Chapter Ten
Jack
––––––––
I STARE AT MY PHONE screen—the album cover staring back at me, my own face looking all serious and “artistic” in black-and-white. Jack Hayes - Long Road Home. Out today.
“Shit,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. It’s longer now, styled some fancy way the label’s groomer insisted on.
I can’t believe this is real. The album dropped at midnight. I’m staring at my own face on Amazon Music. I swipe through the app, my stomach in knots. The reviews are already pouring in. Some glowing, some critical, but all of them about me . About my music. I feel like I’m floating and sinking at the same time.
My phone buzzes with a text from Liz: Get ready for the ride of your life, kid. The numbers are looking good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
I have an assistant now. Well, technically it’s one of Liz’s assistants. I have a busy schedule today. I’m doing a bunch of press events and will be doing a performance tonight. Liz warned me this was going to be a wild week. I really hoped I could have Jinnie here for all this, but Liz told me I wouldn’t have time to spend with her. I should wait and bring her to Memphis when things settle down.
I texted Jinnie last night to remind her the album dropped at midnight. She replied with a clapping hand emoji. I assumed she was in bed and was probably at the bakery all day.
It’s not long before Liz strides in like she owns the place—hell, maybe she does. The label’s paying for this penthouse, after all. Today she’s all business in a sleek black pantsuit, her hair pulled back tight. But she’s carrying a garment bag.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Your outfit for today’s press tour.” She lays it across the couch like it’s some priceless artifact. She unzips the bag and pulls out the outfit. “Dolce & Gabbana. Custom fit.”
I step closer. It’s a shirt—silky, dark purple with some weird paisley pattern, the kind of thing I’d see in a magazine and immediately flip past.
“I’m not wearing that.”
Liz sighs, perching on the arm of the couch. “Jack, sweetheart, this isn’t some small-town bar anymore. You’re a recording artist now. Image matters. We’ve been working on this look for you for weeks.”
“I’ve got an image.” I gesture at myself—black jeans, my usual boots, a plain gray tee. “This is me. This is what people know.”
She stands, closing the distance between us. Her perfume hits me. I hate her perfume. I come home at night smelling like her. “And this”—she plucks at my t-shirt, her nails grazing my chest—“is what you wear to change your oil. That”—she nods to the designer shirt—“is what stars wear.”
“Liz, I told that stylist lady I wasn’t doing flashy and no jumpsuits.”
“It’s not a jumpsuit,” she says.
I glance at the shirt again, feeling a knot of unease tighten in my stomach. It’s not just the shirt—it’s everything. The way Liz talks about “the Jack Hayes brand,” the endless meetings with stylists, the photoshoots where they tell me to look “mysterious” or “brooding.” I feel like I’m being molded into something I don’t recognize.
But Liz is already moving on, pulling out her tablet and scrolling through my schedule for the day. “First stop is the radio station for an interview. Then we’ve got a magazine photoshoot, followed by a live acoustic performance in the park. You’ll get a break before the big event tonight.”
“The big event?” I ask, still distracted by the shirt.
She doesn’t look up from her tablet. “The release party. Industry people, press, fans—it’s going to be huge. You’ll need to be on your A-game. We’ll have another outfit for that.”
I swallow hard. “Right.”
Liz finally looks at me. I see the irritation in her expression. “Jack, this is what you wanted. This is what you worked for. Don’t let it scare you.”
“It’s not that,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure what it is. The pressure? The expectations? The way everything feels so... manufactured?
“Good,” she says, handing me the shirt. “Now get dressed. The car will be here in ten.”
I feel like I have to be grateful. I know how much work she’s put into making me a success.
I look at the shirt again. The pants are black and I swear there are sparkles in the fabric. I look at her with horror. “You can’t expect me to...sparkle?”
She waves a hand. “It’s fashion. You wear this kind of thing for events. When you’re performing, we’ll have you a little more casual.”
“But isn’t this...a lot?”
“It’s just enough. You’re going to look very sexy. Hot. The ladies are going to go nuts. I’ll make sure you have plenty of condoms. We don’t need a pregnancy scandal while we’re still launching you.”
“I don’t need condoms,” I snap. “I have a girlfriend.”
She smirks. “Of course, you do.”
“I’ll try it on.” I reach for the bag and try to get around Liz.
She steps in front of me, looking me up and down. “I could help—”
“Nah, I’m good.”
I dash into my bedroom before she can finish that thought. Liz has been coming on to me lately. I don’t like it. It’s weird. She knows I have Jinnie, but she pretends to forget.
I jerk off my tee shirt. It’s a nice shirt. Not some cheap one from Wal-Mart. I thought my outfit looked just fine. It was all very me.
I put on the other shirt. The fabric is weird against my skin—too smooth, like it’s not meant to be touched by calloused hands. When I look in the mirror, some stranger stares back. Some polished, label-approved version of me.
But hell, maybe that’s what success looks like. I put on the pants and have to laugh at myself. There is no amount of money and fame in the world that could get me to wear the damn things in public. They’re hideous.
I step back into the living room, the silk shirt clinging in all the wrong places, but at least I’ve got my jeans on. My boots are scuffed and worn, a grounding contrast to the ridiculousness of the shirt. Liz is pacing near the windows, her phone pressed to her ear, but she stops dead when she sees me. Her eyes narrow.
“Where are the pants?” she asks, her voice clipped.
“I’m not wearing them,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “The shirt’s enough.”
Liz lowers her phone slowly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Jack, this isn’t negotiable.”
“Yeah, it is,” I shoot back, my voice steady. “I’ll wear the shirt. That’s already pushing it for me. But those pants? No way in hell.”
She steps closer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. “Do you have any idea how much this outfit costs? How much thought went into crafting this look for you?”
“I don’t care how much it costs,” I say, holding her stare. “I’m not a mannequin, Liz. I’ll wear what makes me feel like me. And those pants? They ain’t me.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I think she’s going to argue. But then she exhales sharply through her nose and shakes her head. “Fine. But you’re wearing the shirt. And you’re going to smile during every single interview and photoshoot today. Understood?”
“Understood,” I mutter, though I’m beginning to think this whole thing is more than I anticipated.
We leave the building and slide into the waiting limousine. It no longer feels quite as exciting as it once did.
I’m shuffled around like a piece of property. Before I know it, I’m sitting in a hotel room set up for interviews. There’s several pictures of me behind me. I’m told each reporter will have five minutes with me. I’ve been prepped on what to say, how to sit, and to flash my sexy smile.
That just feels gross.
The first reporter doesn’t ask about the music.
“So, Jack,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “your album’s getting a lot of attention for its authenticity. How much of that is really you?”
I blink. “All of it. I wrote every song.”
“Yes, but the production, the arrangements—”
“Dex killed it in the studio,” I say. “But it’s my—”
Liz’s heel connects with my ankle under the table.
I’ve gone off script.
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.”