Chapter Twenty-Three
Jack
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I WAKE TO SUNLIGHT slicing through the crack in the blackout curtains, my skull throbbing like someone took a hammer to it. Last night’s whiskey sits sour in my throat. I hate drinking and yet, last night, I let myself crawl into a bottle.
It was the worst birthday ever .
I get up in desperate need of something to drink. My tongue feels like someone super glued it to the roof of my mouth. I stumble into the living room of the penthouse and look around.
“Shit.”
The suite smells like sweat and stale liquor, the remnants of my birthday “celebration” strewn across the room. There are half-empty bottles, a room service cart covered in old food, and a sequined bra dangling from the TV. The place is a hot mess.
I care, but I don’t care. Liz will cover the costs of the cleanup. It’s her fault anyway. She’s the one who insisted we have a party. She’s the one who plied me with alcohol. I told her I wasn’t sure that was a good idea with all the people witnessing me drinking. I am underage, after all. She laughed it off and said no one was checking ages. And everyone had to give their phones to security to avoid any pictures getting out that she thought would damage my image.
But I did notice she kept her phone.
I open the fridge and scan the many offerings. I don’t care that a bottle of water is ten bucks. I grab it, twist the cap, and gulp it down. I reach for a bottle of orange juice next and finish half of it before the splitting headache hits hard.
I stumble back into the bedroom. I know I have an industrial-size bottle of Advil in my bag. I’ve been living off the stuff lately. The earpieces and constant noise in my life have left me with a permanent headache.
My phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, skittering toward the edge. I grab it before it falls, squinting at the screen. There are over a hundred new notifications. I’m about to clear it when a new one comes in while I’m holding the phone.
I barely glance at the words. My stomach drops.
Jumping Jack hates farmers now? Real classy. #BoycottJumpingJack
“What the hell?” My voice comes out gravelly, unused.
I tap the notification. The video loads—me onstage last night, phone in hand, screaming at my father over the crowd’s roar. The angle makes it look like I’m sneering at the camera, my words twisted by the arena’s echo.
In the moment, it felt like justice. Now? Now it just sounds cruel. That was courtesy of the couple of shots I had before I took the stage. I’m not going to say I was drunk, but I wasn’t entirely sober either.
I scroll down. The comments are a bloodbath.
My granddaddy farmed soybeans for 40 years. Go to hell.
Rich boy shitting on the working class. Disgusting.
#FarmersFeedAmerica #CancelJumpingJack
My thumb shakes as I keep scrolling. More links, more outrage.
I’m ashamed, and just when I think it can’t get worse, I get another notification.
Exclusive! Jack Hayes’s childhood friends reveal the truth about the rockstar’s dark past!
The article loads with a photo of Aiden, Brendan, and Trent grinning like fucking hyenas under the headline: We Tried to Help Him: Bullied Classmates Speak Out Against Jumping Jack’s Lies
I skim the quotes, each one pissing me off even more.
“Jack was always unstable,” says childhood friend Aiden Peterson. “We just tried to keep him grounded.”
“He’d make up stories for attention,” adds Brendan Miller. “Guess some things never change.”
“Honestly? We feel bad for him,” Trent Walsh concludes.
The article included stories from high school but they twisted the roles. They talked about the many shitty things they did to me but made me out to be the bully and them the victims. I can’t believe it. I sit on the edge of the bed and read some of the other articles. Apparently, Aiden and the others had run their mouths to anyone that would listen.
I can’t believe they can just make up lies and get them printed. I’m pretty sure this has to be defamation. I need to call Liz. She’ll handle this. That publicist lady I’ve been dealing with will put out a statement.
I’ll sue the fuckers. How dare they say such things? But truthfully, the articles aren’t what really makes me feel like shit. It’s my dad and my brothers. They must hate me right now. I click off the bullshit article and call Michael first. He doesn’t answer. I call Caleb. It rings once and then I’m sent to voicemail.
“Shit.”
This isn’t happening. This can’t—
A sharp knock at the door.
“Jack?” Liz’s voice, all business. “Open up.”
I’m sure she’s seen the articles and is here to tell me how they’re going to fix it.
I stumble to the door, my bare feet sticking to something spilled on the carpet. The second I turn the knob, Liz strides in—followed by Richard Kessler from the label and two suits I don’t recognize.
No one sits.
Richard folds his arms, his Rolex glinting in the sunlight. “You’ve seen the news, I assume.”
I rub my temples. “It’s out of context—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Liz taps her tablet. “Your streaming numbers dropped sixty percent overnight. Ticketmaster’s getting flooded with refund requests for the fall tour.”
“Liz, it’s all bullshit! I want a lawyer. I want to sue the shit out of those guys.”
One of the suits clears his throat. “Per clause fourteen-A of your contract, Rockline reserves the right to terminate agreements in the event of reputational damage rendering the artist ‘commercially unviable.’”
“What does that mean?” I ask, looking from him to Liz.
“It means you’re a sinking ship and we’re not letting you take the label down with you,” Liz replies.
The words take a second to land. When they do, I laugh because I can’t believe it’s actually happening. “You’re dropping me? Over this ?”
Richard’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “The board voted unanimously. Effective immediately.”
“You’re the one who gave me the fucking alcohol,” I remind Liz. “I didn’t do anything wrong. So what I called my dad. That’s my business.”
“It’s our business when you insult farmers,” Liz says.
I stare at her with my mouth hanging open. “You’ve been insulting my past and farmers for months.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not on stage in front of thousands of people.”
“You can’t do this,” I say.
“Oh, we can and we did,” she shrugs.
“Fine, fire me, but my music is still mine,” I snap.
Liz shrugs, scrolling through her phone. “Honestly, Jack? You should’ve read the fine print.”
“Now what are you saying?”
She glances up, her expression cool and detached. “Your contract gives Rockline full ownership of any music produced during your tenure. Your songs, your lyrics—they belong to us now.”
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself. “You’re lying. That can’t be legal.”
One of the suits steps forward, holding out a thick document. “Page forty-two, section three. ‘All intellectual property, including but not limited to musical compositions, lyrics, and recordings, created or performed during the term of this agreement shall be the sole and exclusive property of Rockline Records.’”
I snatch the contract from his hands, flipping frantically through the pages. My eyes land on the clause, printed in tiny, impenetrable legalese. It’s there. Clear as day.
“That’s bullshit!” I slam the contract onto the table. “I didn’t agree to give you my songs. I wrote those songs long before I met any of you. Those are mine .”
“You did,” Liz says evenly. “You signed it without reading it. That’s on you.”
Richard clears his throat. “We’ll be releasing a statement today announcing your departure from Rockline. We suggest you lay low for a while—let the dust settle.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” I demand, my voice cracking. “Just disappear?”
Liz shrugs. “Figure it out. But remember—if you try to perform any of ‘your’ songs without our permission, we’ll sue you into oblivion.”
Something in me snaps. “You encouraged this! The outfits, the stage persona, the fucking attitude —”
“And it worked!” Liz snaps back. “Until you couldn’t separate the act from reality.” She pockets her phone. “Pack your things. Checkout’s at noon. We won’t be paying for the damage either. That’s on you.”
They turn to leave. Liz pauses at the door, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “Oh, and Jack? Don’t bother calling. My new client prefers my full attention. And he’s going to make your numbers look minuscule. See how easy it is? I can make you or destroy you.”
“You did this on purpose,” I hiss. “You wanted me drunk. You wanted me to look like I was falling apart.”
She shrugs. “My new client is going to out-sell you ten to one. I needed my time freed up. You’re a lot to deal with. So needy. Good luck.”
The door clicks shut.
I stand there, naked except for my boxers. The silence is deafening.
My phone buzzes again. Another notification: Breaking—Rockline cuts ties with Jumping Jack amid growing backlash.
I don’t read the rest.
Damn, they didn’t waste any time. I flop onto the couch and immediately regret it. It’s wet. I jump up. I have no idea how much money I’ve made. Liz hired an accountant for me, but I don’t even know his name. Am I broke? That can’t be right. I’ve busted my ass for months. I would know how much money I had if I would have paid attention to the fucking contract I signed.
Everyone warned me and I did it anyway.
I wander back into the room and head straight for the shower. I suddenly feel dirty. The shower runs scalding hot, steam fogging the mirrors. I scrub last night’s makeup off my face, the black smudges swirling down the drain like my career. I get out of the shower and look at my reflection. I look like hell. The stubble that has grown into a cross between a beard and a five o’clock shadow itches. Liz insisted I keep it. She wanted me to look older to appeal to some of the older women who had become fans. My eyes are red-rimmed. My pallor is gray. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been outside. I look at my chest and stomach. I’ve lost weight and muscle tone. I was supposed to be getting in workouts, but there was never enough time.
The man looking back at me is a shell of the guy I’d been six months ago. It’s in that moment I realize just how much I’ve lost.
I sink onto the bed, head in my hands. How did it go so wrong?
Me. I’m the problem. It’s easy to blame Liz, but I could have said no. I didn’t because I wanted the fame, the validation, the chance to shove my success in everyone’s faces. And now?
Now I’ve got nothing.
No record deal. No tour. No Liz.
No Jinnie.
And I probably lost my family for good as well.
I’m completely alone. When a few of the industry insiders warned me fame could be isolating, I thought they were crazy. Isolating? I couldn’t get five minutes alone. How could I ever feel isolated?
I understood now.