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 fa?ade. 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.
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 supercute. 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.
Damnit.
“If it’s not the cause, a little positive PR can’t hurt, right?” I ask, hoping to make my case that I’m not the bad guy. “I really am here to help. Not turn you into something you’re not. I swear.”
“But what do you think? What’s your professional opinion?”
I try not to bristle at the way he asks the question. He’s starting to get defensive, but I need to keep being honest with him if this is going to work.
“I belong to a few Chaos Fuel fan forums under a pseudonym for research. Your loyal fans stand by you guys. Though some do complain you seem...distant lately in meet-and-greets and interviews. Not fully present.”
Brad’s stoic expression grows thoughtful as he digests this, but he doesn’t say anything. I continue gently, “I won’t pretend to grasp the pressures you guys deal with. But those ride-or-die fans just want to feel heard beyond the rock God fa?ade, you know? Feel seen.”
I hold my breath awaiting his reaction at me quoting directly from forum messages. Brad watches me curiously. “So, you’re embedded with our fans’ chatter? Why not just ask the label for data?”
I exhale, smiling softly. “Numbers are easy to collect from socials. Nuance is harder. I prefer to go to the source if I can.”
Something about this transparency seems to resonate. Brad”s expression shifts subtly from wary to intrigue. ”Guess you”re more than just a suit, Handler Tess...”
I flush, strangely pleased by his acknowledgment I’ve done my homework here. It”s a small win, but my heartbeat quickens triumphantly all the same.
He studies me closer, and I do my best to keep my own guard down. Show him that I’m being honest with him. I think it works because something manifests in his dark gray eyes; an acceptance of some kind that I pray means he won’t fight this like I know he’s wanted to all along.
“Okay,” he says with a slow nod as he shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. His long hair sways with the movement. My fingers start to itch to want to reach out and see what it feels like, the shiny strands are tempting. “So long as you’re not looking to change anything. Maybe show different sides of us or something, but don’t try to make us into something we’re not.”
I shake my head determinedly. “Absolutely. I would never try to change you guys. That’s not what I do at all. You have my word on that.”
His features smooth with relief and his shoulders relax a little. It’s as if I’ve put out a fire, or eased his mind somehow, and it alleviates something inside of me too. We understand each other now, or at least, he understands me. I still have to figure out the enigma that is Brad Chambers.
There are layers to him that contradict each other so diametrically, that it’s hard to compute. Like how loving and affectionate he is with his daughter, versus how aloof and detached he appears in the press. Like I told him, even with fans he stands out as separate, like he’s holding his true self hidden away.
He needs to let the real Brad Chambers out for all to see. I’m starting to see it. And I like it.
I like it a lot.
Maybe too much.