Page 65 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Twenty-One

Jack

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THE PRIVATE JET HUMS beneath me, the vibration traveling up through the soles of my boots and into my bones. I think I’ve spent more time flying than on the stage. Outside the window, the Pacific Northwest stretches out in a blur of evergreen. Vancouver tonight. Then Seattle again. Then Chicago. The schedule scrolls through my mind like ticker tape—cities and dates and venues all bleeding together. They decided we’re going to do an international tour. From what I understand, with this new passport, we will soon be heading to Europe.

I know I should be excited about it... and I am, but I’m also wondering when I can take a break. When will I get to sleep in a bed for more than six hours? Or eat a meal sitting down at a real table? Not a table in the sky or on a bus. An actual table in someone’s kitchen. A meal cooked by someone who didn’t get paid to prepare it.

Liz taps her manicured nails against her tablet screen, scrolling through reviews. “Listen to this,” she says, her voice filled with excitement. “‘Jumping Jack delivers electrifying performances night after night, proving himself as one of the most dynamic new talents on the scene. His music appeals to young and old. Folk-lovers, pop tarts, and rock enthusiasts.’”

I grunt, rubbing my temples. My skull throbs. Too many late nights, too many shows, too many hours under hot stage lights screaming lyrics that don’t feel like mine anymore. I’m bored. No, not bored—stuck. Every night it’s a new city with the same set list. Every night I’m stuffed into some horrible outfit. Except now I change at least three times during the show. And then when the concert is over, I’m either taken to a hotel or loaded back on the jet.

“You should be thrilled,” Liz says, nudging my knee with hers. “This is everything you wanted.”

I stare at my reflection in the window of the plane. The dark circles under my eyes, the stubble I haven’t had time to shave, the too-perfect sweep of my hair, styled just the way the label likes it. Before I go on stage every night, my eyes are flooded with Visine and they’ve taken to actually putting makeup on my face to hide the dark circles. I’ve given up trying to fight it.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s everything I wanted. And then some.”

“We’re going to schedule some time for writing tomorrow,” Liz says. “We’re going to cut rehearsal time in half to accommodate writing.”

“Writing?” I reply.

“Yes, we have to keep going,” she says. “The momentum is still on the upward trajectory. We have to keep plying them with new music.”

“Liz, I barely remember my own name,” I say. “I can’t write.”

“You really don’t need to write,” she says. “We’ve got plenty of music for you to choose from. You can tweak it.”

“No. I need to write my music. We’ve already tried it the other way. I’m not interested.”

She doesn’t argue. I’m turning into an asshole. I can feel it. The more people cater to my every whim, the more I realize I can say no. I’m the moneymaker. I’m the product they are selling. They have to keep me happy.

When we land, it’s the same process I’ve grown used to. We’re taken straight to the venue. I’m put in another ugly-ass shirt and pants that make it difficult to breathe. Another night, another city, and another stage.

As always, my exhaustion and irritation with the lack of control over my life evaporates the moment I’m on stage. This is why I put up with all the other bullshit. This makes it worth it.

The following morning, I’m pulled from sleep early. I do a couple of interviews, a photo shoot for some energy drink I’m apparently the new face for, despite never having tasted it, and then shuttled back to the hotel. Instead of the penthouse suite, I’m taken into another room with Chase and Colin waiting for me.

“Hey, Jack,” Colin greets me. “Liz says we have two hours to bust out at least one song. They want to get it laid down and release it as a teaser for the next album.”

I roll my eyes. “You guys don’t find it irritating people who have never written a single chorus demand we write an entire song in a couple of hours?”

Chase chuckles. “Welcome to the industry.”

“Liz wants three new songs by the end of the month,” Colin says. “We’ll be touring with you. The plan is to get the songs done and get into the studio in the next couple of weeks.”

I stare at them. “You can’t be serious.”

Colin nods and opens the minifridge stocked with cans of the energy drink I’ve been shilling for. “They made sure we’ve got plenty of caffeine.”

“Great,” I say. I reach for one of the cold cans, pop it open, and take a drink. I nearly choke. “What the hell is this shit?”

Chase just laughs. “You have an unlimited supply. Better get used to it.”

“Unless you want some whiskey?” Colin asks. “A lot of artists prefer to have a couple of drinks during these sessions. Helps loosen things up.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not falling into that trap. I can’t afford it.”