Page 7 of Mayhem

As we take a break between auditions, I peel off towards the fridge for a water bottle. Out of nowhere, Tess appears on the same trajectory, nearly colliding into my side. I reach out reflexively, hands catching just above her hips to gently steady her on her feet.

"Oh gosh, sorry about that!" Tess jumps slightly at the contact, cheeks flushing as she adjusts the tablet clasped to her chest.

"No problem," I murmur. But I don't immediately release my light grip, that subtle floral scent of hers clouding my senses. Hazel eyes lift to mine for a hovering moment, something uncertain flickering in their depths before skittering away.

I drop my hands awkwardly, taking a subtle step back out of her personal space. Tess tucks a loose wisp of golden hair behind her ear, lips curving into a tentative smile.

"Well, uh...excuse me," she gestures politely towards the water stash before scooting around me. The absence of her warmth pulls at me unexpectedly.

What the fuck?

I run a hand roughly through my hair again, exhaling frustration I can't place. Get it together, man. Maybe I need some air to clear my head.

The last thing we need complicating this bassist hunt is me mixing business with pleasure, no matter how fine the suit. I’ve got to keep clear focus without unnecessary distractions, I remind myself firmly. Even intriguing distractions who seem to read into every obvious stare no matter how quickly I flick my restless glance away.

Something in her eyes, the way she studies me, makes me think she can see past the frontman façade that I put on, and it’s making me uncomfortable.

Vulnerable.

I don’t fucking do vulnerable.

6

HANGING BY A MOMENT

TESS

Istare sightlessly at the cursor blinking impatiently for input, my new band homepage draft mockingly blank. A chaotic maze of noise filters in from the band goofing off across the studio space yet again. I massage my temples, stuffing down irritation.

Focus, Tess.

I became a sought-after crisis handler by cultivating a smooth, unflappable armor in the face of chaos. Meltdowns, scandals, disasters - bring it on. But something about this ragtag crew gets under my skin and throws me off-center. Makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.

It's too familiar...echoes of messy rooms strewn with empty bottles; broken promises slurred angrily through the wall vents. The only escape I had was a fierce work ethic to bury those memories under my polished accomplishments. Until my ambition felt less like atonement and more like armor.

I rose above it all eventually. So why does this makeshift studio dredge up ghosts I outran long ago?

These guys don't resemble the instability of my past. Not entirely. They just create freely, heedlessly, chasing inspiration wherever she might lead that day. No wonder the suits at the label struggle to harness such explosive creative forces.

I shake off the memories clawing at my composure. This project matters. I need to guide these passionate visionaries toward the wider acclaim they deserve. My pulse rises, rallying my focus. I can see that their magic is worth fighting for. I only hope they'll let me help instead of viewing me as the enemy. So far, I’m not doing so great at that part.

Navigating the makeshift craft services table thrown together with nearby take-out for our lunch, I cautiously retrieve a bottled tea, wary of interrupting the band's camaraderie permeating the space. Their laughter and inside banter form an exclusive barrier no corporate outsider could possibly break through. Not even me. And I don’t consider myself to be ‘corporate.’

I find myself hovering uncertainly along the periphery, seeking any conversational opening to bridge this isolating divide. But most chatter dies abruptly if I stray too close; if I say anything.

Emmett grunts dismissively through a mouthful of sub sandwich while Stefan seems suddenly engrossed inventorying his guitar case minutiae.

Only Brad holds my gaze steady for a piercing moment. That magnetic tug sparks against my will once more. Flustered, I drop my eyes and retreat closer to Ian's more welcoming orbit, taking the chair next to him and his daughters. However, the ghost sensation of Brad's studying me lingers - equal parts searing and comforting.

I wonder briefly, dangerously, what sharing their world more intimately might reveal about the intriguing contradiction that smolders beneath his brooding, bad boy façade. There’s more there, and I want to know what it is.

I push aside that reckless thought, rallying my focus toward thawing the band’s relations professionally before tapping into anything personal. They need to see that I’m on their side. I’m not the enemy here, even though I work for the label.

“So, out of the three so far, are there any standouts for you guys?” I ask, trying to break yet another awkward silence.

“I liked the last one. Toby,” Charlie swoons. “He was super cute.”

Hayley and June giggle in agreement, hiding their smiles behind their hands as they blush. They’re about Charlies age, maybe a little younger, and all three girls are adorable.

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