Page 62 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

The wheels touch down with a jolt that rattles my teeth. Outside the window, San Francisco glows in the predawn darkness.

“Wake up, superstar.” Liz’s manicured nails dig into my shoulder. “We’ve got four radio spots starting in ninety minutes.”

I blink gummed-up eyes, my body screaming for just one more hour of sleep. “Can’t we push them back?”

“No.” She snaps open a compact, checking her makeup like we didn’t just spend the night on a damn plane. “Be ready in fifteen.”

Once again, I’m put into a waiting limo. I press my forehead against the cool glass, counting streetlights to stay awake. Everything hurts—my fingers from plucking at guitar strings all night, my spine from sleeping upright, my throat from singing through three encores.

“Here.” Liz shoves a protein shake into my hands. “Drink it all. You look like death.”

The taste of artificial banana coats my tongue. We get to the hotel, and despite the early hour, there are people waiting. More flashing cameras at the entrance, more forced smiles while bellhops whisk our bags away.

I get to my suite with my entourage. For one beautiful moment, I think about face-planting into the king-sized bed and sleeping for a week.

“Shower.” Liz points toward the bathroom like she’s commanding a dog. “Ten minutes max.”

Under the scalding water, I try to remember what city we played last night. Seattle? Portland? The days blur together—airport terminals, backstage hallways, and interchangeable hotel rooms where I never stay long enough to unpack.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. I open the door and step out to find Liz in my room. She looks me up and down and smiles. “I’m going to start scheduling gym time into your schedule,” she says.

I honestly don’t know how that will be possible. Unless she has the power to extend the days and add more time. “Why?”

She steps forward and touches my chest. I step back, pushing her hand away. “I think you need to take off your shirt tonight. The ladies all need to see this.”

“No.”

“Yes. Not tonight. We’ll work it into the choreography so it looks natural. I brought in your outfit for the day. The designer finally got your opening outfit done as well.”

My eyes drift to the bed where the ‘casual’ outfit for the media bullshit is on the bed. It’s not bad but I know those jeans are going to be tight. My poor junk gets squeezed day in and day out these days.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask when my eyes land on the next outfit.

“The cameras love sparkle,” she says, like that explains everything.

I stare at the ridiculous shirt. “It looks like a disco ball.”

“You’ll look like a star. Trust me, Jack. I know what’s best for you.”

Something about the way she says it—the possessiveness—makes my skin crawl.

“Get out so I can get dressed,” I mutter. “I don’t need your help.”

“I’ll have your tea ready,” she says. “Your voice sounds rough.”

“Because I haven’t fucking slept in a month!”

She smiles. “I know. That’s how popular you are right now.”

The rest of the day I’m driven all around the city but I never really got to see the place. I would have liked being able to see half these places I was visiting. But there was never time.

That evening, after catching a twenty-minute nap in the green room, I’m practically forced to put on the goofy outfit. The stage manager is calling, and the crowd is chanting, and before I can protest, I’m being shoved toward the lights again.

“Ladies and gentlemen... Jumping Jack!”

The nickname grates, but the roar of approval drowns out my irritation. The second I hit the first chord; the crowd erupts.

And just like that, none of it matters—not the stupid nickname, not the itchy sequins, not the way Liz watches from the wings like a predator.

For ninety minutes, I’m untouchable.

After the show, in the haze of backstage chaos, a redhead in a VIP pass presses against me during a photo op. “You’re so much hotter in person,” she breathes, her lips brushing my ear.

Liz materializes, steering the girl away with a too-sweet smile. “No touching the merchandise, sweetheart.”

The girl pouts but drifts off. Liz’s hand replaces hers on my bicep.

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs.

I should say something. Should tell her to back off, that I’m not her property. But the adrenaline is still pumping, the crowd’s energy still buzzing in my veins, and right now, all I can think about is the next show. The next high.

“Come on, superstar. Your public awaits.”

And like a puppet on strings, I follow.