Page 14 of Concerted Chaos

“Yeah, I probably was. Cassidy, I might have murdered Jace. And those poor videographers.”

“No! Don’t ever say that! Some homicidal maniac murdered them.”

“But Cass, if I had called someone and told them I wasn’t coming, maybe the crash wouldn’t have happened. Maybe the killer wouldn’t have blown the helicopter up if he knew I wasn’t onboard.”

“Powell ...”

“This is all my fault. I killed Jace with one phone call. I should have been the one to go. It was my responsibility.” Powell has the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. Of course he would wish he’d gone instead of Jace. And of course he would take the guilt upon himself. But I was the one who made the call. I was the one who bartered with Jace to get him to go. This is my fault. But I have to set aside my emotions and be the strong one. Again.

I grab my brother’s shoulders and shake him gently. “No. You did nothing wrong. Don’t blame yourself for this.” My pep talk won’t be effective, but at least I tried. This situation was easier when we thought it was an accident. “Now, come on. Let’s go back out there. We need to tell the others.”

“You want to tell Devon that his best friend was murdered by some killer who was after me?” Powell looks positively ill at the thought, and truthfully, I feel the same way. This is worse than when I had to call Devon and tell him that Jace died. Finding out about the intentionality behind the explosion is far more trauma inducing.

“No, not really. But they’ll find out anyway. Better they hear it from us.” There are no secrets anymore, especially when practically the entire world is salivating for details about the great Jace’s death.

We return to the former Barons, who are still playing around with their instruments and talking softly.

The news is received terribly, which is not at all surprising. Devon runs from the room to throw up. Xander goes into defensive mode and he starts denying the possibility of any kind of sabotage against anyone. Mason is terrified and asks if the rest of the ex-band is in danger as well. He immediately calls his wife and tells her to increase their home security, as if they weren’t already surrounded by armed guards protecting images of the baby.

When Devon comes back from the bathroom, he goes straight to the wet bar and takes out a couple of bottles of Macallan 25. We’re going to drink to Jace tonight, and try to drink away the horror of knowing that there is a target on one or all of them.

I’m always careful when I drink. I never have more than two beverages, but Devon tends to overpour, and he likes to top off glasses before they’re finished, so perhaps I consumed more than I should have. I wake up with a mild hangover, but I’m not in as bad of shape as the others. The boys are all hurting.

Last night was awful. What started as toasting Jace and sharing memories became a night of four men trying to outdrink each other. And that’s never good for anyone involved.

At one point, we were outside by the pool, and Xander announced it was time to go skinny-dipping. And then he told me to go first. Of course, my drunken brother thought that was a good time to stand up for me.

“You will never see my sister naked!” Powell shouted directly in Xander’s face.

Xander doesn’t like being told no about anything, so he snidely informed Powell—and the rest of us—that he could have any woman he wanted, even me. Before I could vomit in disgust, Powell yelled, “Yeah, you can have her over my dead body,” and pushed him.

Xander immediately retaliated with “That’s the plan, asshole,” and shoved him right back.

And that’s when the party dissolved into a battle. Powell and Xander were tussling like clumsy toddlers who only know how to slap, while yelling and dredging up old grudges from all the way back to the day a magazine published a caption identifying them as Powell Corbitt and that secondary blond guy [name??] from The Last Barons of Sound. We all know that was an editing mistake, but Xander has always been convinced Powell’s people were behind it, and he’s never forgiven him.

When Mason tried to pull them apart, the scuffling men lost their balance, and all three fell into the pool. Fortunately, none of them had their phones in their pockets, but Xander’s dry-clean only clothes were apparently ruined, at least, according to his rants. I expect a bill will be sent to Powell, and it will be returned unpaid.

From the way everyone is holding their heads and stumbling this morning, they’re all regretting polishing off those bottles of scotch, and not just because of the petty pool debacle. Fortunately for us Devon has a plan and it’s not that hair-of-the-dog nonsense. No, instead two nurses show up with IV stands and electrolyte bags. I’ve never tried this before but given the pounding in my head and the residual disgust from some of Xander’s comments, I’ll do anything to restore my equilibrium.

We all sit in comfortable chairs, while the nurses go around and hook us each up. I’m not sure what we’re being infused with, other than saline. The woman setting mine up says “vitamins” but doesn’t go into detail.

“It’s fine, I did the research,” Brixley assures me. Had she not been a six-foot-three perfect specimen of grace and beauty, she would have gone to med school herself. She loves reading medical journals for fun, so I’ll trust her, especially since she confides that she’s done this before, multiple times. Apparently, this is a popular treatment among the celebrity hard partying crowd. Not that Brixley is normally part of that particular crowd, but sometimes fashion show after-parties get wild.

I shiver as the liquid begins to enter my veins, but then I close my eyes and relax. Forty-five minutes later, the bag is empty and I am reinvigorated, feeling better than I have in days. I’m energetic and ready for the enormous breakfast that was delivered while we de-hangovered ourselves. This isn’t bad at all. If they had a service like this back home in Scottsdale, Powell might have made his flight. That thought sobers me up even more. Powell was one bad hangover away from death.

“What’s everybody wearing to the funeral?” Xander asks over the meal. Everyone glares at him, including the omelet chef standing by the portable stove set up in the corner of the rather ornate dining room.

“Black,” Brixley answers for all of us.

“A tie,” Powell adds, unhelpfully.

“I may wear shoes, I haven’t decided yet,” Mason chimes in.

Devon just gets up and walks away, leaving his half-eaten breakfast behind. He’s suffering so much more than the rest of us. It’s not only the loss of his friendship, his career is also on the line. He never wanted to be a solo artist.

“What about you, Cass?” Xander asks because he is completely unable to read social cues.

“Don’t know,” I mutter. That’s a lie. I packed a somber black dress, the one I wore to a funeral last year, when my mom’s close friend lost her battle with cancer. Unlike the others in the room, I have no problem recycling clothes. I’m just going to be in the background of the publicity shots anyway. Powell’s bespoke suit is scheduled for delivery later today, and I bet Brixley called up one of her designer friends and they are frantically sewing at this very moment.

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