Chapter 28 Jack Has Entered the Building
JACK HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING
MORGAN
How You Like Me Now By The Heavy
The Avalon pulses with energy. I weave through a maze of bodies, clutching my clipboard like a shield. Backstage is controlled chaos—stylists frantically steaming garments, artists warming up in corners, techs running last soundchecks before doors open. The air hums with hairspray and anticipation.
A stagehand nearly knocks me over rushing past.
“Sorry, Ms. Clemson!” he calls, not slowing.
I wave him off, scanning my checklist. Hollow Reign is still missing, and I’m starting to worry. I check my watch again, a dull headache beginning to form at my temples.
My phone buzzes. A text from my mom.
Mom: Hazel’s all dressed for her recital! Butterfly wings looking perfect. Break a leg with your show tonight!
A photo follows—Hazel beaming in her little pink tutu, the iridescent wings we spent hours making glittering under the light.
My heart tugs. I should be there, not here, but I push the guilt aside.
Mom will record every moment. Still, I hate relying on her so much—the constant juggling between Hazel and Left Turn is wearing us both thin.
Mina materializes beside me, clipboard clutched to her chest. “Soundcheck’s good. Lighting cues are locked. Most acts have checked in, but—”
“Hollow Reign is MIA,” I finish.
“Casey called. They’re five minutes out. Traffic on Sunset.”
I exhale. “At least someone called. The last thing I need tonight is another band crisis.”
I bite my lip, studying the production schedule again. Everything has to be perfect. Left Turn’s future depends on it.
Katrina appears, clipboard in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other. “Doors in fifteen. VIPs are already lining up.”
“Any updates on the guest list?” I ask, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension.
“Three additional A&Rs confirmed in the last hour. Billboard is sending a photographer.” She hesitates before adding, “Oh, and Anthem Records’ CEO just arrived.”
If Maxwell Kane’s here personally, he smells blood in the water.
I check my own notes about the SoundStream executives who confirmed earlier. If we impress them tonight, they might finally sign the distribution deal we’ve been negotiating for months.
“Well, well. Looks like Clemson’s got everything under control.”
I turn to find Dylan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, confidence radiating from every inch of his lean frame. The worn leather jacket, tight black jeans, and vintage band tee shouldn’t look executive, but somehow on him, with a self-assured posture and those penetrating eyes, it works.
“Everything except you,” I counter, trying not to let my eyes linger. “You should have been here an hour ago for the final walkthrough.”
He pushes off the wall, sauntering toward me. “Last minute details behind the scenes,” he says with a secretive wink.
“Tonight’s the night, huh?” I ask, lowering my voice. “Your parents are finally meeting him?”
Dylan runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “Yeah. Wade and Adam are on their way. I told them this morning about Liam performing.”
“How’d they take it?”
“Better than I expected. Wade got all quiet and emotional, which I wasn’t prepared for. Adam kept repeating how much he’s looking forward to meeting Liam.”
“And Liam?”
“He’s terrified,” Dylan admits. “Thinks he’s intruding on our family or something. I’ve been trying to convince him otherwise all day.”
“They raised you to be inclusive and open-hearted,” I say with professional reassurance. “I’m sure they’ll welcome him.”
His eyes meet mine with something that resembles gratitude, a momentary crack in his usual cocky facade. “I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am,” I say with a hint of challenge.
Before he can respond, a commotion at the door draws our attention.
The band bursts through the backstage entrance, Phoenix in the lead, all swagger and zero apology.
“Traffic was a bitch,” he announces, slinging his guitar case onto a table. “Where’s our stuff?”
As the band files past, I spot Liam hanging back, looking both nervous and exhilarated.
When Dylan sees him, something flickers across his face—surprise, uncertainty, then a careful neutrality.
They move toward each other with visible hesitation.
There’s a moment of awkwardness before Dylan offers his hand, which Liam takes.
The handshake turns into a brief, somewhat stiff embrace, but I catch the relief in both their expressions.
“You ready for this?” Dylan asks him, professional and controlled.
Liam nods, a small smile breaking through his nervousness. “As I’ll ever be.”
I point them toward the dressing rooms. “Fifteen minutes. I need you sharp tonight. The room is packed with industry heavyweights,” I hurry them along, watching as they file past in the Cirque Noire outfits I’d helped coordinate.
A pang of longing hits me—how different it would feel to see my own designs up there on stage, to watch something I created come alive under the lights. Maybe someday.
“Relax, Morgan.” Phoenix grins, unfazed. “We were born for this.”
As they disappear, Dylan steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “You’ve got this place running like clockwork. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Just enjoying watching you in your element.” His voice drops lower. “It suits you.”
Mina approaches tentatively. “First set list is printed and on the podium. Drink tickets are sorted for the VIPs.”
“Thanks, Mina. You’re a lifesaver.”
Dylan leans in, close enough that his breath tickles my ear. “Save me a dance later, Clemson.”
“This isn’t that kind of party,” I say, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.
“We’ll see.” He smirks.
Jack O’Donnell enters the backstage area and the atmosphere instantly changes—his presence so magnetic that conversations pause mid-sentence.
His six-foot-something frame carries decades of rock history, wrapped in worn leather and effortless cool.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, a few strands of silver at the temples adding the right amount of distinction.
Heavy rings glint on his fingers as he raises a hand in casual greeting.
The entire backstage area goes silent for a beat before erupting in whispers. Two techs nearly collide trying to get out of his way.
“Morgan,” he says simply, his voice carrying an unmistakable gravitas that’s sold out stadiums for decades. “Place looks good.”
I smile, accepting his brief, firm handshake. “Glad you could make it, Jack.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” His eyes scan the room with practiced efficiency, taking everything in. He spots Dylan and gives him a quick nod. “Your fathers around?”
“On their way,” Dylan answers.
Jack checks his watch—a vintage piece worth more than most people’s cars. “When am I on?”
I check my clipboard. “Opening set. Twenty-five minutes.”
“Perfect.” No fuss, no drama—a pure professional. This is why he’s lasted in the industry when so many others burned out. “Soundcheck?”
“All set. Your tech approved everything earlier.”
Jack nods, satisfied. “Where do I wait?”
I point him toward the VIP area. “First door on the left. Everything’s ready for you.”
He starts to move, then pauses, his expression shifting slightly. “Your dad built something solid here, Morgan. You’re doing right by it.”
Before I can respond, he’s already walking away, heads turning as he passes.
I have enough time to check the lighting cues one more time before his set.
The crowd’s energy builds as the house lights dim, and I position myself at the side of the stage where I can see both the audience and the performers.
The Avalon’s art deco architecture comes alive as the spotlights catch the gold leaf details along the ceiling.
The crowd packs the floor, a sea of expectant faces reflecting the soft blue lighting.
I spot Maxwell Kane from Anthem in the VIP section, nursing a scotch, his critical gaze already assessing everything.
Katrina steps onto the stage, her sleek black dress and confident stride perfectly suited for the host role. She taps the microphone twice before addressing the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ‘New Artist Showcase.’” Her voice carries through the venue with practiced ease.
“Tonight, we’re celebrating both the legacy of these iconic labels and their exciting future.
We have an incredible lineup of talent ready to blow you away, beginning with a very special opening performance. ”
The crowd’s murmur grows in anticipation.
“It is my absolute honor to introduce a man who needs no introduction—a living legend who’s been with Left Turn since the beginning. Please welcome… Jack O’Donnell!”
The audience erupts as Jack takes the stage with the effortless command that’s made him a legend. No dramatic entrance, no unnecessary flourishes—just pure presence as he steps into the spotlight. The crowd falls silent instantly.
He adjusts the microphone, surveys the room, and leans in slightly. “Tonight’s about new voices,” he says, his gravelly tone carrying to every corner of the venue. “But sometimes to move forward, you’ve got to honor the past.”
My clipboard feels suddenly heavy in my hands.
“This one’s for Bret Clemson,” Jack continues. “The man who built this label brick by brick, who saw what others couldn’t see. And for his daughter, who’s carrying the torch while finding her own light.”
Jack’s fingers find the opening chords of “Second Chances”—my father’s favorite song, the one he’d play on his old record player in his office while I did homework after school.
The familiar notes transport me instantly to those afternoons, the scratch of the needle, the smell of his coffee, the way he’d tap his fingers on the desk in perfect rhythm.
“Some roads you travel because they’re mapped out for you,” Jack sings, his voice stripped down and honest. “Some paths you carve yourself, with borrowed tools and your own hands.”
These aren’t the original lyrics.
“The greatest legacy isn’t what you build—it’s teaching others how to build their own.”
My vision blurs.
I clutch my clipboard against my chest like armor as Jack’s voice fills the room with the chorus about finding your true direction. The audience is rapt, many of them having worked with my father over the years, understanding exactly what this moment means.
I sense movement beside me and turn to find Dylan standing there, his expression soft with understanding. Without a word, he places a steadying hand at the small of my back—enough pressure to let me know he’s there, he sees this, he gets it.
As the final notes fade, Jack looks toward where I’m standing in the wings and gives a small nod—a private acknowledgment between us. “Bret Clemson knew talent comes in many forms,” he tells the audience. “He recognized the notes others missed. That spirit lives on tonight.”
The crowd erupts in applause, and I press my hand to my mouth to keep from sobbing outright. With Jack’s words still hanging in the air, I feel my father’s presence more strongly than I have since he died—but also something else.
Jack moves seamlessly into his next song, but I need a minute.
I slip backstage, composing myself in a quiet corner.
This showcase isn’t just business anymore—it’s personal in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Jack’s tribute has transformed the night into something more meaningful, both a celebration of my father’s vision, and a subtle reminder I have my own decisions to make.
I drag in a shaky breath, wiping away the last of my tears, and straighten my shoulders.
The tension in my neck eases slightly as a wave of clarity washes over me.
There’s still work to do, but for the first time in months, there’s a glimmer of certainty about what I’m fighting for—not just my father’s legacy, but the chance to create something that honors him while still being mine.