Page 45 of Concerted Chaos

“No, eating in. We’ve already had the restaurant checked out.” Mike is not Powell’s only security goon, he’s just the only one visible at all times.

“Which car did you drive?”

“The Phantom Drophead Coupe.”

I blink at him, like I don’t recognize the name. It always irritates him when I act like I can’t tell his many vehiclesapart.

He sighs deeply, annoyed at my disinterest in his hobbies. “The blue Rolls-Royce convertible that you call a pretentious land yacht but everybody else likes it.”

“Oh, that one. Sure, as long as Mike is doing the driving. Wait, why are we trading? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Mike’s just paranoid. He thinks someone was following me.”

“So I should trick them into following me instead? You’re setting me up?”

“It’s not like that, I promise,” Mike assures me. “It’s a convertible, so you leave here with the top down, everyone knows it’s you. You won’t be followed.”

“But someone was following you earlier?” I press. This is scary for me, mainly because I love my brother and I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. But also, I don’t want to be collateral damage.

“I’m not sure,” Mike says. “I thought I saw someone, but it could have been a coincidence. None of my men spotted anything. You’ll be fine. I’ve got eyes on you, and you’re not a target.”

People keep saying that, but it doesn’t mean I’m not at risk. Whatever, I’ll have Tanner with me. Not that he’s some kind of bodyguard, but he’s very obviously not Powell. And he’ll stand up for me if anyone confronts us. It might have been a harmless stalker following them earlier anyway. One of the legions of female fans hoping to engineer a meet-cute and make Powell fall in love at first sight. That happens more often than one might expect. The attempt, that is. Bumping into a rich and famous person and having them instantaneously fall in love with you is limited to romantic fiction.

Tanner is waiting for me in the parking lot. He cleans up nicely, though his hair is doing its own thing, as usual. He waves and asks where my car is. I point and click the key fob to make it flash its headlights at us, and his jaw drops.

“You traded up.”

“It’s Powell’s.”

“Can I drive?”

“Nope.” We get in, and I lower the top for the benefit of the potential stalker. Tanner touches everything, runs his hands over the leather seats, starts hitting buttons. I watch in amusement. “What are you, a five-year-old?”

“This is the fanciest car I’ve ever been in,” he says, almost in awe. Any second now I expect him to pull out his phone and start taking selfiesfor his SwiftaPic followers, but he doesn’t.

Since he’s so impressed and the bar we’re going to is so close, we decide to go for a short drive first, a scenic detour. We head toward the mountains, music playing, wind in our hair. It’s a perfect evening for a drive like this.

“I can’t believe Powell works on his own vehicles.” Tanner slides his fingers over the dashboard reverently. I didn’t realize he was such a car guy.

“He doesn’t.” I can’t imagine Powell getting his hands dirty. He loves washing his cars, he’ll spend an entire weekend doing that, shirtless, of course. But when it comes to tinkering with their internal engine bits, he uses the mechanic he keeps on call. He likes to watch over the mechanic’s shoulder and talk about what the guy is doing, but he doesn’t dare assist. My brother is paranoid that heavy metal bits might slip and break his fingers, which would destroy his piano and guitar playing.

“That wasn’t him?”

“Who?”

“I saw someone’s legs under this car in the parking lot earlier tonight. I assumed it was someone fixing something or checking out the engine.”

His words set off alarm bells in my mind. I pull over so fast the brakes squeal, which may get me in trouble with my brother, but he’s the least of my concerns right now.

“Get out.”

“What? Why, what’d I say?”

“Just get out of the car, now.” I’ve already undone my seatbelt and grabbed my purse. “Now, Tanner.”

I’m out the door and walking away quickly, pulling my phone out to call Powell when I hear the pounding footsteps of Tanner running after me.

“What’s going on? Cassidy?” He grabs my shoulder, but I ignore him.

“Powell!” I shout as soon as my brother answers. “Someone was messing with your car in the gym parking lot.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Let me put you on speaker.”

Mariachi music blares, followed by Mike’s voice.

“Cass? It’s Mike. Describe exactly what happened.”

“Tanner saw someone under the car back at the gym,” I tell them, and Mike starts to swear.

“Where are you? Where’s the car now?” Powell asks, but I can’t answer. I am blown off my feet by the explosion.

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