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.
As 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.