Page 73 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

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.