Page 79 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

She laughs as she reads the comments. “One person says they are so glad you’re not wearing those Liberace costumes anymore.”

I grin. “Me too.”

“Your phone is blowing up out here,” she calls out.

I groan and throw off the blankets. It’s cold as shit. I quickly pull on my hoodie, which is silly considering I’m only wearing my boxers as I walk into the kitchen to grab my phone.

“I thought you deleted social media?” Jinnie pours me a mug of coffee. “It’s not good for you. Not right now.”

“I did,” I tell her.

I grab the phone. “It’s a text.”

I read the message aloud: “This is Martin Cho from Atlas Records. Loved your recent work. Let’s talk.”

Jinnie’s eyes open wide. “Atlas? As in the Atlas Records? The one with—”

“Grammy-winning artists, yeah.” My thumb hovers over the screen. “Should I—”

“Yes! But we’re negotiating terms this time. No more signing blind. Unless you don’t want to.”

I give her a dry look. “You know I do. I still want to make music and I did love the stage until things got weird.”

“Then you set the terms.”

I put my phone down and take the cup of coffee. “Jinnie, I’m only doing this if you’re with me.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“No, I mean with me. You’d have to quit the bakery.”

“I will, but first, let’s hear what the man has to say.”

“I don’t want to go to LA,” I say.

“Then you tell him to come here.” She shrugs. “You’re still the one with the power, Jack. You are going to make music with or without him. You have the money to build your own studio. I looked into all of that and you can do it. You won’t make as much, but you’ll still make money. If you sign with a studio, you’ll make more money and play bigger venues. That’s your choice.”

I think about it for a few seconds. “I’ll hear him out.”

Martin Cho meets us at the bakery two days later. He looks out of place in his fancy suit. He slides a contract across the table. We’ve had a few Zoom calls and this meeting is about getting to talk face-to-face.

“We want authenticity,” Martin says, stirring his black coffee. “No gimmicks. Just you, your guitar, and that powerhouse voice.”

Jinnie’s knee knocks against mine under the table—our silent signal that she’s taking over. She flips through the contract with the focus of a general going to war.

“Creative control stays with Jack,” she says, tapping clause twelve. “No forced collaborations, no image rebrands. And he owns his music.”

Martin nods. “Reasonable.”

“And I’m his manager.” Jinnie’s voice leaves no room for argument. “No middlemen.”

Martin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have experience?”

“She turned my career around in a week,” I say, squeezing her hand. “That’s all the experience you need to see.”

“We’ll also need you to put in the contract Jack has a say in every photo published,” Jinnie says.

Martin leans back in his chair, studying Jinnie with newfound respect. “You drive a hard bargain,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “But I like it. It’s refreshing. Too many artists sign away their souls without a second thought.”