Page 11 of Mayhem

TESS

"Duuuuude! Get over here, you gotta see this cat shredding in a cheetah costume."

Emmett's raucous laughter echoes through the studio space. We're gathered around various screens critiquing the influx of video auditions generated in the last few days since our Instagram post went unexpectedly viral.

I hover at Emmett’s shoulder, squinting critically at the pixelated fur-clad bassist currently giving an impassioned performance. Was embracing the band's ‘chaos’ brand intentional or mere social media happenstance? It’s hard to tell. Either way, it’s a hard pass.

My eyes wander, seeking Brad's, but he's engrossed across the room strumming along expressively to a muscular girl absolutely owning the intricate bass rhythms she’s playing. Then she goes hands-free and it’s clear she wasn’t really playing after all.

A strange pang passes through me witnessing his absorption there despite the outcome. Is it jealousy? What the hell would I be jealous about?

We connected at dinner the other night. All three of us did. And it’s been all I can think about since. Brad and I both seemed to let down our guard for a little while, and Charlie was the catalyst. She has somehow needled her way into my heart in the time it took for one freaking meal. One freaking day. Hell, they both have, if I’m being honest. And I don’t know what to do with that. It's clearly throwing me off my professional game, and that’s something that never happens. But then, I don’t usually immerse myself with clients’ lives like this.

I tamp it all down, redirecting back to the task at hand: filtering online standouts to potentially call back live. But my focus wavers again when another howl of amusement bursts out from Stefan at some new outrageous submission.

I rub my eyes, echoes of raucous video riffs grating on my last nerve. I can't believe no one's taking this seriously. A call goes out begging for fans' help, and we get flooded with head-scratching stunt audition clips. I thought maybe we'd uncover some hidden talents. But all I’m seeing are posts for shock value and nothing more.

My heart sinks.

Even Ian can't redirect focus back to finding suitable prospects amid all the pageantry on display. Obviously that one girl captivated Brad more than her actual potential to mesh with the real band.

My frustration simmers longer as Emmett keeps fanning the chaos flames for giggles. My leg starts to jitter impatiently. It feels like placing our PR fate in fans’ hands has epically backfired if no one respects the opportunity it really is. I stupidly ignored the variable of risking legitimacy just for visibility.

Brad meets my eyes, clocking my vibe shift. But another jaw-dropping clip draws his attention before we connect. Creeping doubts dig into my psyche. This is a nightmare. A fucking nightmare. And it’s all my fault. This is all going to boomerang and bite me in the ass.

Some expert I am.

"Dad, go back!" Charlie suddenly urges, tugging Brad's shirt. "That guy with the beanie was way cuter than that surfer dude."

Brad's eyes flare incredulously. "Pretty sure musical chemistry and talent is the goal here. Not dreamy crushes, baby girl. He probably can’t play."

But his protest gets overridden by her persistence. Sighing, Brad scrolls socials backtracking to some long-haired bassist. I drift over and peer closer despite myself. I cross my fingers, hoping for a miraculous savior to appear on the screen.

Shaggy ink-black strands peek from a knit beanie as soulful hazel eyes glint mischievously at the camera. The frame shakes following his fluid movements around the room, but tight low-end runs punctuate a solid solo.

My critical mind perks up. His technical skills are meeting up with a distinctive style. Glancing around, the rest of the band have mirrored expressions of pleasant surprise. Maybe method exists in this madness after all.

“Not bad…” Emmett concedes. “Not bad at all.”

We all crowd around the laptop as Brad starts the video over from the beginning. It’s as if we’re all holding our collective breath that this isn’t a mirage, or some AI contrived joke of some kind.

When the video ends, the guys all look at each other, but don’t say a word. Ian is the first to voice a real opinion, and being a former bass player himself before a hand injury, I value his take.

“You have to admit, the guy’s got chops,” he shrugs. “Some of those progressions…I couldn’t do that even in my prime.”

Silence falls again as everyone considers what Ian’s said. A lot is riding on this, and I think the novelty of the crank videos has finally worn off.

This is important.

Charlie glances around, her brows knit in confusion. “Is he the one Daddy? Did I find you a bass player, even though he’s cute?”

With an arched eyebrow, and perhaps even a little mirth, he strokes her hair gently. “We’ll have to see, but I think you did, baby girl. I think you did.”

She beams as she bounces on her toes, Hayley and June joining in on her celebration as they start jumping around us, giggling, and laughing.

Brad drags his eyes from his daughter to look at Ian and me. “Let’s find this guy, and bring him in. See if he’s for real.”

“Hell yeah,” Emmett chimes in. “Shit’s getting real now.”

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