THE NEXT DAY, in another part of the country, the abrasive metallic chink of curtains ripped aside startled Jackson out of a dead sleep. Light pierced through the black comfort of his closed eyelids. He snorted, then groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple as he pushed up and away from the blinding sun.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” came the all-too-familiar bellow of his manager.
Jackson moved his tongue. The dryness of his mouth left a rancid taste. Bile climbed up his throat. He paused in the act of sitting up, waiting. To vomit or not to vomit? That was the question.
“I forgot to take two aspirin with water before I died last night?” Jackson said in response to the question hurled at him.
He finally managed a seated position. One eye opened a slit, allowing him to track the whirlwind of movement that was his manager, who was picking up discarded bottles scattered on the floor and shoving them into a black trash bag. Partying the night before didn’t seem like such a good idea in the bright light of day.
After he exhaled long and hard, Jackson said, “Can you call room service and have them bring up some pancakes and lots of bacon? I need to soak up the rest of this booze, man.”
Back in Dodge Cove, Jackson and his friends used to party, but never hard enough to pass out afterward. A pang of overwhelming loneliness hit him. He’d thought inviting people over after his gig was the perfect cure. He just didn’t want to wind up alone in his too-large suite, faced with the saddest lyrics in the world floating around in his head. He wrote party music for a living, for crying out loud. Unfortunately, the party was over and it left him feeling like roadkill. It was depressing to think that the only person in his life was the man currently tidying up the place.
In the beginning Jackson had felt strong. Independent. Hell, he was going to take over the world. He came close to it too, with a highly successful world tour. Then he saw Natasha again in Amsterdam. Watching her walk away and missing her every day since came crashing into him like a wrecking ball. The party beats were gone and he was afraid he might never get them back.
“I knew you’d forget.” Stomping and clomping around like an elephant stampeding followed the hysterical words. “I knew it!”
“Hutch,” Jackson barked. “Calm down. It’s too early for a tantrum.”
The rotund man froze in the act of picking up one of Jackson’s discarded shirts and glared at him. “It’s already noon, you ungrateful bastard. The rep for Maroon 5 keeps asking for the track you promised for their next album. This new pop star, Crysta Lyn, wants to collab with you after hearing you play last night. And you have the studio booked all afternoon.”
Jackson scratched his jaw. The pounding in his head, which he wished he could record because it made one hell of a bass-line beat, continued. He still needed hangover food. Badly. And a shower.
Rubbing the last of sleep from his face, forcing his brain to focus, he said, “Tell Adam the track isn’t ready yet. Who’s this Crysta Lyn again? And cancel studio time. I don’t feel like making music today.”
Hutch’s usually ruddy face turned beet red. His second chin jiggled and his lips quivered. Jackson imagined steam coming out of the man’s ears.
“No, we are not canceling studio time,” his manager said in a surprisingly even tone. He breathed in, eyes closing for a second. “You haven’t had a hit in six months. No one is buying sad, sappy songs. You make dance music, damn it!”
Jackson scowled. “That vein on your neck is about to pop. You should really watch your blood pressure.”
In response, Hutch grabbed the leather pants hanging from the back of a chair. Along with the shirt in his hand, he threw both garments at Jackson’s face. Then he pointed a pudgy finger Jackson’s way.
“I want you at the studio in ten minutes,” he said, the threat clear in his voice. “Ten minutes, Jackson!” He waddled to the door. “Do you hear me?”
The door slammed shut before Jackson formed a response.
With both eyes open, he took in the full extent of the events from the night before. His hotel suite was in shambles. A bra hung from the back of the couch. Someone had left a shoe. And several empty bags of chips littered the floor. Hutch must have cleared the room of lingering partygoers, because he was the only one left.
One thing was for sure: Housekeeping had their hands full that morning.
This wasn’t the life he’d imagined for himself when he left Dodge Cove to pursue a career as a DJ. He was sick and tired of moving from one hotel room to another—the same overpriced minibar, the same generic desk, even the same Bible on the nightstand.
With tired and creaking joints unfit for someone who’d just turned nineteen, Jackson swung his legs over the side of the bed. The second his feet touched the carpet, he stretched. Joints popped back into place. Then he looked down. Still in the jeans and underwear he’d worn the day before.
Scratching his bare chest, he ambled to the bathroom. The phrase “tired to the bone” had meant nothing to Jackson until that morning. Hutch worked him like a mule. The gigs never stopped. It seemed like a high-class problem to have. He should be happy that people wanted him headlining their clubs and playing their parties. But he wasn’t. Not anymore. His feet dragged. His shoulders drooped. Every muscle in his body seemed to have turned to lead overnight.
The wince that came when he stared at his reflection in the mirror was unstoppable. His dyed black hair hung limply to one side. He picked up the electric razor and began shaving the sides and back of his head. The top he kept long and usually slicked back with gel. Then he moved the razor along his chin and jaw.
The purple splotches beneath his eyes were unmistakable. His shoulders and collarbones protruded. Where once he’d had definition and muscle, six months later he was little more than skin and bones. Sleeping all day and working all night did that. He couldn’t remember the last time he had hit the gym. If he wasn’t in a club or party DJ’ing, he was on a plane or in the studio. The cycle was just too much.
Once he was done shaving, he put down the razor and lifted the tap.
Twenty minutes later, in the shirt and leather pants Hutch had thrown at him, Jackson sat in the studio across the street from his hotel and stared at his phone. A name and a number stared back. His thumb hovered over the Call button.
The producer, who sat beside him in front of a massive soundboard filled with faders, knobs, and buttons, gave him the side eye. Jackson returned the glance with a scowl before he stood up and hit Call.
The number rang a couple of times before it went to voice mail.
Jackson waited for the beep, then said, “Hey, Tash, it’s me … again. Um, okay, I know I messed up.” He ran a hand over the top of his head, smoothing back the gelled strands. “I know I’m the last person you want to talk to, but if you can please return my messages…” Then he bowed his head and sighed. “I miss you. I really—”
Another beep cut him off. He ended the call and stared at the screen again. A snort came from behind him.
“Pathetic, man,” the producer said. “You can have any girl you want any night of the week and you’re begging some girl from home to call you back?”
Turning around, Jackson narrowed his eyes at the guy. “Instead of pissing me off, why don’t we just get back to work?”
“Yeah, that’s what you said the last hundred times.”
Jackson put on his headphones and played the track he had been working on for months. Instantly he was transported to an afternoon by the lake. The sunset colored the placid water bright orange and gold. He was lying on a picnic blanket, his head pillowed by his crossed arms. A yard away, in the water, stood Natasha. She wore a pretty sundress that showed off her shoulders, and she had her hair down.
Nothing else in his life was as beautiful as her.
“Come here,” she said, waving him over. “The water is nice.”
He shook his head, smiling. “I’m fine here. Thanks.”
Who wanted to move when gazing at a view like her was better?
She pouted. “You’re no fun.”
Powerless against her, he pushed up from the blanket, toed off his boots, and removed his socks. Then he folded up his pant legs and ran toward her. Once his feet were submerged, he bent down and splashed her with water. She shrieked and danced away, laughing even more.
“Bet you regret calling me now, huh?” Jackson challenged.
“Is that the best you can do?”
Never one to walk away from a dare, he charged Natasha. Once she was in his arms, he dove into the water backward, taking her with him. They were soaked and laughing in seconds, tangled in each other’s arms. Kissing wasn’t too far behind.
“Do you love me?” she whispered when they were back on the blanket, drying off.
“You don’t know by now?”
There was that pout again.
Jackson took her hand and placed it at the center of his chest. “Do you feel that?”
She nodded, watching him with clear blue eyes.
“You are every beat of my heart,” he said.
* * *
Hours later, Jackson threw the headphones against the soundboard and covered his face with his hands. It wasn’t working. No matter how hard he tried, the song just wasn’t coming together the way he liked. The notes still sounded too depressing. No one wanted to dance to a sad song.
“Fuck,” he said into his hands.
“Maybe we should take a break,” the producer said.
Jackson knew a break wouldn’t help. Not when six months of nothing but crap was coming out of him. The beats used to come easily. He knew how each song would sound way before he laid down tracks. The producer swiveled his chair to face Jackson.
“What if we—”
“We already tried that,” Jackson cut off the producer way before the guy finished his thought.
“We can always return to—”
“That version was crap too.”
“Okay, looks like you’re going to interrupt me any chance you get.” The sound of a chair being pushed back followed his words. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Hutch said a song needs to come out of this session or we’re not leaving the studio.”
Jackson didn’t lift his head from his hands until the door of the studio closed. The hourly rate for a studio was astronomical. If he didn’t come up with something, they were just wasting money. It wasn’t the pressure that bothered him. He had produced something under more stressful conditions. It was that every time he tried to write something new, Natasha’s face popped into his mind, influencing the sound of the track. Now all his songs were about missing her. Or not having her in his life. Or wanting her back. These would be all well and good if he were a country artist. But as a dance-party DJ? Not so much.
Unable to stand himself anymore, he picked up his phone and quickly typed a message to the one friend he had left.
JACKSON: Have you heard from Tash lately?
The reply came seconds later.
PRESTON: Hello to you too.
JACKSON: She’s not answering any of my calls.
PRESTON: Can you blame her?
JACKSON: I thought when she came to Amsterdam that everything was going to be okay.
PRESTON: It’s never that easy. You know that.
JACKSON: I messed up, man.
He leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees and cradled his forehead in his free hand. There was a long pause before the next reply came.
PRESTON: Suck it up.
JACKSON: What?
PRESTON: Stop moping and do something about it.
JACKSON: Do you honestly think she’ll want to see me when she doesn’t even return my calls?
PRESTON: Then make her see you.
JACKSON: Easy for you to say.
PRESTON: Grow a spine. BTW, your brother got engaged.
Jackson almost dropped his phone after reading the text. How come it was the first time he was hearing about it? His thumbs flew over the keypad.
JACKSON: Baxter’s engaged? To who?
PRESTON: That’s not the point. There’s an engagement party. Natasha will be there. Do I have to explain the rest to you or are you smart enough to figure shit out on your own?
JACKSON: When?
PRESTON: Tomorrow.
Jackson pushed to his feet and tucked his phone into his pocket. Quickly, he stuffed all his gear into his pack and left the studio. He had to see her. Had to talk to her in person. Preston was right. There was a quote in his head about a mountain and a guy named Muhammad.
This time, he wasn’t allowing her to walk away.
“Where are you going?” the producer asked when they passed each other in the hallway.
“Back to the hotel,” Jackson said over his shoulder, not once stopping.
After jogging across the street, he slipped into the lobby of his hotel, ignoring the cheerful greeting of the night manager. He pressed the triangle pointing up and seconds later the elevator doors parted, letting him in. Finding his floor number, he punched the button.
His phone vibrated.
Thinking it was another text from Preston, Jackson slipped the device out of his back pocket only to realize it was a call. From Hutch.
“Where the hell did you go?” bellowed his manager. “You have a gig at Velvet tonight.”
“Have someone fill in for me,” Jackson said as he slid the keycard into the slot and pushed into his hotel room.
All signs of the party from the previous night were gone. He ended the call before Hutch could yell at him some more. Dumping his pack onto the bed, he opened the airline app on his phone and quickly typed in the destination. There was a red-eye leaving in two hours.
With a tap of his finger, he booked the ticket. His phone rang again. He checked and ignored Hutch’s call. He pulled his duffel out of the closet and quickly stuffed clothes into it, not bothering to fold them. Then he called the front desk for a cab.
He had a plane to catch.
Jackson Mallory was going home.