Page 6 of Mayhem

But as I think that, I see him go over to the corner where three girls are huddled together over some project. He affectionately ruffles the redhead’s hair as he leans over to inspect whatever it is they’re working on. That must be Charlotte, his daughter. There’s not much online about her or their relationship, but it’s obvious from just their body language that there’s something special in their bond.

My preconceptions about Brad Chambers, the magnetic frontman known for bedding groupies and trashing hotel rooms in years past, might be all wrong. Maybe there’s more to him than that. Actually, seeing him now with his daughter, I’m sure there is.

One key thing about good public relations is that it isn’t a mask, or a one-dimensional thing. The most important part is to tap into something relatable. Something everyone, or at least your target audience, can identify with. You need to show the world that you’re human. Complex. Layered.

Like them.

I think I may have just uncovered Chaos Fuel’s redemption.

Charlotte.

5

LOVE NO MORE

BRAD

"Dad, check out this crazy creation we made!" Charlie waves me over to inspect the explosion of glue, fabric and glitter she orchestrated with the girls. I can't help grinning, mussing her vibrant red curls. No matter the chaos swirling round, her energetic spirit always lifts me up.

“That’s awesome, kiddo. What is that? A guitar?” It looks like it might be a guitar. It’s hard to tell with all the freaking glitter.

“It’s a bass guitar,” Ian’s daughter Hayley announces proudly, taking the piece from her sister June to show me. “For the new person, to welcome them.”

I arch a brow, impressed that they’re being so thoughtful. I never in a million years would have thought to get a new band member a welcome present. But then, I’m mostly an asshole.

“Well, that’s really cool,” I say, grinning at her.

My smile fades a bit though, glancing toward Tess standing rigid in her jeans and blouse while clutching her leather covered tablet. Not a strand of straight blonde hair out of place. She almost looks kind of silly playing corporate doll in our grungy studio. I don’t know. Having a label rep hovering around us rubs me wrong, even if she is here to polish our reputation.

Ian trails off his conversation with her seeing most of us aren't exactly welcoming Tess with open arms. An awkward silence descends on the room until Emmett shatters it by tapping his drum sticks wildly. "Who's ready to audition our next victim?" He grins deviously in Tess’s direction.

Subtle as always.

I shoot an agitated glance toward Tess, resenting her upcoming critique of our creative process. Her pursed lips take scribbled notes on her tablet tracking the day like some clinical fucking science experiment. I can't shake an uneasy feeling about everything riding on nailing this bassist search without it changing the raw vibe Chaos Fuel's built on. We have to find somebody soon, but we also have to be picky about who we let in.

We’ve been doing this a long fucking time. As long as Charlie’s been alive, in fact. And we’re finally getting where we wanted to go all along. We’re signed with a label. People know who the fuck we are. But with it comes complications. Like bad press, and crazy social media. When we first started together, things like that didn’t matter. The music did.

And now? Now we have a ‘handler’ to manage our ‘image.’ We’re getting choked by greedy corporate fingers not even polite enough to thank us after they fuck us.

Tess hanging around now to observe is getting to me. It’s like we’re a fucking zoo exhibit or some shit. Caged animals on display for entertainment. But only if we entertain in the right way. Only if we put a certain foot forward.

Only if…

My thoughts get interrupted as the door to the practice space creaks open, and our first ‘victim’ as Emmett called them, walks in. I hand the artwork back to the girls and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the long day ahead.

My fingers rake restlessly through my hair, its overgrown length starting to feel like a noose cinching my restless thoughts too tight. I shift my weight between my feet as our first prospect enters, temptation to bolt itching at me.

Fucking label leashes.

We’ve been through this before. Many times. Too many times. And it’s never fun. Now it’s worse with judging eyes on us. It’s almost as though we’re on that stupid TV talent show that Indigo King is in London for, even though we’re not the ones trying out.

I’m a frontman. The spotlight is always on me. I’m used to it to a point. This is different somehow. I don’t feel like I’m the one in control here, and the strings puppeting me are now visible with Tess right in front of us. And as those ropes tighten, my grip on the steering wheel of my life slides ominously.

I don’t like where this is headed.

As we play, Tess circles, watching us like some freak show and irritation simmers beneath the surface at her intrusion. Yet some buried part of me prickles awake too each time our gazes catch.

She moves through the ragged studio completely oblivious to how those curve-hugging jeans hold my distracted eyes. How the way she bites her bottom lip when she concentrates makes my blood sing. I grit my teeth, tamping down the reckless thoughts her unintended temptation sparks inside of me.

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