JACK: Las Vegas Bad Boys

I
’m on stage
, fucking killing it.

Thousands of people jump up and down, hands raised. Strobe lights stream across the massive dance floor as the horny clubbers enjoy the Vegas nightlife, grinding against the person nearest them.

From my vantage point I see women and men, bodies entwined, shirts discarded, dresses lifted to waists. I don’t want to think about how many people are fucking on the dance floor, but I’m guessing it’s a hell of a lot.

Everyone here has memorized every beat I drop, nobody was phased at the two-hundred-dollar cover charge to come to my show. They’re hoping for a night that will exceed their wildest dreams.

People come to Vegas for the fantasy, and my sold-out shows offer exactly that. Women we’ve hired dance on columns, pasties and thongs barely covering them, because the truth is, everyone comes here hoping to see everything.

And not just the talent. As douchey as it sounds, they’re here to see me. Maybe if they’re lucky they might glimpse Ashley, along with some of my friends, other high-profile Vegas alum, in a roped-off VIP section. Maybe an A-List celebrity who’s staying at the Spades Royalle will be sitting at a table with Ace and the crew for the night.

My shows aren’t just about the music. Fuck, they’re hardly about the music. I’m selling an image—and, if you ask my agent, I’m selling it better than any other DJ on the planet.

It’s almost two a.m., time for me to end the night and get off the clock. But I know it’s important to nail this particular show.

I don’t want to kill the vibe too quickly. Tonight Kirby, my agent, is here with Kendrick, the record producer from Kendrick Music Group.

Tonight I could land the deal of a lifetime.

I lay another beat to the baseline, picking up the tempo. Speaking into the mic—which is something I do as little as possible—I get the crowd moving faster, and the four-story club pulses with the rhythm.

Looking out at the crowd, I know I’ve given them their money’s worth. It’s hot as hell up in here, but I am giving everyone exactly what they want.

* * *

A
s I exit the stage
, I see my glowing face across the giant screens in the club. I flash the crowd a peace sign and smile, giving them what they want—but damn, I know it’s fake.

As I take the stairs and push open the backstage door, I practically collide with Kirby and Ashley. Not to mention the throng of people with phones raised in the air, snapping photos of me, of Ashley. She’s surrounded by a fucking entourage, and she loves it.

Me? I hate that shit.

“Go back out for another encore,” Ashley urges. “They loved you tonight. Do it, please? For me?”

Her lips are bright, pink as cotton candy. Her blonde hair is fake as fuck, and she’s wearing such snug-fitting clothes that when I look at her all I see is a tight-ass. And not in a good way. She needs to stop being so fucking pent-up and intense.

I shake my head. I already gave them two encores. I may be Jack Harris, but I’m not the fucking Beatles. Two is plenty.

Besides, the moment I leave the stage, the fans aren’t on my mind. I’m starving. All I’ve had tonight is a few beers and some tequila shots while onstage. Looking around, I see so many half-dressed women … what I’d really like, besides a hamburger, is a fucking blowjob.

But looking back at Ashley and her resting bitch face, I know the last thing I want is one from her.

I’m beyond over this forced relationship.

I’m ready to eat and unwind. This gig may be lucrative as hell, and a dream job for some people, but shit, it’s harder than it looks. And right about now, I’m wondering why I’m working so damn hard for something I hate so damn much.

“Jack, that is so selfish,” Ashley says, scowling, her voice hitting a high-pitched whine. “They came here for you. They deserve your best. Think about them.”

She needs to back the fuck off. I was just onstage for three hours, and don’t need her bullshit. Choosing to ignore her, I grin, not giving a shit if I piss her off right now.

“Well, I’m thinking about a cheeseburger and fries.”

She doesn’t return the smile. No surprise. She needs to take the stick out of her ass.

Kirby cuts in, once he realizes I am not going back on stage no matter how much my girlfriend of a year bitches about it.

“Jack, my man, Kendrick loved you. And he gave me some incredible news.” Kirby claps me on the back, beaming, and we walk together toward the dressing room so I can get my shit before heading out for the night

Kirby is a man with nice suits and good intentions, but our relationship is strictly business. He lives in LA and shows up when he needs to. Like tonight.

Once the three of us are in my private room, I toss my sweaty tee shirt aside and put on a new one. I grab my duffel bag and throw in my headphones, and then slide my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Jack, don’t you want to hear the news?” Kirby asks.

“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. I’m focused on getting some motherfucking food,” I tell him, setting down my bag, trying to focus.

“It’s so typical that you don’t even care,” Ashley says. “Kirby came all this way for you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You done?”

She rolls her eyes, arms crossed, and we both turn to Kirby. Man, Ashley is seriously grating on my last fucking nerve.

I’ve given her a year, a year of blowout fights as we’ve crisscrossed the globe on our own tours. She thought if we both took a break from tour dates, spent six months in Vegas, together, our problems would be solved. But it’s only been a month and I swear to God it’s worse than ever.

Looking at her now, with her resting bitch face and agenda, I blow the air out of my cheeks, determined to focus on my agent.

“Sorry, Kirbs, what did Kendrick say? Did he stay around?” I ask.

“It’s big news; maybe we should go out and be with your crew for the big reveal,” Kirby suggests.

“No, it’s cool. I don’t want to make a scene. Just tell me.”

“Ohhh, we can do a champagne toast. I mean, the offer is good, right?” she asks Kirby, grabbing my arm in excitement. I swear, she sees the magazine spread before the moment has even happened. Her life is viewed through a fucking filter, and I don’t want to be in any of her shots.

Which is problematic considering we’re together.

“No champagne. And no paparazzi,” I add, 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.

* * *

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 hot.

Wait, did I say that right?

Anyways, the point is, I don’t particularly want to bring attention to how completely untraditional my upbringing was, and the best way to avoid that is to fit in as unnoticed as possible.

Which might be a tad easier if I hadn’t fallen in step with Claire and Emmy, because a few months after meeting them they were both married to some of the hottest bachelors Las Vegas has ever seen.

Which makes them higher profile than I’d like my best friends to be ... but their friendship is the sort I spent my entire life dreaming of: true and honest and real. Obviously, I’m not going to walk away from that.

So, instead, I try my best to fit in. Luckily, there has been soap opera worthy drama with my friends since we all started spending time together. And because of that, no eyes have landed on me.

Yet.

First there was the whole thing with Emmy’s sister being in a coma, followed by a kidnapping, followed by a wedding. Throw in her new husband, Ace, who kept a hidden identity before he proposed.

Then Claire had her first marriage followed by her fake engagement followed by her real wedding, complete with her big
I’m actually a mother
reveal. Her new husband Landon is a diamond tycoon and heir to a fortune ... even though he thought he’d lost it for a hot minute when we all traveled to London to surprise them.

For a day or two, I got nervous that once we returned from England all eyes would finally land on me, but McQueen, the other bad boy in this Rat Pack, took up where Landon left off. He fell in love with an Irish goddess-slash-MMA-fighter named JoJo and saved her from a crazy, murdery stalker.

Oh, and then he proposed before her first professional fight.

And that was just last week.

So, yeah, no one has had time to dig up any dirt on me.