Mercy for the Wicked

Backstage was chaos, but Knox somehow made the hallway feel still.

The crowd roared beyond the concrete walls, crew members hurried past with equipment, and someone was shouting about a missing guitar. The air smelled like sweat, cigarette smoke, and something burning that Gwen sincerely hoped was intentional.

She followed Martin Hale, the band’s manager, clutching her tablet against her chest.

“Before we go in there, there are a few things you need to understand,” Martin said.

Gwen glanced at him. “You mean the things you explained in the car, in the lobby, or when we got off the elevator?”

“All of them.”

“Fantastic.”

“Knox can be difficult.”

“Difficult is manageable.”

Martin stopped walking.

“Don’t restrain him. Don’t block a doorway. If he tells you to leave, leave. And if he has a panic attack, do not touch him unless he explicitly asks you to.”

Gwen stared at him.

“He has them frequently,” Martin added.

“Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I heard you the first six times.”

“Seven.”

“Even better. I love a job with a detailed safety briefing.”

“They’re supposed to keep you safe.”

That was considerably less reassuring than Martin seemed to think.

Gwen knew who Wicked Mercy was before applying. Everyone knew who Wicked Mercy was. They sold out arenas, collected platinum records, and appeared in gossip headlines almost as often as they appeared onstage.

Their lead singer was infamous for being impossible to work with.

Assistants quit. Publicists threatened resignation. Interviewers left visibly shaken. One headline had called him rock music’s most beautiful disaster.

Gwen had assumed the author was being dramatic.

Standing outside his dressing room, she was reconsidering.

Martin knocked twice.

“Knox? Your new assistant is here.”

Silence.

Then the door swung open.

Knox filled the doorway.

He was easily six-foot-five, with black hair falling over icy blue eyes and tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt. His sharp features looked unfairly good on magazine covers and considerably less inviting in person.

He glanced at Martin, then at Gwen, assessing her as though she were a package delivered to the wrong address.

“Another one.”

“Knox,” Martin warned.

“What? Am I supposed to pretend I’m excited?”

“This is Gwen Fletcher. She’ll handle your schedule, travel arrangements, appointments, and—”

“Wonderful.”

He stepped backward into the dressing room.

The door slammed.

A crash followed almost immediately.

Then another.

Gwen flinched before she could stop herself.

She looked at Martin.

He didn’t even blink.

“That,” she said slowly, “was a very convincing demonstration.”

“Give him a minute.”

“Does he always greet people by throwing furniture?”

“Only when he’s in a good mood.”

Martin pushed open the door. “Come on.”

A shattered lamp lay on the floor. Papers littered the sofa, and water streaked the wall beneath an overturned bottle. Knox stood at the vanity, staring at his reflection.

“Get out,” he said.

Martin ignored him. “Your interview is in twenty minutes.”

“I said get out.”

“And I heard you. Unfortunately, your publicist is threatening to murder me, and I’d prefer not to die before the end of the tour.”

Knox’s jaw tightened. Something sharp flickered across his face before disappearing.

“Then you should leave. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

Gwen stood still, resisting the urge to make herself smaller. She had dealt with unreasonable supervisors and people who thought volume could substitute for intelligence. She knew how to recognize a temper.

This felt different.

Knox seemed to be holding himself together through sheer force of will. She had the uncomfortable feeling she’d walked into the middle of something she wasn’t meant to see.

“Your schedule changed,” she said.

Both men looked at her.

She lifted her tablet. “Your radio interview moved to four forty-five. The photographer needs you at five fifteen, and sound check is at six. You have twenty minutes afterward before the meet-and-greet.”

“Who asked you?”

“Your publicist. She sent the revision this morning.”

“I didn’t approve it.”

“You weren’t available to approve it.”

Martin looked like he was watching someone approach a cliff.

“I can rearrange the afternoon,” Gwen continued, “but I need confirmation from the photographer first. Changing sound check without consulting the crew could delay the show.”

“I don’t care about the crew.”

“I do.”

Silence settled over the room.

Knox turned fully toward her. His pale eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her suddenly aware of the space between them.

“What did you say?”

“I care about doing my job correctly.”

“That wasn’t what you said.”

“No,” she admitted. “It wasn’t.”

He took a step toward her.

Her instincts told her to retreat. She ignored them, tightening her grip on the tablet.

“I don’t need another person telling me what I should care about,” he said quietly.

“Then we’re in agreement. I’m not here to tell you what to care about. I’m here to make sure you know where you need to be and when.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Then he laughed without a trace of humor.

“You think you can handle me?”

“No. I think I can handle a schedule.”

Something shifted in his expression. For half a second, he seemed unsure whether to be offended or amused.

He settled on offended.

“Twenty minutes. Fix it.”

“I need twenty-three.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“The photographer hasn’t confirmed, and I need to call the sound engineer. Twenty-three minutes gives me time to make sure the schedule works instead of pretending it does.”

“You’re going to regret this job.”

“Possibly. But at least I’ll regret it with an accurate calendar.”

Martin coughed into his fist.

Knox looked unimpressed.

“Get out.”

Gwen turned toward the door, but a photograph caught her eye. Tucked behind a bottle of cologne, it showed four younger men standing on a stage much smaller than the one waiting for them tonight. Their clothes were ordinary, their hair messier, and their smiles looked genuine.

Knox stood in the middle, one arm around Flynn, his head tipped back in laughter.

He looked happy.

Not the practiced grin she’d seen in interviews. Not the crooked smirk on magazine covers.

Happy.

Knox stepped between her and the photograph.

“Something interesting?”

“No.”

“Then stop looking at my things.”

She nodded and walked out.

The door slammed behind her.

This time, nothing crashed.

The other three members of Wicked Mercy waited in the lounge down the hall.

Flynn sprawled across a leather sofa, one boot propped on the coffee table. His dark-blond hair was artfully messy, and his grin suggested he’d never met a boundary he didn’t want to flirt with.

“You’re the new assistant?”

“Gwen.”

“Flynn.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’d stand, but I’m afraid it would ruin the mystery.”

“Tragic. I was hoping for a dramatic entrance.”

He laughed. “I like you.”

“Give it twenty minutes,” Martin muttered.

Flynn pointed at him. “See? We’re very welcoming here.”

Jude, the bassist, barely looked up from his phone. Quiet and composed, he had the steady presence of someone accustomed to managing chaos without contributing to it.

“Sorry about Knox,” he said.

“Don’t apologize for him,” Flynn said. “He’d hate that.”

“I was apologizing to her.”

Jude’s phone buzzed. His expression softened as he glanced at the message and typed a reply. Gwen caught the name Mara on his screen before he turned it facedown.

The third member stood near the vending machines, arms crossed. Silas, the drummer, looked permanently two seconds away from starting an argument.

“How long are we going to keep doing this?” he asked Martin.

“Not now, Silas.”

“When, then?”

Flynn sat up. “Maybe not in front of the new girl?”

“Why? She should know what she’s walking into.”

Silas looked toward Knox’s dressing room.

“How many people have to quit before someone admits there’s a problem?”

No one answered.

Jude lowered his phone. Flynn’s smile vanished. Martin looked exhausted.

Gwen felt as though she’d stumbled into a conversation that had been happening for years. Whatever was wrong with Knox wasn’t exactly a secret. It was more like an open wound everyone had agreed not to touch.

“We have a show tonight,” Martin finally said. “We are not doing this here.”

“Right. Because there’s always a show.”

Silas walked away.

Flynn watched him go, then turned back to Gwen with a smile that returned a little too quickly.

“Welcome to Wicked Mercy.”

“Is it always this cheerful?”

“Only on weekdays.”

“Today’s Saturday.”

“Then you’re getting the deluxe experience.”

Gwen laughed despite herself.

These men knew one another’s worst habits. They anticipated reactions, finished sentences, and stepped in before arguments could become something worse. But there were limits to their familiarity, and Gwen suspected those limits had something to do with Knox.

When his dressing-room door opened, the conversation stopped.

He emerged in a fresh black shirt, phone in hand, looking as though the last five minutes had never happened.

“Martin.”

“Your interview is in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten.”

“You can’t just—”

“Ten.”

Martin closed his eyes briefly.

Gwen checked her tablet. “It’s possible if the publicist agrees to shorten the introduction.”

Knox looked at her.

“I’m checking now,” she added.

“Then check faster.”

“I’ll try to bend the laws of telecommunications for you.”

Flynn choked on a laugh.

Knox silenced him with a look before turning back to Gwen.

“You always have something to say?”

“Only when someone asks me a question.”

“I didn’t ask you a question.”

“Then you’re getting free commentary.”

For one dangerous second, she thought he might smile.

Instead, his expression went cold.

“Twenty-three minutes. Prove you’re worth the trouble.”

He walked away.

Flynn leaned toward her. “Just so you know, that was practically a marriage proposal by Knox standards.”

“Does he usually propose by threatening people?”

“Only the ones he likes.”

Jude gave him a flat look. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m encouraging survival.”

Gwen returned to her schedule and started making calls.

She could manage an impossible calendar, navigate difficult personalities, and keep a rock star from destroying his own career. She could be professional, patient, and firm without letting someone else’s temper dictate her behavior.

What she couldn’t understand was why three men who clearly cared about Knox seemed so accustomed to watching him tear himself apart.

She thought about the photograph. The younger version of him, laughing with his friends, looking like a man who hadn’t yet learned to expect the worst from everyone around him.

Everyone here knew how to survive Knox.

Nobody seemed to know how to reach him.

Gwen opened her contacts, determined to make the first of many difficult phone calls. She had no intention of becoming another assistant who ran away.

But as she glanced toward the hallway where Knox had disappeared, one question stayed with her.

What had happened to make a man so determined to destroy every good thing that came close to him?