Chapter Nineteen
Jack
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T HE ROAR OF THE CROWD vibrates through my chest before I even step onstage. Fifteen thousand voices chanting my name— my name —in a sold-out Seattle arena. My hands shake as I adjust my in-ear monitor. My heart is kicking hard against my chest. I don’t think this will ever get old.
I’ve lost count of how many shows I’ve done. Ten? Fifteen? I honestly can’t remember the last couple of weeks. No amount of preparation could have prepared me for just how grueling this tour was going to be.
“Five minutes, Jack!” a stagehand yells over the noise.
Liz materializes beside me, her manicured fingers brushing imaginary lint off my jacket. “Remember—play to the cameras during ‘Blackwater.’ The label wants good footage for the tour documentary.”
I nod absently, rolling my shoulders under the stiff leather of this ridiculous outfit she picked. Once again, she’s dressed me in some designer bullshit that makes me look like a reject from a bad eighties hair band. The collar itches.
And it’s hotter than hell.
I know I’m going to be sweating after the first song once the lights turn on. Thank goodness I don’t have to do a bunch of dancing. Although, there is talk of it. I’m going to fight it tooth and nail.
“You’re thinking again.” Liz tsks, adjusting my lapels. “Just smile and play pretty. That’s what they paid for.”
The stage manager waves frantically. “Places!”
Liz squeezes my arm. “Break a leg, Jumping Jack.”
I grimace at the nickname but step into the darkness behind the curtain anyway.
I close my eyes and take a few seconds to just breathe. The setlist is burned into my brain. It is easier after the first few shows, but every time I step off stage, there’s a list of criticisms from Liz. I need to do this better. Don’t do this. Flirt more. Shake my ass more.
The second the spotlight hits, everything else falls away.
The sea of faces, the deafening screams, the way the entire front row sways is better than any drug. My fingers find the strings automatically, the opening chords of “Long Road Home” ringing out clear and strong.
The exhaustion falls away. I feed off the energy in the crowd. When there are thousands of people screaming your name, it’s impossible to feel tired.
Halfway through the set, I spot a group of women near the barricade, their hands outstretched, lips forming the words to every song. One catches my eye—blonde, tall, wearing my tour shirt with the sleeves ripped off. I wink at her during the guitar solo, and she actually swoons , her friend catching her with a squeal.
The rush is intoxicating.
I imagine Aiden’s face in the crowd, that smug bastard who used to shove me into lockers. Look at me now, asshole. The thought fuels the next song, my voice rougher, my playing more aggressive. The crowd eats it up.
When the final encore ends, my shirt is soaked through, my throat raw, my fingers aching. I don’t want it to stop. But I’m done. My body is ready to drop. I wave at the crowd and jog off stage.
Backstage is chaos—crew scrambling, fans screaming outside the green room, label execs patting me on the back with champagne flutes in hand.
I sit down on the couch, leaning back, eyes closed and my legs stretched out. One of the many assistants puts a cup of tea in my hand. It’s Aggie’s recipe, something I’ve insisted on having while on tour.
I take a sip, letting the hot liquid soothe my throat.
“Everyone out,” Liz calls out as she walks into the room.
She always does that. I hate it, but I’m also grateful for it. I need the quiet for a few precious moments.
“Great show,” she says. “Numbers are through the roof.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Come on, we need to go.”
“Go?”
“The jet.”
I groan. “I thought we were getting rooms tonight?”
“Not tonight. You can sleep on the plane. We have to get to San Francisco.”
I let out a long sigh and drink more tea.
“I have dinner being served on the plane,” Liz says. “Grilled chicken salad.”
“I want a burger.”
“You have to eat right,” she says dismissively. “The nutritionist has already planned your meals. We can’t have you collapsing from exhaustion.”
I get to my feet. “I’m taking a shower.”
“When we land. We have to go.”
I want to stomp my feet. I have zero control of my life. I’m told what and when to eat. What to wear. When to sleep. What to say. I may as well be an action figurine.
But this is the life I dreamed of...right?
I stretch and allow Liz to lead me out of the room. There are more people waiting for us. I’m ushered down a hall and practically pushed into an SUV with what looks like a million flashes going off. I lean my head back against the seat.
Liz is going on about some of the posts on social media.
“Look at this!” she exclaims.
She pushes her tablet into my hands. I open my eyes and look at my Instagram page...except it isn’t mine. It’s Jack the singer’s page. Yes, we are one and the same, but this isn’t my page. Notifications are blowing up. Thousands of new followers. Hundreds of tagged photos from tonight.
One catches my eye—a selfie of me mid-performance, sweat dripping down my temples, guitar slung low. The caption: Jumping Jack is LIFE.
I scowl. “Who the hell came up with that nickname anyway?”
Liz plucks the phone from my hand. “Marketing. It’s sticking.”
I hand her the tablet. “It’s stupid. I want it stopped.”
She ignores me and is already talking to her assistant about what else needs to happen. Ten minutes later, the SUV stops, the back door opens, and more people are there to shuffle me onto the plane. I slide onto the couch, fully planning on stretching out as soon as we’re in the air.
The private plane is full as we climb into the air. I smell the scent of what I suspect is garlic bread to go with the boring salad. I’m starving, but I’m also exhausted. Food can wait.
Someone brings me a blanket and pillow. Liz sits down on the couch, keeping me from stretching out. That’s fine. I’m pretty sure I could sleep standing up at this point. I stuff the pillow behind my head and lean back. I went from never flying to flying more often than my feet are on the ground. But I don’t want to start thinking about how wild the last few months has been. I have to try and rest before I collapse, the hum of the engines lulling me to sleep.
I wake to pressure on my thighs. There’s a head in my lap. Blonde hair fans across my jeans. For a disorienting second, I think it’s Jinnie. Then I remember Jinnie doesn’t have blonde hair.
I shift abruptly, sending Liz jerking upright.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, not sounding sorry at all. “You were comfortable.”
I rub my face, suddenly remembering Jinnie’s worried question months ago: Are you two together?
Liz’s fingers trail along my forearm. “You should sleep more. Big show tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I stand, needing space. “Gonna hit the bathroom.”
In the tiny lavatory, I splash cold water on my face. My reflection stares back—dark circles under my eyes, stubble coming in rough. I look like a rock star. I don’t look like me . This life is hard. So much harder than I thought it was going to be.
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.