JACK: Las Vegas Bad Boys Read Free Page B

the corners of my mouth turning down.
    Kirby points a finger at me. “KMG is offering you a ten year, one hundred million, contract.”
    “No fucking way,” Ashley screeches. “That’s more than Kanye got.”
    I take a deep breath. One hundred million bones. And ten years of my life. “I’m sure there are some pretty intense stipulations. And isn’t Kanye like fifty million in debt?”
    Kirby shrugs. “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet. And, look, I don’t have the details but I’m sure it’s standard. Still, you hold all the power here. You can call all the shots.”
    I smirk, knowing this businessman is gonna tell me everything I want to hear. Kirby’s cut in this would set him up for life. Twenty percent of one hundred mill is no joke.
    “Aren’t you going to smile at least?” Ashley asks. “This is huge.”
    I run my hand over my jaw but don’t say anything. I know it’s huge, but it’s also a huge amount of pressure. Ten years is a long time to be bound to anything.
    Looking at Ashley, I’m reminded that even one year can be way too fucking long.
    “Look,” Kirby says, sensing my mood. “It’s late. You’re hungry. Nothing needs to be decided tonight. I’m going to head back to LA in the morning and I’ll get the contract from KMG in the next few weeks. After that, we’ll have a month or so to decide what we want. What you want.”
    After he leaves, Ashley turns to me, her mouth hanging open.
    “Are you fucking kidding me with that, Jack? What the hell? One hundred million dollars? I mean ... this is the dream. Right now, what you are living, this is the dream.”
    I can’t hold back my opinion, even though I know it will piss her off. “Your dream, Ash. Not mine. I never wanted all of this.” I look around the lavish dressing room. The floor to ceiling mirrors, the stripper pole installed—just in case—the bar stocked better than the lounge out front.
    And it’s just for me, ready for me when I do a show here, what? Once, maybe twice a month? It’s over the top.
    But mostly, it isn’t me. I started playing music for the love of it. Not so I could be a fucking sell out. I’m a man, not a fucking puppet on parade.
    “It can be our dream,” Ashley persists, reaching for my hand. “We can make it our dream, together. With my Grammy and your contract, we’re the couple of the decade. And now we have a decade’s worth of money to fund whatever we want to do next.”
    “You don’t get it. The money comes with a contract that will tell me exactly what I’ll be doing for the next ten years, I wouldn’t have a choice.”
    “You’re being so dramatic, Jack. I think you’re right, you just need some food. You’re being so moody.”
    Listening to her, I realize something I’ve known for a long time, but just didn’t want to deal with.
    “Food isn’t what I need. And even though I don’t know what I’ll decide about this ten-year contract, I do know that I can’t spend another minute with you.”
    That’s when she starts screaming.

    * * *
TESS
    Look, I know it’s foolish to imagine Jack Harris ever falling for a cocktail waitress like me—but, damn, that boy is hot. And while I’m sitting in the VIP section of the club—which, by the way, how is this my actual life?—I can’t help but stare at him up on stage.
    My jaw may be dropped and there may be a teensy bit of drool at the corner of my mouth, but I don’t think I’m too obvious.
    Besides, it’s dark in here and no one is looking at me.
    Everything about Jack screams sex appeal. Right now, he’s onstage dropping sick beats. And, okay, I don’t really say things like sick beats , but I’m making an effort to fit in and use the right lingo and drop the right names.
    And no, it’s not because I’m some celebrity-crushing, star-struck bimbo.
    It’s because my formative years were ... um ... complicated. And I missed out on the pop culture references Emmy and Claire drop like they’re