Page 50 of Concerted Chaos

fifteen

Threedayslater,I move back to my own home. I’m healed enough that my mother’s fussing has started to become annoying and anyway, Brixley is coming out to check on me. She’s not being totally altruistic; she’s doing her monthly hide-from-the-media while she’s on her period. Something about a bloated belly and not wanting pregnancy speculation.

I’m excited about her visit, our first chance to spend time together since right after Jace’s funeral. She and I have been close friends ever since she was cast as Love Interest #1 in a Last Barons video many years ago. The two of us (me being cast as Girl in Crowd, second row) hit it off on set. Not as well as she and Devon did, of course. While it wasn’t quite insta-love, the two of them have built an amazing relationship based on mutual respect, a desire for privacy, and a shared love of esoteric knowledge. Seriously. Those two beautiful nerds set up their media room so they can watch all of the lectures the Massachusetts Institute of Technology makes available via their online OpenCourse. That’s what they do for fun.

So maybe Brix and I don’t have that much in common, but we enjoy each other’s company.

“I brought you magic scar remover,” she says when she breezes in, handing me a bag from a company with a name I can’t pronounce. “All the girls swear by it. And so does my dermatologist.” Her dermatologist is actually her father, and back when she was Brianna Oxley, she planned to follow in his footsteps, dreaming of medical school and one day examining other people’s disgusting skin conditions. But on a fateful afternoon when she was fourteen, she went to the mall and was discovered. That’s right, at the age when the rest of us are gawky and knock-kneed, with zits and braces, she was so beautiful that a talent scout chased her, pressed his card upon her, and begged her to let him call her parents right then and there. If she had kept walking, she would have led a vastly different life.

“Tell your dad I appreciate it,” I say, accepting the gift. She’s right, I will have terrible scarring on my arms if I don’t take care of them properly. Right now my beauty regimen is aloe vera gel and avoiding the sun.

Brixley has been traveling for almost a full day, and is exhausted, so we head out to lounge poolside. I put on sunscreen to protect my fragile new skin. Brix is not only wearing SPF 80, she’s also fully dressed in a loose long-sleeved shirt and pants. And she’s hiding under a huge sun hat, even though we are in the shade. Her pale skin is integral to her “look,” so she can’t risk adding any color to it, especially with an upcoming shoot for a multi-page swimsuit spread.

As we’re out here, my phone beeps, signaling someone ringing the doorbell. There is exactly one person who has developed a bad habit of dropping by unannounced, and there is exactly one person who has somehow managed to consistently convince the security guard at the gate to grant him access.

“What are you doing, Tanner?” I ask through the intercom. I love this app, I didn’t even have to get up from my chair.

“I need a favor. Can I come in?”

Of course he needs a favor, and since he did save my life recently, I’ll indulge him. “Fine, walk around to the back, we’re at the pool.”

“Who was that?” Brixley asks.

“Be warned, it’s our local pap.”

“I thought this was a safe place,” Brixley sighs, adjusting her hat and licking her lips to make them shiny. I feel sorry for her sometimes. She always has to be on.

“I thought so too, but Omaha has been surprisingly lax where Tanner is concerned.”

“Don’t be too mad. Omaha is trying to be helpful. He warned me about the government spy satellites overhead. And have you heard his thoughts on chemtrails?”

“Yeah, those are part of his latest conspiracy. And don’t worry about Tanner. He’s at least courteous. He won’t shoot you without asking permission.”

Tanner comes around the side of the house. He’s wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. That’s a positive sign—he must not be having as many problems with the cactus spines if he’s willing to expose his forearms.

“Sorry, I wasn’t aware you had company,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine. Tanner, meet Brixley.”

His eyes widen when he recognizes her famous face. “Wow! I know who you are. Graham Baxter photographed you with a Siberian Tiger.”

“Yes, I remember that,” she says coolly. She doesn’t respond kindly to fans fawning over her. Aloof is the defining characteristic of her public persona.

“Wow,” he repeats, awed. “That shot was iconic. I was lucky enough to see it full sized in a gallery. What that man can do with natural light is amazing. He’s my idol. Cass, you should check out his work, he doesn’t use any digital manipulation whatsoever. Do you know the one I’m talking about? I aspire to achieve that level of magic.”

Um, yeah, I’m familiar with the photo. It is, as he said, iconic. Everybody in the world has seen Brixley, in all her pale glory, with a live—but tranquilized—Siberian tiger covering up all the naughty bits. Besides, I happened to be there for the shoot, while visiting Brix for a mini vacay. I’m most amused by Tanner’s enthusiasm. Only he would be so focused on the photographer and not the supermodel right in front of him.

“It’s famous, obviously I know it. Tanner, why are you here?”

“Oh, yeah,” he recovers from his excitement at meeting someone who worked with the great Graham Baxter. “I need a huge favor. There’s this contest I want to enter...”

“Powell’s not here.”

“It’s got nothing to do with him.”

“What do you want a photo of this time?” I ask, in a long-suffering voice.

He looks confused. “What? No, not that kind of contest. You know the Rusty Mug, the bar I like?”

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