Page 1 of Concerted Chaos

one

There’sastrangerin my shrubbery.

That’s unusual.

Not his presence, per se. People do creep around in the bushes often; that’s why we have so many security cameras. And that’s why we have several large prickly pears and one side of the property is lined with jumping cholla. I almost always recognize the trespassers though, and either chase them away or invite them in for coffee, depending on what they’re after and how willing my brother is to give it to them.

This one’s a stranger. Could be a stalker. Could be a super fan. But given the size of the lens on this guy’s camera, I’m guessing paparazzo. And I’m guessing he’s new since I didn’t get a text first. Most of them are polite, partly because they know if they stay on my good side, I might call in tips.

It’s been five hours since the security system alerted me to his presence, and he’s still there, shifting around uncomfortably behind the oleander. That’s a foolish risk—he picked a place where we have sprinklers. I could turn them on and roust him that way, possibly damaging his camera equipment in the process.

But I think instead we should have a little chat. I’ll clear him out in person.

As soon as I open the door, I catch sight of movement—he’s spotted me. Sunlight glints off his massive lens. Wait, what? He’s taking my picture? Oh, this guy is definitely an amateur. He’s shooting the wrong person.

I was planning to send him away with his dignity intact, but if he’s going to take photos of me, I’m going to pose. Let someone else tell him his mistake—like whoever hired him. That’s not going to go well.

I redirect my path and instead of a casual conversation through the fence—a conversation peppered with words like police and restraining order—I head toward the Porsche I parked in the middle of the driveway last night. Surely I left something in there I need to retrieve. His lens follows me.

That’s right, camera jockey, watch me unlock this car door. Check out how sexily I get . . . nothing. I keep my car clean; there’s nothing to grab. Oh well, he’s not going to care about what is or is not in my hands. Am I tossing my hair provocatively? Putting my finest asset on display? Yes, I am. And this guy is loving it. He’s not even trying to hide now. He’s standing, openly grinning as he keeps snapping away. I throw a few more poses.

“Get everything you need?” I call out, and he has the audacity to wink.

“What’s your name?” he asks, confirming my belief that he has no idea what he’s doing and is about to make some gossip column editor very unhappy. My response is a blown kiss. I feel his eyes on me as I sashay my way back to the house. Enjoy watching me walk away.

It only takes half an hour for my phone to ring. The display shows the office of Hot News Now, one of the sleazy gossip sites. Ha! That’s exactly the type of scumbag I expected.

“Cassidy Blaine-Corbitt, how dare you!” the head editor’s voice shouts in my ear.

“Good morning to you, too, Eduardo. How dare I what?” I ask in my most innocent tone.

“Why are you wasting my photographer’s time?” He’s angry and aggrieved, but he shouldn’t be; he only pays for the pictures he wants. He’s not out any money on Oleander Man.

“I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was merely minding my own business, on my own property . . .”

“You knew I couldn’t use any of those pictures!” He’s slightly out of breath, so he must be pacing circles in his tiny office as he shouts into the speaker phone. Serves him right.

“That’s what you get for sending some rookie who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Next time send someone with a basic knowledge of his quarry.”

“Actually the problem is my tip line. Someone said they saw Powell Corbitt leaving a bar, drunk, with a hot brunette. How was I supposed to know they meant you?”

“Don’t say ‘you’ so derisively. I am a hot brunette, thank you very much. You know my brother’s not a cheater. And even if he were stupid enough to cheat on Zahna, he certainly wouldn’t do it where nosy bystanders could see him. If there were anything worth reporting, it would have been leaked to you and you’d have had the opportunity to acquire some tasteful candids. I don’t appreciate you sending some stranger to sneak around in our bushes.”

That’s a complete lie. Not about my brother; he’s not a cheater, ever. But calling Eduardo with a tip? Lie! I do leak tips on a regular basis, usually at the insistence of my brother’s publicist. Unfortunately for Eduardo and his website, he got himself bumped to the bottom of my list of gossipmongers deserving access to free information when he drunkenly groped my ass at an industry event two months ago. I don’t forgive easily, and I never forget.

“Stop dying your hair. You’re messing with my people,” Eduardo snaps. This attitude is getting him bumped even further down. I’m going to leak to the Home Shopping Network before I call him again.

“I’m a natural brunette, always have been. And I’m not going to run it past you anytime I want to add or remove highlights. My face hasn’t changed. Hire better vultures.” I hang up before he can say anything else.

“Who was that?” Powell’s muffled voice comes from under a blanket. He is curled up in an armchair, covered almost entirely. Some of his famed golden hair peeks through a tiny opening, and even that looks wretched. My brother is not much of a drinker, so his binge last night is hurting him badly. He hasn’t moved since I dropped him in that living room chair when we got home last night. I’m strong, but not strong enough to carry a full-grown adult man all the way to his bedroom, especially when he’s whining and protesting. Alcohol makes Powell regress to toddlerhood. I probably should have offered him a binky when I got him a blankie.

“Eduardo. He sent a new guy and got about a thousand shots of me,” I say, hoping to make him laugh. No luck. A strange groaning sound emits from his blanket cocoon. “You’re going to have to come out soon, you know.”

“I live inside here now.”

This situation requires gentleness and coddling, two things I’m not usually good at. “Powell,” I say cajolingly. “I’ll make you coffee.”

“This is the worst,” he complains, still muffled by his coverings.

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