Page 5 of Mayhem

Seeing this unguarded creative habitat in action stirs an unease I can't quite place. These musicians live in a carefree, uninhibited headspace foreign from the calculated corporate waters I've sailed thus far. Witnessing the messy vitality of their collaborative sparks firsthand may demolish my long-held assumptions on rockstar personalities. Everything rides on my ability to adapt and realign perspectives, but maybe they’ll just see me as an outsider incapable of ever capturing their true selves?

Imposter Syndrome creeps in despite my efforts. I'm used to commanding rooms, but this arena makes me question what value I can possibly contribute...or if I even speak the right language.

Taking a deep breath and straightening my shoulders, I dive in. My heels click conspicuously on the cracked cement floor, drawing the attention of the ragtag group clustered around a makeshift stage of amps and equipment.

Here we go.

"Who the hell's this?" grunts a shorter, stocky guy with dark hair clutching drumsticks, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. Emmett Cavenaugh. Chaos Fuel’s trickster drummer. I’ll need to be wary of him if the stories I’ve seen are correct.

My gaze darts around trying to mentally map territory critical to maneuvering this intro. The beat-up leather couch and mini fridge stocked with water bottles imply the lounge area. A cluster of mismatched chairs surround various sound equipment are likely the mockup control room hub. My eyes catch on scuffed up isolation booths for recording takes, duct tape barely holding acoustic foam panels onto worn wooden dividers.

I inch subtly closer, avoiding wires all over making precarious trails I'm certain to trip over if I have to walk anywhere. Nothing about this workspace conforms easily to every efficient, ergonomic, corporate office layout I've occupied for years. The fish-out-of-water sensation that started before I walked in, hits with full force now.

Before I can start into my carefully rehearsed introduction, one of the tall, handsome men steps forward smiling with a hand extended.

"You must be Tess! I'm Ian, the band manager." His British accent is adorable. Maybe I could love this job…

His friendly handshake steadies my nerves slightly. From the wary glances, I can already tell the suits versus creatives culture clash will be steep. But maybe Ian will prove to be an allied interpreter straddling both worlds. I know he used to be in a band himself. That could come in handy as we move forward.

Drawing a centering breath, I brace to convince these dubious rockstars that order and image can align with artistry.

“Daddy, come look at what me and June made,” a little girl with long red curls calls from the corner, where three of them are huddled. My thoughts are instantly interrupted and derailed.

“In a minute, honey,” says the most attractive man out of the bunch. The infamous Brad Chambers. His long blonde hair is perfectly messy, his strong jawline a mix between scruff and beard, his dark eyes are wary and guarded. The tattoos on his arms seem to dance when he moves. And it’s all sexy as hell.

He’s around the same age as me, early thirties, but he seems older and younger at the same time. He’s definitely lived. I can’t seem to keep my eyes off him. It’s as if the rest of the room disappeared when our gazes met, and we’re the only people in the room.

“I’m Brad Chambers,” he says, stepping closer and shaking my hand. He seems reluctant or resigned. I can’t tell which. But when his hand touches mine, it’s warm, and an odd sensation flutters over my skin as if it’s waking up from a long, dormant sleep. It’s odd, and I resist the urge to shudder visibly when I let go.

“Nice to meet you,” I finally say, pulling my shit together.

I stifle a surprised laugh as the compact drummer launches into an eccentric introduction.

"I'm Emmett Cavenaugh. Resident skin-smasher and all-around chaos conductor for this operation," he proclaims, giving an exaggerated bow. "When I'm not cracking the whip on these knuckleheads, you can find me trolling paranormal message boards for my podcast. Gotta chase those ghosts, baby."

I lift an eyebrow, uncertain if he's kidding but amused, nonetheless. Before I can inquire further, the lanky guitarist ambles up, nonchalantly blowing an unruly strand of Nordic blonde hair from his eyes.

"Name's Stefan Karlsson. Self-proclaimed legend," he offers a dramatic wink, relinquishing his cigarette to shake my hand loosely. "Watch your step around here though, I tend to leave trails of guitar picks everywhere I go. They breed in my pockets I think."

As he wanders off absently humming an intricate riff, I feel all the leftover tension begin to ease by their silly antics. Apparently, moods shift as quickly as the chords around here. But maybe these guys have more harmless depths than their prickly press implies.

“So,” Ian says, clapping his hands together after an awkward silence covers us. “What do you need from us to get the good PR train rolling?”

Suddenly, I’m on the spot. I’ve prepared for this. I had it all planned out in my head before I walked in here, but it all flew out of my brain when Brad shook my stupid hand.

I’m a professional. I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve run my own teams, and suddenly, I’m reduced to that of a dumb schoolgirl in the presence of a crush. Not a brain cell to be found in my empty head.

Snap out of it, Tess.

“Well, to be honest, I’m just here to observe for the first few days,” I say, grabbing at tethers of thought from the ether in my head. I think that was my plan. “I’d like to get a sense of the band before forming any solid strategies.” At least it sounds like a reasonable thing to do. I’m pretty sure it’s close to what I prepared. I do like to get a feel for things before diving in.

“Okay, that sounds good,” Ian says, glancing at the band for any other input. None is forthcoming. They’re all still eyeing me warily.

I’m the enemy. I get it. Loud and clear.

“You can sit with me over there,” he points to the group of chairs alongside a tattered couch. “Our first auditioner should be here soon. We’re just warming up.”

“Sounds good,” I mutter, following him to sit down. I make sure to avoid catching Brad’s eye as I go. I get the feeling that’s dangerous water to swim in.

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