Page 2 of Concerted Chaos

“The hangover?” I can imagine. When I received a middle of the night phone call from Powell’s favorite bar, I knew he was in trouble. He’s lucky they helped him to a back room and called me. I snuck him out to the car, hoping no flashbulbs would go off. Apparently, based on the lurker in the oleander, someone did see, but not well enough to identify that it was merely his little sister taking him home.

“All of it. I’m getting dumped. I hate it.”

Notice he said he’s getting dumped? Like it’s not a completed action? That’s because celebrity relationships take more work to end. If I ever had a boyfriend, I could easily tell him it was over and walk away. Powell can’t do the same. The publicists have to discuss the situation and select the optimum time. Then they have to craft a heartfelt joint statement with cheesy phrases about growing apart and still having the utmost respect for each other. This must be followed by a carefully managed public image campaign, determining what emotion the breakup should have evoked and then playing it up in the media. Should he be heartbroken? Relieved? Moving on immediately? Should he go out partying with his friends, or should he stay out of the spotlight as he wallows? It’s complicated.

“Have you called Miriam yet?” His publicist is fantastic. If he hasn’t called her, I should. She’s an expert at public breakups, breakdowns, and any other possible celebrity breakages.

“I texted her last night. She wondered if we could hold off for a few months, until after the Last Barons reunion concert. But since Zahna is sleeping with a Czech race car driver, I’d rather not wait.”

“She always did like fast cars.” That’s the one thing he and the up-and-coming model had in common. They could talk cars all day long. There was nothing else of substance in her pretty little head though. And I’m not saying that because I’m dismissive of supermodels. My closest non-relative friend is Brixley. Yes, the Brixley: the internationally famous, globally worshiped beauty with an IQ in the stratosphere. There are plenty of highly intelligent individuals in the modeling biz. Just not Zahna.

“I’m going to have to find someone else now. Cass, I just want to get married and make a bunch of babies. Why can’t I meet a nice normal girl who wants that too?”

He finally pulls back the blanket to reveal his face. And I refrain from pointing out that his face is why he can’t find a nice normal girl. His face that appears on album covers and billboards. His recognizable face, attached to his objectively attractive body (yes, he’s my brother, but I’m mature enough to admit that others drool over him), and his impressive musical career. Not to mention all his money. Powell can’t meet a normal girl because he’s not a normal guy. But this is not the time to remind him.

“I’m sure you’ll produce dozens of gorgeous babies someday,” I assure him, certain that our parents will be extremely disappointed in him if he doesn’t provide them with at least a couple of grandchildren. “But let’s not focus on that right now. You’re scheduled to be getting on a plane in less than an hour.”

It’s a minor lie intended to convey urgency. He has three hours, in reality, but he also possesses a rich and famous person’s understanding of time—he believes it’s flexible and bends around him. Fine if he were traveling on a private jet, but he’s booked on a commercial flight. He’s going to be flying out to Los Angeles to participate in location scouting. The once beloved boyband Last Barons of Sound are getting back together to release a brand new video—something fans have spent the last nine years begging for—just before the long-awaited reunion concert. My brother is going to be spending the afternoon on a helicopter, searching the outskirts of LA for a wild and desolate—yet easily reached—filming spot. My only job this morning, aside from clearing paparazzi off the property, is to get him out the door and to Sky Harbor airport.

“Don’t make me go. I’m hungover and miserable,” he says with a pathetic expression marring his handsome face. “Deedee, I don’t wanna.”

I take sympathy on him. How could I not? He pulled out my childhood nickname, and I can’t resist that.

“Fine, I’ll make some calls. Does someone from the band have to go?”

“That was the agreement. We never book a video location without one of us approving the site. Remember the disaster when we were slated to film at a zoo and Xander had a meltdown?”

“He always has meltdowns. Who’s in Los Angeles at the moment?” I could probably check social media and find out myself. Mason isn’t; his baby is due any day now, so he’s holed up in his Mumbai villa impatiently waiting. Devon is always around, but his fear of flying is legendary.

“Besides Devon? Xander and Jace both should be. But Xander is worthless.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

So I call Jace. Jace Monroe, awarded the coveted World’s Sexiest Man title two years in a row, the hottest member of the former Last Barons, and current superstar from the duo JaDed (with his best friend Devon, Mr. Cries-on-planes-even-private-ones). Beyond being a sex symbol, he’s also my friend, and he’s generally willing to jump in and do favors, even last-minute ones like filling in for my hungover brother.

“Caaaaassidy,” Jace drawls when he answers. He has this way of stretching names out in his ridiculously sexy voice. Everything about him is sexy, except sometimes his personality. With a couple of rare exceptions—like my brother—most entertainers who shoot to stardom as teenagers end up as adults with a hefty degree of jerkiness and assholery. “I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” While I have no interest in Jace as anything other than a friend, still, his attention is like the sun. When you stand in his spotlight, you are delighted, and grateful, and oh so warm, and then he looks elsewhere. The light fades, and you are left cold and alone.

“I was. I was thinking to myself, hmmmm, only a dozen people have my personal number, and which one of them is monstrous enough to call me this early in the morning? Of course your beautiful face immediately popped to mind.”

“Haha. This is important. How would you like to go on a helicopter ride?” I say it with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, as if that will trick him into thinking it’s an exciting adventure rather than work. Yes, I’m trying to manipulate him like I would a child, but if it works on Powell, it should work on Jace, too.

“Maybe. First fill me in on the hot gossip. Rumor has it your brother was out hooking up last night. Trouble with his girlfriend?”

How on earth did he hear that, especially if I just woke him up?

“False, and I’ll let Powell share when he feels up to it. Meanwhile, are you in LA? He needs someone to cover him for the video location scouting today.”

“Mmmmmmmmm,” Jace hums as he ponders his willingness to assist. “Casssssidy, my sweet, I’ll do it. But you owe me one.”

“I owe you? Take it up with Powell.”

“No, you owe me. You’re going to be my date for the concert.”

“Absolutely not. I’ll be working.” I’ll be busy working backstage as Powell’s assistant, making sure everything is running smoothly and allergen-free. It’s the role I prefer anyway. Being on crew is way more fun than sitting in the audience. It’ll be like old times.

“Just show up at the after-parties on my arm. That’s all I ask.” His tone demonstrates his absolute confidence that I’m going to say yes.

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