Page 4 of Hot Ride

“Jett, my man!” Gary booms. “I've got some killer opportunities lined up for you.”

He settles into the plush armchair across from me as Sloane perches on the edge of the couch, back ramrod straight.

So much for ‘make yourself at home.’

“Okay, drumroll, please.”

Sloane pauses for dramatic effect.

I grunt, absentmindedly plucking the strings of the Les Paul.

“The smash hit reality show Faking It wants you as their next eligible bachelor!”

A celebrity dating show? Hard pass.

The idea of having my love life dissected on national TV makes my skin crawl.

I slide down the couch and stare at the ceiling, wondering how many spiderwebs are up there.

Undeterred, Gary presses on.

“And get this—Suki Sommers is dying to do a steamy photoshoot with you for Rolling Stone!”

I raise an eyebrow. “You mean that TikTok chick?”

“She's the biggest influencer for Gen Z right now,” Sloane says with a decisive nod. “Your two fan bases combine? Nuclear!”

Setting the guitar aside, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Gen Z influence?

I'm a damn rock musician, not some pop culture commodity to be packaged and marketed endlessly.

Irritation prickles beneath my skin as I eye the framed platinum records adorning the walls.

“When I first picked up a guitar, it was because the music spoke to me—not for likes, views, or whatever the hell is 'trending' this week.”

Gary's chuckle grates on my nerves.

“I hear you, man, but this is the game now. Gotta keep that buzz going, you know? Stay relevant.”

Relevant? The bitter taste of disillusionment coats my tongue.

I'm Jett-freaking-Silver, frontman of Eclipse—one of the biggest rock acts on the planet.

Sold-out arenas, Grammy nominations. Isn’t that enough?

“I don't need some cheap publicity stunt or photoshoot.” I wave a dismissive hand. “Especially not with the prom queen du jour.”

Gary's smile remains unchanged, but his eyes narrow slightly.

“These are massive opportunities, Jett. You'd be foolish not to?—”

I'm already moving, eager to escape this suffocating world of opulence and pretense.

“Save the sweet talk,” I drawl, cutting off the babble with a wave of my hand. “Time to ditch this three-ring shitshow for a bit, if you know what I mean.”

A familiar ache throbs behind my ribs—a yearning for the freedom and authenticity I've slowly surrendered in my quest for stardom.