Page 71 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

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.