Page 31 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“But isn’t this...a lot?”

“It’s just enough. You’re going to look very sexy. Hot. The ladies are going to go nuts. I’ll make sure you have plenty of condoms. We don’t need a pregnancy scandal while we’re still launching you.”

“I don’t need condoms,” I snap. “I have a girlfriend.”

She smirks. “Of course, you do.”

“I’ll try it on.” I reach for the bag and try to get around Liz.

She steps in front of me, looking me up and down. “I could help—”

“Nah, I’m good.”

I dash into my bedroom before she can finish that thought. Liz has been coming on to me lately. I don’t like it. It’s weird. She knows I have Jinnie, but she pretends to forget.

I jerk off my tee shirt. It’s a nice shirt. Not some cheap one from Wal-Mart. I thought my outfit looked just fine. It was all very me.

I put on the other shirt. The fabric is weird against my skin—too smooth, like it’s not meant to be touched by calloused hands. When I look in the mirror, some stranger stares back. Some polished, label-approved version of me.

But hell, maybe that’s what success looks like. I put on the pants and have to laugh at myself. There is no amount of money and fame in the world that could get me to wear the damn things in public. They’re hideous.

I step back into the living room, the silk shirt clinging in all the wrong places, but at least I’ve got my jeans on. My boots are scuffed and worn, a grounding contrast to the ridiculousness of the shirt. Liz is pacing near the windows, her phone pressed to her ear, but she stops dead when she sees me. Her eyes narrow.

“Where are the pants?” she asks, her voice clipped.

“I’m not wearing them,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “The shirt’s enough.”

Liz lowers her phone slowly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Jack, this isn’t negotiable.”

“Yeah, it is,” I shoot back, my voice steady. “I’ll wear the shirt. That’s already pushing it for me. But those pants? No way in hell.”

She steps closer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. “Do you have any idea how much this outfit costs? How much thought went into crafting this look for you?”

“I don’t care how much it costs,” I say, holding her stare. “I’m not a mannequin, Liz. I’ll wear what makes me feel like me. And those pants? They ain’t me.”

Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I think she’s going to argue. But then she exhales sharply through her nose and shakes her head. “Fine. But you’re wearing the shirt. And you’re going to smile during every single interview and photoshoot today. Understood?”

“Understood,” I mutter, though I’m beginning to think this whole thing is more than I anticipated.

We leave the building and slide into the waiting limousine. It no longer feels quite as exciting as it once did.

I’m shuffled around like a piece of property. Before I know it, I’m sitting in a hotel room set up for interviews. There’s several pictures of me behind me. I’m told each reporter will have five minutes with me. I’ve been prepped on what to say, how to sit, and to flash my sexy smile.

That just feels gross.

The first reporter doesn’t ask about the music.

“So, Jack,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “your album’s getting a lot of attention for its authenticity. How much of that is really you?”

I blink. “All of it. I wrote every song.”

“Yes, but the production, the arrangements—”

“Dex killed it in the studio,” I say. “But it’s my—”

Liz’s heel connects with my ankle under the table.

I’ve gone off script.