Page 66 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“Smart move,” Chase says. “This industry will chew you up and spit you out faster than you can blink.”

“Let’s get started,” I say. “I’m hoping to grab a nap before we get on the plane.”

“Oh, we’re not getting on the plane with you,” Chase says with a laugh. “We don’t rate. We’re flying commercial.”

I look at them. “I’ll talk to Liz. We can work on the plane. Two birds with one stone and all that.”

We get started. At least, I try but it’s not going to happen.

My fingers hover over the strings. Nothing comes.

No melody. No lyrics. Just static.

The door swings open, and Liz strides in carrying a tray of soda and a bag of fast food. I never thought I would be so disgusted by a fast-food burger, but I’m sick of them. I crave Aggie’s fried chicken and potato salad. Biscuits and gravy.

Liz plucks the notebook from my hands and scans the empty page. Her lips purse. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m not overthinking. I’m not thinking at all. That’s the problem. You know what I need to write new music.”

Liz sighs with disgust. “Jack, you don’t need her.”

I stiffen. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” She taps the notebook. “These songs are yours. Whatever you write will be fine.”

I want to argue. Want to tell her that nothing’s been fine since Jinnie left, but I’m so damn tired.

So I pick up the pen.

And I write what they want to hear. Chase and Colin add their input, and by the end of the session, we have a song. It’s not my song and it’s not a song I want to have my name on, but it’s one down and two more to go.

On the way to the airport, I tell Liz I want Colin and Chase on the plane. She’s not happy about it, claims that means one of my assistants will have to fly commercial. I don’t care.

“Fine, the next city,” she mutters. “Whatever it takes to get some new music out of you.”

That night, I’m back on stage.

The roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force, thousands of voices screaming my name—no, not my name. Jumping Jack. The stupid, grinning stage persona the label crafted. I loathe the gimmick, but I’m too far in.

I paste on the smile I’ve practiced in mirrors and stride into the spotlight, arms raised. The sequined jacket Liz picked out itches like hell, but the crowd goes wild when I spin, the lights catching the glitter.

“You ready to jump?”

The response is deafening.

I launch into the first song, playing up every move—the hip thrusts, the smoldering looks to the front row, the way I drag my fingers slowly down the neck of the guitar like it’s something dirty. The women near the stage scream, their hands reaching for me like I’m something holy.

It should feel good.

It just feels empty.

But I keep going. Because that’s what Jumping Jack does.

I take off the jacket after the third song... just like the choreographer told me to. Halfway through the show, I’m shirtless. That’s the choreography too, but it’s supposed to be natural. It always makes the crowd go wild. It reinvigorates the crowd to carry the show through to the end.

Back on the jet, Liz hands me a whiskey. “I know, I know, you don’t like to drink. Your throat will appreciate it.”

“Liquor ruins my voice,” I reply.