Hot Ride (Summer Lovin’)

Chapter 2

Jett

The vintage Les Paul guitar feels foreign in my hands as I lounge on the overstuffed leather sectional.

This opulent Hollywood Hills mansion is the epitome of my dream life—vaulted ceilings, imported marble, and more square footage than a city block.

Yet, the polished luxury only amplifies the emptiness gnawing at me.

A sharp rap on the door interrupts my thoughts. Here we go.

Gary, my relentlessly upbeat manager, bustles in with Sloane, the dynamo publicist he hired to “elevate my brand.”

Sloane’s white-toothed smile and sleek locks scream ‘high maintenance.’

“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.

When did chasing my dreams become so complicated?

I turn back to Gary and Sloane with a resigned sigh.

“Look, Daniel's wedding is coming up. I’m taking a break. Going off-line for a while.”

Sloane purses her bright pink lips, undoubtedly calculating the public relations fallout caused by my absence.

I'm past caring.

As I usher them out, I’m already imagining myself driving on endless open roads and eating at truck stop diners.

A sense of calm washes over me.

I wander to the wet bar, pouring a glass of Glenlivet on the rocks. The familiar burn hits my throat, grounding me as I approach the window.

Peering through the sheer curtains, I see paparazzi swarming at the front gates like vultures, their flashbulbs blazing like miniature supernovas. I can’t even go outside.

My stomach churns as I recall the recent tabloid headlines.

“Heather's Heartache: Jett Silver Ditches Devoted Starlet!”

“From Lovebirds to Splitsville: What Went Wrong for Jett Silver?”

“From Grammy to Glum: Jett Silver's Post-Breakup Meltdown!”

A derisive snort escapes my lips. Meltdown? Hardly. It’s more like a long overdue reckoning—exposing our relationship for the sham it was.

Heather never cared about Jason Miller, the small-town dreamer who busked for small change while writing songs at night.

My fist clenches, ice cubes clinking.When was the last time someone saw the real me and gave a shit?

The realization settles like a lead weight. All this glitter and gold is suffocating. Fancy mansion, fancy prison. Funny how being on top of the world feels a hell of a lot like rock bottom.

I knock back my scotch.

Screw this.

It's time to strip the bullshit.

A faint smile tugs at my lips as I grab my phone, scroll through songs, make playlists, and download self-help podcasts. If I'm going on a journey of self-discovery, I'll go all in.

“Getting in Touch With Your Inner Child.”

“Mindfulness for the Modern Man.”

“Unleashing Your Authentic Self.”

A good old-fashioned road trip for my best friend's wedding back home is the perfect excuse.

Who knows what I might find out there? New inspirations, forgotten parts of myself, maybe even someone who sees the real me.

I'm not looking, but I'm open to whatever comes.

A familiar ringtone cuts through my revelry. Daniel's number flashes on the screen.

A grin spreads across my face thinking about my oldest buddy. He knew me when I was just a scrappy kid with a secondhand guitar, before all this fame bullshit hardened around me like armor.

“D-Rock!” I answer, unable to contain my grin. “What's good, man?”

Daniel's rich laughter crackles through the speaker, transporting me back to hazy summer days and the familiar streets of our hometown.

“Jay-bird! Just checking in on my favorite rockstar. How's the glamorous life treating you?”

I snort, wandering back to the plush sectional and sinking into the buttery leather.

“Oh, you know. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams, man. It's a real grind.”

“Must be rough, signing autographs every minute, huh?” Daniel teases.

My smile fades as my gaze lands on a framed photograph—Daniel and I as kids, our faces smeared with ice cream and dirt, grinning.

When did things become so damn complicated?

“You don't know the half of it, D. I swear, sometimes I miss the days when our biggest problem was figuring out how to sneak into R-rated movies.”

Daniel’s voice takes on a teasing lilt. “Well, you’re in luck. Oakville is just as sleepy and uneventful as you remember.”

I pause, grinning. “It’s been a while, but I look forward to seeing you and Jessica. It’ll be good to reconnect with the old crew, too.”

“Well, alright then.” His voice softens. “It’ll be good to have you back, man. Maybe we can squeeze in a jam session, for old times’ sake.”

The idea hits me like a shot of adrenaline. “Hell yeah.”

“Oh, one other thing,” Daniel says, hesitating. “Any chance my sister could hitch a ride?”

My breath catches. Scarlett. The one person who never let me get away with any bullshit, even at my worst. She always had a knack for peeling back my layers.

“Jay? You still there?”

I huff out a breath. “Yeah, man. I’m here.”

For some reason, the idea of Scarlett joining feels right. Terrifying, probably disastrous, but right.

“Sure thing,” I say before I can overthink it. “Tell Scarlett she’s welcome to join.”

“Seriously? You’re sure?”

I chuckle, tension and anticipation thrumming through me. “Yeah, I’m sure.” Maybe too sure, given how my heart’s racing.

“Promise me one thing.” I pause, a faint smirk playing on my lips. “If she kills me on this trip, you'd better be prepared to get haunted for the rest of your days.”

Daniel's answering laugh is rich and full-bodied. “Deal, rockstar. I'll even leave out some beer for your ghost.”

I hang up, tuck my phone into my pocket, and stride over to the half-packed duffel bag in the corner, and a faint smile curves my lips.

This trip home isn’t just a timeout.

It's a fucking rescue mission.