Page 10 of Concerted Chaos

Admittedly, the kiss was prim, a soft gentle pressing of his lips on mine, and nothing like the full-on with tongue make-out sessions happening on either side of us. I staggered off stage all dreamy eyed, to find my mom and Hank in an angry argument with a producer, the one who had accidentally grabbed the wrong ‘brown-haired girl standing over there.’ They were furious, with Hank repeatedly shouting “She is fifteen years old! Fifteen!” I was afraid my stepdad was going to punch the poor guy.

But I didn’t care about the backstage argument, I was literally floating. That moment onstage has always been burned into my memory, Jace’s eyes widening in surprise and his little half-smile before he cupped my face in his hands and leaned in for that precious tender moment. First, it served as fuel for many teenage fantasies and later, after his heartbreaking rejection of me, I would recall it with bitter-edged wistfulness. My crush terminated rather painfully but we eventually became close friends, and on that level, I truly cared about him.

How can he be gone? I just saw him two weeks ago when he flew out here to celebrate my birthday. I talked to him this morning. I can’t believe that was our last phone call, the last time I’ll ever speak with him. And I can’t help but direct a smidgen of anger and resentment toward both myself and Powell. My brother was the one who said Xander was worthless and suggested we call Jace. I should have ignored him and called Xander anyway. While Xander might not be a fan of Powell, he’s always willing to step up and do favors for me. He definitely would have filled in for him in an attempt to earn brownie points.

Of course, those thoughts make me feel like a horrifically bad person. Who am I to wish I had the power to trade deaths? Obviously, had I known the chopper would crash, I wouldn’t have sent anyone up in it. And yes, Xander is an irritation, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die. But Jace ... Jace deserved to live forever. Or at least longer than thirty-three years.

I open my laptop and start bringing up news articles. All the coverage of Powell’s death has been replaced. Tanner’s photo of my brother is everywhere, accompanying bios of Jace, memorials to Jace, and of course, news “analysis” about the crash. It mostly consists of reporters interviewing random experts who have neither investigated nor seen the crash site speculating about the cause. I don’t want to read about that. I’d rather remember my friend as he was in the last photo he sent Powell, smiling and happy. I don’t want to wonder how long he lived. Did he burn to death, or die of massive head trauma? Did the helicopter explode, as some witnesses seemed to suggest, killing him instantly, or did it crash to earth, giving him seconds to realize his own mortality before the end?

I put my head down on my desk. Sometimes I wish I could cry, really cry, just weep all the pain away. But I physically can’t. I used up every sob in my body when I threw myself into the grave at my father’s funeral, pounding on the casket and screaming and begging him to wake up. That was the last time I was actually capable of crying. Still, though, despite my inability to outwardly show the trauma I’m feeling, I need a moment to myself to do some private mourning before I drag myself back to playing the part of the gracious hostess who keeps everything under control.

I never heard my bedroom door open, but there are suddenly hands massaging my shoulders and a voice far too close to my ear whispering, “There, there, let it out. I’m here for you.” There’s no need to guess who it is, his pungency gives him away.

“Xander, stop,” I say as I shrug his unwelcome hands off me.

“I understand. Jace was your first love.” He sits down, uninvited, on my bed. Great. Now on top of everything else, I’m going to have to change my sheets tonight.

“First crush, not first love,” I correct. Technically, I’ve never had a first love. It’s not like I’m completely inexperienced or anything, I’m just not one for relationships. Fantasy fueled crushes, sure. Occasional flings, yes. But falling in love? Not for me.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend isn’t here to console you,” he says, glaring in the general direction of the rest of the house.

“Boyfriend?” If this is a sleazy joke about Powell, I am going to punch him in his snide mouth.

“The man with the camera. I didn’t think you liked paps.” Apparently, he finally identified Tanner’s unfortunate career choice. Bodyguard, indeed.

“He’s not my boyfriend. I’ve known him for less than a day,” I respond.

“Let me guess. You picked him up at a bar last night, and he hasn’t left yet. No wonder you didn’t answer your phone all afternoon.” Jealousy is not an attractive look on Xander, nor is it merited for a myriad of reasons. And not that it’s any of his business, but I have never picked up a guy in a bar and brought him home. Never. That’s not to say I’ve never had one-night stands. But not with someone I don’t already know well enough to be sure they aren’t using me to gain access to my brother. I made that mistake a couple of times when I was younger, but I learned my lesson and I’ll never do it again. I don’t like being used.

“He’s a photographer, nothing more. He’s doing a job. And I didn’t answer because Powell and I were having a relaxing, technology-free day. If we had realized what happened, we would have dealt with it much earlier.” By my calculations, Powell was dead to the world for about four hours. Tribute sites sprang up everywhere. I read his obituary.

“I don’t trust him,” Xander says. “He’s after something. Here, come sit with me.” He pats the bed next to him, a gesture that I’m sure has worked on hundreds of women. He is, after all, a former member of the Last Barons of Sound, legendary boyband. But I don’t move. I’m not falling for that.

“You don’t have to trust him. I don’t either.” That may be the one thing Xander and I will ever agree on. “But we needed someone, and he was in the right place at the right time.”

“Unlike Jace,” Xander mutters, and then falls over backward on my mattress. Gross. Xander is laying on my bed. And he is crying. I can’t tell if he’s making a ploy for sympathy or if his wailing is genuine. “Jace was my best friend,” Xander sobs.

Maybe that is true. But he wasn’t Jace’s best friend. Jace believed in loyalty and was very tolerant of Xander, as were the rest of the Last Barons. But I’m not sure any of them liked Xander much. Sometimes people are part of our lives by choice, and sometimes by historical ties and record label contracts.

Despite my disgust and distrust of him, I’m certain Xander’s pain is real, even if the tears probably aren’t. But I don’t want to be the one who helps him through it. I’m doing enough of that for Powell. I can’t take on someone else’s emotional load too. It’s time to get Xander out of here and away from me.

“Have you talked to Devon yet?” I ask. Xander stops crying almost instantaneously, proving that he was exaggerating his distress to garner sympathy.

“No, but I should. When I heard Powell was dead, you were my immediate priority. I’d do anything for you, Cass.” He reaches for me, but I manage to evade his grasp. He likely spent the entire flight on his private jet gloating about Powell and fantasizing about exactly how to comfort me, and I can only imagine it involved sex. His desires have always been transparent. I can’t help but think he only wants me because I always turn him down. He’s not used to rejection.

“You should go outside and call him.” I’m not being mean; I’m positive Devon switched his phone to silent, so it won’t be an annoyance. I would have told him to check in with Mason, but Mason’s wife is literally giving birth right now, and his assistant is fielding his calls. I don’t want his poor assistant getting yelled at by Xander.

“Let’s call him together,” Xander suggests, pulling out his phone. Yuck, no. I’m not putting my face close enough to his to share a call. I’m rather disgusted with the way he’s acting tonight. I realize death sometimes brings out life-affirming horniness in survivors but he doesn’t need to be so transparently desperate.

“No. Please get out of my room.” I open the door that he had the nerve to shut and lock behind himself and gesture through it, urging him to leave. He doesn’t move. “Seriously, I want some privacy now. Get out.” With Xander you have to be firm. But he still ignores me. I can’t leave while he’s in here—I don’t trust him not to go through my underwear drawer.

I finally give up and text Powell, telling him I need help, but it’s Tanner who appears. He looks at us both, assesses the situation, and promptly demonstrates his remarkable skills at reading a room.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, but not to me. “I want to take some photos for the press. Would you mind coming out and sitting with Powell?”

Xander jumps up so fast he creates a breeze of cologne. “Let me stop in the bathroom to fix my hair.” He sweeps past Tanner and down the hall, thankfully not trying to use my attached bathroom. I don’t have enough disinfectant for that.

Tanner grins and an adorable dimple appears in his left cheek. “I knew that would work.”

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