don’t feel anything right now.”

Except frustration. And exhaustion. And this gnawing emptiness that no amount of parties and fancy dinners can fill.

“Take a walk,” Dex suggests. “I’ll be around all day. If you get a spark and want to lay something down, find me.”

“Thanks, Dex.”

Twelve songs due in three weeks, and I’ve got four mediocre tracks that make me cringe every time I hear them.

Something’s gotta give.

I leave the room and go up to the next floor where the executive’s offices are. I never come up here. It’s sacred ground. The receptionist recognizes me immediately.

“Can I talk to Richard?” I ask her.

“Of course.” She smiles. “Let me see if he has a minute.”

That’s something I’m still getting used to... people jumping to do what I ask.

“Go right in,” she says after she hangs up the phone.

“Thank you.”

I walk to the large double doors and knock once before letting myself in.

“Jack.” He removes his reading glasses. “To what do I owe this visit?”