Page 8 of Mayhem

Brad rolls his eyes at his daughter with a dramatic sigh. “We talked about this…”

They talked about cute guys? Now that’s a conversation I would have liked to have been in on.

Charlies swings her feet, her bright pink Converse sneakers sway as she talks. “I know. But he was cute. I can’t help it.”

“I thought I was the cute one,” Emmett protests, pretending to be offended. He holds his hand to his chest, mortally wounded. “You’re breaking my heart here.”

She waves a dismissive hand at him with the confidence only an eight-year-old girl can muster while breaking someone’s heart. “You’re still cute, but Toby was super cute. His smile was just…” she drifts off with a dreamy sigh.

Brad glances at me, as if looking for my reaction, and I’m not sure if he’s checking that I agree that Toby was cute, or my response to his daughter’s antics. I just smile and shrug. It’s vague enough to cover both scenarios.

Not going to lie, Toby was hot, but I don’t think his personality meshed with the band’s. He was a bit too flashy, and that’s Brad’s job. I could see that Brad wasn’t too impressed by him either.

“That’s my girl,” Brad sighs, tugging on a lock of Charlie’s hair. “The Disney Princess in love with love, but who would probably turn her prince into a frog.”

She sighs again with a dramatic eye roll. “Only if he deserved it.”

Watching the two of them interact is heart-warming. It’s as if I’m getting an inside glimpse into the side of Brad that no one has seen before. The easy banter between them makes me wish I’d had that kind of relationship when I was her age – not the constant battles I had to be a part of. They have a unique connection.

It's special.

A settling hush covers the practice space as lunch winds down. Chatter stops amidst the clinking mismatched dishes being cleared. Soon everyone’s creative endeavors resume in separate pockets - Charlie is engrossed guiding her friends in some sparkly masterpiece as Ian supervises, the other guys step out to have a smoke, leaving only Brad and I lingering uncertainly.

I debate different conversation openers I could use to chip away at the obvious hostilities between us when Brad unexpectedly breaks the strained silence.

"So, what deep analysis are you cooking up to fix us wayward rockers on that tablet of yours?" His wry tone echoes the band's arm's length weariness towards my purpose here.

I smile softly, sensing an opening. "Honestly? Witnessing you all so in sync jamming today...I don't know that you actually need fixing."

Brad's stoic features flicker with surprise at this praise-adjacent observation. I continue gently, "Don't get me wrong, image tweaks would definitely help. But tampering with your core musical dynamic could devastate everything special between you all. That's not my aim here."

He studies me intently, perhaps glimpsing for the first time the potential fan glimmering beneath my cool handler exterior. Something in his expression shifts. It’s still guarded, but a notch less combative.

We might find common ground yet.

“So, what is your aim? Exactly?” he asks, and I swear it’s real curiosity. His interest in my being here has finally piqued beyond simple resentment.

“Well, current public opinion is that you guys are spoiled brats who only care about partying.” I may as well be honest with him.

He doesn’t seem surprised, and his lips twitch into a wry smile. “Spoiled brats, huh?”

“Their words. Not mine,” I clarify. “At least, that’s Blindsided’s take on things.”

“Oh, good old Blindsided,” he sighs, looking skyward as he rubs at the stubble on his chin. “The holy gospel according to pretentious assholes.”

He’s not wrong. Blindsided is known to walk on the wrong side of journalistic integrity. They have no problem publishing whatever they think will grab readers’ attention, even if it’s untrue. I’ve had to deal with them before in my line of work, but there’s no negotiating with assholes bent on making a splash. They like to hide behind ‘anonymous sources’ for their alleged ‘fact finding.’ They take the tiniest seed of truth and warp the hell out of it for a headline.

“Agreed. But unfortunately, people do believe everything they read.” I glance up at him, realizing how much taller he is than me. I am not small by any stretch of the imagination, but next to him I’m feeling downright petite. My senses are starting to overload standing so close to him like this, so I take a small step sideways to give myself some breathing room.

Being close to Brad Chambers does something to me. Something I’ve not experienced before, and I can’t put a name to it because I can’t completely describe it. I feel…weird. Strange. Disoriented. It’s as if my sensibility has taken a fucking hike. It’s got to be his rockstar persona, blinding me to reality.

I’m dumbstruck. And I don’t like it.

“Do you think our fans read that bullshit and believe it?” he asks, snapping me out of my stupor.

“That’s hard to gauge directly,” I admit, pulling myself back into the conversation. More like dragging myself back. “According to Eliza, sales are down, which is either a coincidence, or a direct correlation. We have no real way of knowing. So, I’m here to try to turn that around, regardless of the cause.”

“But if it’s not the cause…” He’s guarded again. The carefully disguised shields are rising again.

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