Chapter Sixteen
Jack
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T HE 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?”
I swallow my nerves. There’s no use beating around the bush. “I can’t finish the album.”
Richard’s eyebrow arches. “Excuse me?”
“The songs aren’t working. They’re missing something.” I pace the plush carpet. “I need Jinnie.”
“Jinnie?” he asks.
“My girlfriend. She always helped me. When I’m around her the music flows. I’m stuck. I’m not inspired. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
A slow smile spreads across Richard’s face. “Ah. The muse.”
“Yes, I guess you can say that. I’m serious. I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You think Dylan didn’t have his Sara? McCartney his Linda?” He waves a hand. “We’ll send the jet.”
I blink. “What?”
“Where’s this Jinnie? I’ll send the jet to pick her up, assuming she’s still your girlfriend.”
I stare at him with disbelief. I can’t tell if he’s joking with me. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Richard picks up his phone. “Creativity is a fickle bitch. If a pretty face from home is what it takes to get this album done...” He shrugs. “Consider it a business expense.”
I tell him the airport and rush out the door to call Jinnie. I hope she’s not going to be pissed at me for just assuming she’ll drop everything and come to me.
Jinnie picks up on the second ring. “Jack?”
Hearing her voice affects me in a way I hadn’t expected. I can feel her. How weird is that? “Pack a bag.”
A pause. “What?”
“I’ll send you flight info. Tomorrow morning.” The words tumble out. “I need you here, Jinnie. The songs—they’re not right without you. I can’t do this. You’re my muse.”
Another pause, longer this time. I can picture her biting her lip, the way she does when she’s thinking.
“Jinnie?”
“I don’t know, Jack... the bakery—”
“Please.” The word comes out raw. “Just for a few days. Longer if you can swing it.”
Silence stretches between us, humming with everything we’re not saying. Then—
“Okay.”
I nearly collapse, grinning like an idiot. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Her voice softens. “But, Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“No more fancy dinners. I just want to see you.”
“That works for me.”
“Are you okay, Jack?”
I think about my answer. “Honestly, no. I’m drowning without you.”
“I’ll be there.”
I go back downstairs to my writing room. I know I’m not going to get anything done. I collect my things and head out, feeling about fifty pounds lighter. I can’t wait to see her.
The following morning, I’m at the private airport pacing back and forth. I see the plane land and step outside to meet her. She walks down the stairs and directly into my arms.
“A private jet,” she says with a laugh.
“Yep.”
“You don’t think that’s a little over the top?”
I wave a hand. “It’s the music business; the top exec suggested it. I told him I couldn’t write without you.”
“You must be pretty special to warrant this kind of pampering,” she says.
I take her bag and we head back inside. “I’m special now, but if I don’t get this album written, I won’t be.”
The driver takes her bag as we get into the waiting car. I kiss her, holding her hand and pulling her close to me. I feel like I can finally breathe again.
“We’re going to eat breakfast and then we’re headed to my place to work on this album,” I tell her. “Liz wants me in a writing room, but I can’t write in there. I need windows. I need you.”
I’m hyperaware of Jinnie beside me, her hand still in mine. The driver takes us to some upscale brunch spot Liz recommended—apparently, it’s where all the “important people” go. I don’t care about that. I just need to feed Jinnie before we dive into the chaos of the album.
A valet opens the door for us and I step out, offering my hand to Jinnie. She takes it, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement as she looks around.
“This is fancy,” she says, her voice tinged with a hint of skepticism.
“It’s just breakfast,” I say, though even I can hear how ridiculous that sounds. “Liz said it’s good.”
Jinnie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. The hostess recognizes me immediately—another thing I’m still getting used to—and leads us to a corner table by the window. The view overlooks the river.
Jinnie slides into the booth, her eyes scanning the menu. “Jack,” she says after a moment, “this place is ridiculously expensive.”
“It’s on the label,” I tell her. “Anything you want.”
“Can we just get some pancakes?”
I signal the waiter. “Two stacks of pancakes, please. Extra syrup.”
“Now that’s romantic.” She giggles softly.
The pancakes arrive, golden and fluffy, drowning in syrup just the way we like them. Jinnie digs in immediately. She’s everything I need. I can already feel that familiar tickle of a melody trying to bubble up.
“So,” she says between bites, “tell me about the album.”
I swirl a piece of pancake in syrup. “It’s stuck. Everything I write feels forced. Like I’m trying to be someone else.”
She nods, thoughtful. “Because you are.”
Her words hit me square in the chest.
“You’re trying to be what they want,” she continues, tapping her fork against her plate. “But that’s not why people fell in love with your music in the first place.”
“What if I don’t know how to get back to that?”
Jinnie reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Then we figure it out together.”
When we finish eating, I flag down the waiter for the check—only to be told it’s already been taken care of. Of course it has. Outside, the same black car waits for us.
“Home?” she asks.
“Home,” I confirm.
We get back to the penthouse. My first thought is getting her naked.
“No, sir.” She grins. “Work first. I want to help you.”
I pout. “You can help me. I’m all stoved up. I need release.”
“You sit on the tension and let it fuel you,” she says. “Where’s the notebook?”
I groan. “I have new ones. My old one is filled.”
“Get it. Let’s get this party started.”
She perches on the couch, legs tucked under her like she belongs. I pick up my guitar, and for the first time in weeks, my fingers remember what to do.
“Play me what you have,” she says.
I start with the least terrible track—a ballad about coming home. Halfway through, Jinnie frowns.
“Stop. The bridge is all wrong.”
I blink. “What?”
“The part about ‘walking alone’—that’s not you.” She shakes her head and reaches for one of the new notebooks.
“It feels like me.”
“Does it?” she asks. “You have brothers.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the same.”
“Jack, was that your line or someone else’s?”
She knows me well. “It’s not mine.”
I set the guitar down and rub my face with both hands. “Dex suggested it. Said it needed more angst. I thought maybe he was right.”
Jinnie tilts her head, her hazel eyes studying me. “Angst doesn’t suit you, Jack. Not like that. Your music has always been raw and honest, not manufactured.”
I stare at her, the weight of her words sinking in. She’s right. I’ve been so caught up in pleasing Dex, Richard, and the label, that I’ve lost sight of why I’m even here.
“You think I should scrap everything?” I ask, my voice quiet.
Jinnie shrugs. “Not everything. But you need to strip it back to the basics. Start over with what you feel, not what you think they want to hear.”
I exhale slowly, nodding. “Okay. Let’s try.”
She grabs a pen and flips open the notebook, already scribbling something down. “What are you feeling right now?”
“Right now?” I glance at her, my chest tightening. “Relieved. Grateful. Like I can breathe again.”
“Good,” she says, tapping the pen against the pages.
Just like that, I feel the giant wall in my brain crumbling. I pick up the guitar and start playing. After a full day of writing and eating takeout, I feel like I’ve found my footing again.
I text Liz and let her know I’m ready to get in the studio.
Jinnie is staring out the window, watching the lights below.
I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. “Thank you.”
She leans back into me. “For what?”
“Everything.” I press my lips to her temple. “For keeping me honest.”
Jinnie turns in my arms, her hands coming up to frame my face. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t lose yourself in all this.” Her thumbs brush my cheeks. “I like the real Jack Hayes.”
I kiss her then. When we break apart, her eyes are dark, her lips swollen.
“I’m right here,” I whisper against her mouth. “And you promised me after work, there would be play.”
“I did.”