Silent Fidelity (Razor Monkees #3)

Prologue

Richard

Sighing, I leaned back in my desk chair and unlocked my phone, clicking straight through to the LookView app. It was nearly time for me to get off work and go home, and I only had one more task to handle, but I needed a break. I’d typed out so many emails, my fingers were beginning to cramp.

Fridays were really both a blessing and a curse. They meant the weekend was right there, but it also meant I had more work to complete so it wouldn’t be shoved on my plate come Monday.

I scrolled through dance videos, TV show and movie snippets, and people sharing their entire life stories. Nothing was catching my attention yet to make me want to sit and watch the entire thing—

I paused, quickly turning up the volume on my phone when I came across a video of a band who called themselves the Razor Monkees.

The lead singer looked to be young—barely out of high school, if they’d even graduated yet—and the other young man singing with him while also strumming his guitar looked to be about the same age.

But despite how young they were, I’d never seen a band more in sync with each other.

Their voices together were flawless, and when the drum solo hit, I had to admit, I was a bit in awe. And when the piano melody hit to mix with the drumbeat? Tingles rushed down my spine.

I leaned forward, already pressing the button for my personal assistant.

This was the kind of talent I’d been looking for my entire career, and I wasn’t letting them slip through my fingers.

I needed them to be part of Nightwork Records.

I had no doubt they’d quickly become a chart-topping band, and I didn’t want some other sleazy record label coming in and ruining the magic this group had.

“Sir?” Amber greeted me when she answered my call.

“I need the talent manager in my office immediately. I have a band I want to sign.”

Then, I set my phone down—with their music still playing—and began looking them up so I could find where they may be playing next. I already knew I was going to try signing them, but I needed to see them in person, especially the drummer and the keyboard pianist.

This band was going to flip my entire world upside down. I already knew it. And I couldn’t fucking wait.

I sipped at the cheap whiskey I’d been served and got more comfortable on the hard bar stool I’d chosen at a high table near the back of the bar.

I wanted to be closer to the stage to get a better look at the boys I’d come to watch, but I already stuck out like a sore thumb in this bar and didn’t want to stick out to them, too.

I wanted to see them play without feeling like they had someone important watching them. I wanted them to play comfortably.

I’d come here directly after work—a blessing these boys were local—so I didn’t have time to change out of my expensive suit.

And while it looked like most men here hadn’t bothered to change out of their work clothes either, they were dressed in jeans, boots, and shirts that showed a hard day of work.

Most of the women in the crowd looked to have changed and showered, but even they were dressed down in jeans and t-shirts.

Hell, the weird look I’d gotten from the bartender had been answer enough that I didn’t belong there.

But that was fine. I had no plans to stick around longer than needed.

I planned to watch these boys play, then get access into the back behind the stage so I could introduce myself and leave them with my card.

I watched as they emerged onto the stage. Either they’d been let in before the bar opened to set up or someone had set up everything for them because all they had to do was take their places.

Like everyone was drawn that way, the crowd turned to look at them, and a cheer went up.

Clearly, they were known around here.

My eyes locked on Spike, the drummer, first, and my fingers tightened around my glass.

He had long, dark hair that hung just a little past his shoulders and was cut into numerous layers that framed his face perfectly, accenting his strong jawline and his sharp cheekbones.

The sleeveless shirt he was wearing revealed his toned sides and the tattoos splattered randomly across his arms and sides.

Reluctantly, I tore my eyes from the gorgeous boy to the pianist, Kalin, and my breath stalled in my throat.

He had a vape pen stuck between his lips as he fiddled with the cords on the keyboard, his brows pulled low over his eyes in concentration.

His hair—black with a layer of silver on top—was a mess on his head, yet looked like he’d styled it that way on purpose.

Tribal tattoos circled his neck, nearly covering the entire expanse, and I could briefly catch glimpses of the same style of tattoos on his longer fingers and the back of his hands.

Setting his vape pen down, he stood and leaned over his keyboard, turning his head to say something to Spike. Kalin was tall—well over six feet—but he had a thin, wiry build compared to Spike, who was bulkier.

“Are we ready?” Tor, the lead singer, asked into the mic. I glanced at him for a moment, watching the way he turned and smiled at Salem, the lead guitarist and other singer for their band.

The crowd cheered. Kalin sat back down and nodded once at Spike. Dalton, their rhythm guitarist, and Jesse, their bass guitarist, grinned and cheered with the crowd. Tor gave a light laugh into the mic, and they dove straight in.

And just like I’d been with their video on the LookView app, I was captivated. They were so in sync, and everything blended beautifully. They somehow made their almost-metal rock songs sound melodic and soul wrenching.

How had no one discovered them before me?

They played for a good hour before wishing everyone goodnight and disappearing behind the stage. I set my barely touched glass of whiskey on the table, then headed to the bar. The bartender lifted her brow at me. “What can I get ya?”

“Think you can give me access behind the stage?” She screwed her lips up in distaste, no doubt about to send me on my way. I handed her my card, and her eyes widened. “I’d like to speak to the band members.”

“Let me get the manager,” she rushed out before heading through a small door behind the bar. I leaned my side against the bar, watching to make sure the band didn’t begin packing up before I could speak to them.

“Sir?” I turned to find a middle-aged man making his way around the bar toward me, my card in his hand. “If you’ll follow me, I can let you behind the stage.”

I pushed off the bar and followed him, ignoring the curious stares of everyone as we weaved through the tables.

The man unlocked a door beside the stage, then waved me through.

“Down the hall, first door on the right,” he told me.

“And Mr. Nightwork?” I turned to look at him, hiding my impatience.

I wasn’t in the mood to socialize with him.

I wanted to get to those boys before they left.

“I wish you the best of luck. We’ll miss them around here if they decide to sign with you, but they deserve this. ”

He left me alone then, and I followed the directions he’d given me until I came to a steel, white door. I knocked hard to make sure I’d be heard, then waited for someone to open it.

Jesse was the one who opened the door, his eyes widening in surprise and a bit of apprehension as he took me in. Slowly, he moved aside, granting me access to the room. Everyone paused what they were doing, staring at me in confusion.

Kalin was the first to speak, his moody personality immediately making an appearance. “Do you have the wrong room?”

“No, I don’t. Not if you’re the Razor Monkees,” I gruffly answered, hating how thick my throat felt. I’d met and signed numerous bands and singers, yet I felt like this was my first time. “Mind if I come in?”

I moved past Jesse, and when no one said anything, I prompted, “Why don’t we all take a seat?” I wanted everyone to be as comfortable as possible for this conversation.

Spotting an old recliner that no one was occupying, I took a seat, hoping to prompt the rest of them to do the same, which they thankfully did.

I was a little surprised to see Salem tug Tor onto his lap, considering all I saw on social media was them telling everyone they were only friends, but I managed to keep my expression schooled into a professional one.

Whatever they did or did not have going on between them was their business only.

Dalton leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, frowning at me distrustfully. “Who are you? And should I call my mom to get an attorney here?”

Everyone in their band, except Dalton, had come from the rough side of the tracks.

From my research, they’d practically raised themselves and had formed their own little tight-knit family.

Dalton was the only one who’d come from a good, stable home with loving parents who cared deeply not just for him, but for all the boys.

But despite having other, better choices, Dalton had decided to live with his best friends in a tiny three-bedroom home right in the middle of where the other five had grown up.

He had the option to live somewhere nicer, maybe even go to college on his parents’ dime, but he’d stuck around for them.

That spoke highly of his character.

I slipped out another business card and carefully placed it on the table in the center of the room. They all looked at it, and Tor actually choked.

“My name is Richard Nightwork. I’m the owner of Nightwork Records,” I introduced myself.

“I’ve been following you all for a while since you popped up on my FYP.

” That was a lie. I’d just discovered them, but I didn’t want them thinking I’d made a rash decision.

Something told me Dalton wouldn’t appreciate that.

“You intrigued me enough that I came to see you live. And I would like to offer you a contract with my label.”

Silence met my ears. It was so quiet, I could hear the electricity humming through the walls. Finally, Dalton broke the silence, roughly clearing his throat.

“I think I should contact my parents.”

Smart kid. While I wanted to sign them desperately, they needed to do their homework on me first and not just sign with me because I was the first record label interested in them.

“Can we contact you when we have an attorney and are ready to look over everything?” Dalton added.

Standing and adjusting my suit jacket, I nodded.

“My personal contact info is on that card,” I said, gesturing to the table.

Kalin frowned down at it, then looked up at me like he wasn’t sure what to make of me yet.

I offered him a small smile, hoping to ease his discomfort. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

Then, I reluctantly let myself out of the room, not wanting to overstay my welcome. And I prayed to any deity that would listen to me that they’d agree to sign with my label.

I wasn’t letting these boys go without a fight.