The Truth & Other Lies

Dear Hunter: From, Your Public Image

There's thirty seconds left in the first half and I'm up three to two. Biting down on my lower lip in concentration, I dribble the ball past two defenders and pause to size up my shooting options. My heart is racing, there's sweat dripping down my forehead and I can hear the crowd chanting my name. planting one foot on the ground, I swing the other foot back to shoot once I've planned out the ball's trajectory, following the arc of the ball through the air, over the head of the last defender and....and the television goes dark.

Jolting up straight on the couch, I fix a fiery glare on the exasperated middle aged man standing in front of the device he'd turned off seconds before. "Hey, I was about to score!"

"From what I hear, you've been doing quite a lot of scoring," Bennett, the band publicist, retorts, matching my glare with equal frost, his graying hair looking as though he'd spent a good portion of the last few hours tugging at it in exasperation. Which was probably the case, seeing as he has our band as a client.

I pretend I have no clue what he's talking about, tossing the video game controller to the side and slouching back into the couch, my ankles still crossed on the coffee table to my front. "What does that mean?"

He's not buying my innocent act, but he is prepared to counter it, tossing a tabloid in my lap and waiting for me to take in the front cover. The picture is just a candid of me exiting the hotel a few days ago, but it's the headline that probably has Bennett pulling his hair out.

Hunter Caldwell's Dirty Little Secret

"60 women in 60 days," I read off the subtext, thinking there's no way in hell anyone actually believes this shit, "Wow, they're giving me a lot of credit."

We've literally only been in the city for sixty days, trying to get all of the writing and recording for our next album done before we head out on tour for the current one because putting an album together while touring makes an experience which should be exhilarating completely exhausting. I'd have to work pretty fast for that headline to be true. It's amazing the kind of time and energy these people think I have.

Bennett sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "This isn't funny, Hunter."

"It's just a little funny," I offer, wanting to lighten the mood. Bennett has a way of sucking all the air out of a room when he's tense. Though I guess I can't really blame him. After all, his job is to make us look good and my apparent escapades around the city don't exactly make that easy. Even though the stories aren't true, it's still a headache for Bennett to handle.

He's having none of my attempts to be adorable, his gaze, if possible, becoming even more steely. "It's a PR nightmare, is what it is."

"That magazine is trash and you know the article is bullshit," I point out, tossing the magazine to the side to emphasize my opinion. I give zero fucks about what some gossip rag says about me. The majority of their headlines are entirely made up just to pull in readers. I know what's real and that's all that matters.

He's not convinced. "That may be true, but it doesn't mean this won't hurt your public image and in turn hurt the band's reputation. Do you have any idea how this makes you look?"

"Popular?" I suggest, knowing exactly where this conversation is headed.

"Like a womanizing asshole," Bennett shoots back, not bothering to spare my feelings. And why should he? He's right.

"Fine," I sigh, giving in. Because maybe there's a change Bennett actually does know what's best for me. "What do you want me to do about it?"

All joking aside, I know the situation is serious. Because as much as I don't give a rat's ass about my own public image, I realize that eventually, everything written about me in the tabloids will start to affect the band's reputation, and if there's one thing I will never do, it's put my best friends' dreams in jeopardy.