Chapter Twenty-One
Jack
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T HE 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.”
“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.
“Just drink it. Trust me, you’ll feel better. That was a hell of a show . You need to do that every night. I think we should have you shirtless earlier in the set. Those women want to see you bare-chested.”
I roll my eyes before I swallow the whiskey in one go, the burn doing nothing to chase away the hollowness. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Maybe I’ll take off my pants next time.”
She flips through her phone ignoring my comment. She pulls up the social media feed she monitors every minute of the day. And if she’s not monitoring it, there’s some chick who does. She follows Liz around with three phones at all times.
“Look at this,” Liz says. “You’re trending in three countries.”
The screen flashes with clips from tonight—me dropping to my knees during the guitar solo, me winking at a redhead in the front row, me belting out lyrics that are nothing but words. The comments are a blur of heart-eye emojis and sexually-charged comments .
Liz squeezes my arm. “See? They love you.”
I stare out the window at the clouds below. “What would my dad think?”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Liz snorts. “Who cares what some grumpy old farmer thinks?”
The way she says it—like it’s a dirty word—makes my jaw tighten. But I don’t argue.
Because she’s right, isn’t she?
I’m not that kid getting shoved into lockers anymore. I’m not the boy begging for his father’s approval. I’m Jumping Jack. I’m a rockstar. I’m untouchable.
So why do I feel so fucking lost?
Somewhere over Montana, I pull out my phone. The screen is cluttered with notifications—emails from the label, DMs from fans, and a dozen missed calls from my publicist.
I scroll past them all, searching for one name.
Jinnie.
Our last messages are weeks old. A stupid meme I sent her from LA. Her reply: Miss you.
I never answered.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I want to text her. I want to reach out just to say hello, but that feels wrong. What do I even say? Sorry I ghosted you? Sorry I became this glitter-covered caricature? Sorry I let Liz erase every real part of me?
“Jack.” Liz’s voice cuts through the silence. “We land in Chicago in three hours. You should sleep.”
I lock my phone.
The screen goes dark.
She gets up and moves to one of the chairs, giving me the space to stretch out on the couch. It gets easier to fall asleep despite my body still humming with adrenaline.
Liz leans over, her lips brushing my ear. “You’re on top of the world, superstar,” she whispers. “No one can touch you now.”
I think that’s the problem. No one can touch me and I can’t touch anyone. I’ve never felt lonelier.