Page 42 of Concerted Chaos

I’ve never regretted anything more than I regret staying in Powell’s hotel room that night. Not that I had a choice. He was babysitting my drunken self, rescuing me from my own stupidity. It was the same night I decided I was ready, willing, and able to lose my virginity and tried to hand my v-card to be stamped by the oh-so-hot Jace Monroe. And after he rejected me and broke my heart, I reassessed my plans for the night and gave up the virgin drinks instead.

I remember nearly passing out on a couch and creepy Xander suggesting he could take care of me. And then Powell came from out of nowhere, punched him in the face—Xander’s black eye was a huge hassle for the makeup artist—scooped me in his arms and carried me away. He took me to his room, cared for me as I was sick, gently wiped the vomit from my face and held me as I shook with embarrassment. My brother softly soothed me and assured me that I was beautiful no matter how snidely Jace had laughed, no matter how cruelly he had mocked my advances.

That entire article was based upon Powell being seen carrying my barely conscious body away from the post-show party and me being spotted sneaking out of his room the following morning, still in my clothes from the night before. Some made-up source claimed Powell bragged about it, with the falsest quotes I’ve ever heard. I guarantee my brother has never used the term “deflowering” in his life, and he’s never been one to kiss and tell. Or cheat, and he had a girlfriend at the time. But I was still forced to submit to an exam as part of the proof for both the lawsuit and a criminal investigation against my brother. The first person to ever touch my private parts was a sexual assault nurse examiner. While she was very professional and considerate, it was still traumatizing, and made worse by the fact that all of the “evidence” had to be handed over to the opposing party. My suffering earned us our eventual settlement and the destruction of that awful lying tabloid.

But I’m not going to share any of those details for this investigation. I’m not going to talk about the way Jace looked at my naked teenage body when he found me waiting in his room, or the way his words, go home, little girl, you think I’d be interested in a child? seared into my soul. How I was questioned afterward about my drinking as though my drunkenness was an ongoing problem, rather than a first-time event. How Powell was my rock through that whole time, even while dealing with the tarnish to his golden image in the media, constantly having to defend himself and my overnight presence in his hotel room.

Benítez stares at me as though she’s analyzing my response and waiting for more. She’s using silence to try to make me uncomfortable so I start babbling and accidentally reveal all my secrets. Unfortunately for her, that won’t work on me. I’m comfortable with silence.

“Did the rest of the band believe the rumors?” she finally asks, when it becomes obvious I’m not going to offer any further details.

“Of course not! They knew both of us. Mason was there the night it supposedly happened. He was deposed—is that the right word? Depositioned? Whatever they call those interviews to gather evidence.” He was the one who gleefully provided me with the alcohol and laughed at my increasing intoxication. Mason’s involvement didn’t damage his wild-child reputation. If anything, it enhanced it.

“What about Jace?”

“Jace was aware that the tabloid story wasn’t true,” I say. “They all were, Jace, Devon, Xander. How does that old rumor have anything to do with what’s going on now?”

“I’m just trying to cover everything. That was the most negative publicity he ever got, and my understanding is that it led to the break-up of the Last Barons.”

“No, they broke up two years later, and only because they were all ready to move on. Boybands don’t last forever. You have to go out on a high note and start solo careers while still on top. It was a marketing decision, really.” Marketing, and a tiny bit of animosity and jealousy developing amongst the singers. But that had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Xander and his desperate need for attention.

“Did any of the other band members have enemies?”

“Probably. Ask them,” I say. How should I know? I didn’t even know Powell did and I live with the guy. I’m still not certain that he does. Although I suppose he must if someone is trying to kill him. Good friends and admirers don’t do that sort of thing.

“We’re wondering if they’ve been targeted as a group,” Benítez says. She leans forward. “Is there anyone you can think of with a collective hatred for them?”

“You think the bomb was just the start?” If I’m understanding correctly, she means Powell wasn’t targeted for himself, he was the first of five. The bomber might have been thrilled to kill Jace and is now going after the others as well.

“It’s possible. It’s possible the mastermind behind the attack only knew about the presence of a Last Baron on the flight without knowing which one.” That makes sense; it was booked by their production company. We already know Jace wasn’t the intended victim, since the only ones who knew he was there were me, Powell, and the people who died with him.

“Have you contacted the others?” My immediate concern is for Mason. He has a brand-new baby, he needs to be aware of the threat. And Devon is off “finding himself” somewhere isolated, so he’s an easy target, for anyone who can afford the travel. I’m fairly certain isolated refers to a private tropical island.

“They’re being interviewed as well. And they have their own security teams.”

When my interview concludes, I am invited to join Powell’s. We spend hours with Agent Johnson, combing through his mentions on every social media site and cataloging the haters and trolls making nasty comments. Nobody jumps out as the sort of person who would plant a bomb on a helicopter. In the weeks leading up to the bombing, most chatter about him was whether he’d bring back his signature Last Barons haircut for the reunion concert (No! No, he will not! That style is dead and buried and should never be brought back).

And whoever it is can’t be someone we know in real life—we certainly don’t know anyone capable of making any kind of explosive, or even learning how to do it. Honestly, Powell’s friends aren’t all that internet savvy. They can post on social media, because keeping in the public eye is part of their jobs, but they can’t access the dark web and learn how to make things explode. They lack the skills, and hopefully, the inclination.

“He thought it was a bug,” Powell says, hanging up the phone. I’m sitting in the kitchen eating an unfamiliar pasta dishJoel left in the fridge. I freeze with my next bite halfway to my mouth. A bug? Is he talking about this food? Last time he was over, our chef did tell me some long story about the health benefits of meal worms.

“I thought it was a mushroom.” I carefully examine the brown bits on the tines of my fork. It looks like a mushroom. Joel knows I’m a vegetarian, and bugs should count as meat.

“No, the mechanic.”

“What mechanic?” Sometimes I have to pry details from him. Powell lives in his head most of the time, so he has a bad habit of continuing conversations that I wasn’t a part of.

“The helicopter mechanic.” Powell sighs impatiently. “The guy who attached the bomb to the console? Remember?”

“Of course I remember his existence, but you need to use details in your stories if you expect people to understand what you’re talking about. You have a personal mechanic, too.”

“Yeah, and did I tell you he said he may have found a way to ... never mind, car talk.” I guess he noticed my eyes glazing over. “Anyway, like I was saying, the helicopter mechanic. He was paid to place the bomb, but he thought he was installing a listening device from some gossip magazine. He did it for the money, obviously, but he had no idea anybody would die.”

“How do you know?” I ask through gritted teeth. I wish there were a way to teach Powell how to start stories from the beginning. It would save a lot of time and questions.

“That was Agent Johnson who called. She said they interviewed the guy’s wife. He confessed to her after Jace died. He was trying to decide what to do. He wanted to come forward and help the investigation, but she encouraged him not to, because she was afraid he would go to jail. Then two days later, he was killed in a carjacking.”

“That’s not a coincidence, is it?” This situation is getting scarier. Carjacking is a more hands-on type of murder.

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