It was what it was.Take it or leave it.
He hadn’t always been like this, though. Being screwed over and over again had made him grow anI-don’t-give-a-fuckattitude that, together with other unhealthy coping mechanisms, helped him get through the day. It wasn’t the physical rigors or crazy schedules that threw him off balance. It was the ghosts of his past added to the constant pretense during events they didn’t care about.
Cynical? Absolutely. There was no way Artificial Suicide would be where it was today without the public appearances that increased the visibility of their persona. Because no matter how hard you worked or how good you were, without a proper marketing strategy and a decent fanbase, you were nothing. But as the band had grown, the expectations to concede to industry standards mounted, smothering the passion to create. All Kaj wanted was to beat the crap out of his drums until his hands bled.
Why did he have to be here? He couldn’t do anything other than nod to whatever Thorsen, the president of Arkham Records, was running on about. Kaj’s opinion didn’t matter. Not after knocking the band’s ex-vocalist down.
That asshole was famous for his excesses; sex, drugs, and destroyed hotel rooms—the epitome of a rockstar cliché. Now he had also earned the “rapist” badge.
Kaj writhed uncomfortably in his seat, making the leather squeak under his ass.
It was still only allegations of sexual misconduct, but none of the other band members wanted to be associated with a sex offender. If it was someone else, they would have believed in his presumed innocence. Some people lie; they had seen it before, especially when there’s money involved—which was harmful to the real victims—but it hadn’t been just one person reporting it, and where there’s smoke…
“Do you have anything to add?”Mr. Presidentsaid.
“Uh?” Kaj’s mouth lowered at the corner in a scowl. “No,” he replied as he sat up straight, elbows on the table and hands clasped, realizing just now that his indifference to all the logistics being discussed was too obvious.
With a scolding look, Thorsen signaled for the PR manager to resume the conversation. He rambled about their carefully drafted speech to the press when it was revealed that Emil had been kicked out of the band, about the actions needed to face the response of the vocalist’s fanbase, about the Artists and Repertoire Department having found several possible new frontmen, the auditions that would be held in February so they didn’t have to cancel the upcoming concerts…
Boring.
Then it was the A&R director’s turn. She started listing the names and skills of the musicians her team had found and were slowly contacting. Some artists were recommendations, some had been in a pile of demos the department ignored until they needed a new face, and others had been found on social media.
“Don’t get too ahead of yourselves,” Thorsen’s minion interrupted her. “Whoever gets chosen will be just a stand-in replacement.”
“If we do our job well and selectwhoeverwe think is more fitting, they should be treated as a permanent member and not just a temporary patch,” the publicity director said.
“Meaning?”
“We can’t change the frontman every few months. And even if Emil comes out clean of the charges against him, I wouldn’t consider bringing him back.”
“That’s out of the question,” Niels, the band manager, deadpanned.
“They might hit a few bumps in the road as they find a new balance,” the publicity guy continued with a reassuring nod, “but too many changes can mess with their creativity and dynamics. We need to be wiser. So, unless we have to face a problem like the one we’re dealing with right now, I don’t think signing someone with the idea of it not being permanent makes sense at all.”
“That’s why—and I think Niels agrees with me—we’re leaning toward Noah Sørensen.”
Kaj jerked his head up, and his heart gave a violent kick.What?
“That’s the one I told you about, right?” Aksel, the guitarist of Artificial Suicide, asked.
“Yeah,” Niels confirmed. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen such a versatile vocalist. Noah has a beautiful fry scream and clean voice. And the growls?” He chuckled, shaking his head while clicking his pen on and off on the table. “I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have a contract with someone else.”
“He really has it all—the passion, the talent, the attitude, even the looks,” the woman added. “I think he’s exactly what we need: a new face and a little twist to the band’s sound.”
Kaj wasn’t in the room anymore. It was as if the black walls sucked him into a different universe. The simple mention of that name sent him to the stratosphere. Rarefied air froze in his lungs and the world surrounding him transformed into deafening noise.
His hands were clammy, and his pulse was going haywire. His breaths turned shallow and sharp, every intake of oxygen feeling like thousands of needles puncturing his lungs. How stupid was that? That first and last name were common in Denmark. Even put together, he was sure someone else in Copenhagen also went by that.
It had to be a coincidence.
It couldn’t behim.
The discussion went on for another thirty minutes. Maybe for an hour. Kaj couldn’t tell. Didn’t even register arriving at the café where they usually hid from the masses. The flashes of them walking down the stairs to what used to be a half-sunk basement in the nineteenth century were barely a flare in his mind. They were sitting at their usual table in a corner. Exposed brick walls, a dimmed atmosphere, soft chatter, the smell of coffee… He was at once aware of everything and nothing.
Time had stopped for him, unlocking dead memories that flickered in his retinas like a string of incoherent images. The past and present morphed into one. He was trapped between love and hate. Between who he’d once wanted to be and who he was.
Discomfort licked the back of his neck, and the urge to break something, or someone, flooded his system.
