Page 52 of Concerted Chaos

“Watch your subscriber count go up,” Brixley tells Tanner. “If you make another batch and dip them in ganache, I’ll even post a selfie with you.”

Sure enough, Brixley’s offer provided the right incentive. Tanner disappears into the house and returns later with a fresh batch of ganache coated cookies. They are so decadent they almost make my toes curl and my eyes roll back in my head. If I believed in love, I would fall into it with a man who bakes cookies like these.

“Alright, you earned this,” Brix pulls out her selfie stick again and gestures for Tanner to get in with her. This could be huge for his career. He needs clients, and hanging out with a popular supermodel is a fantastic way to bring them in. If he has enough people hiring him for portraits, he won’t be forced to do contract work for the gossip blogs anymore.

“You too, Cass,” he tugs me over next to him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

So even though I hate having my picture taken for social media, I allow it. And then I eat two cookies, because I’m supposed to be taking care of myself, and chocolate has magical healing properties.

After Tanner leaves, Brix opens up her SwiftaPic feed to show me. Now with ganache! I think I’m in love! #nobodytellDevon @TannerTakesPics @CassBC

“Very nice,” I say, relieved I don’t have a ridiculous expression on my face, though as my friend, I’m sure she wouldn’t have posted it if I did.

“Look at Tanner,” Brixley encourages. “Do you see that?”

“See what?” I scan the image, hoping he has a glob of chocolate on his teeth. That would make me happy.

“See how his head is tilted toward you, not me? It’s an indication of interest, and it proves my theory that he’s totally into you.”

“Stop teasing me. He’s just a pap trying to stay on my good side so he can maintain access to my brother.”

“I think you’re wrong. You know what we should do? We should go to that bar tonight and help him win.”

“You actually want to go to a public place, without Devon? Or a bodyguard?”

She waves dismissively. “We’ll be fine. Your brother’s security constantly has eyes on you. Besides, if anything happens, Tanner will protect you.”

“He’s not as tough as you think,” I point out. If my body still aches from the explosion, I’m sure his does too. Especially since he sleeps in a van. That can’t be conducive to healing.

But somehow, I still let her talk me into it. Alright, tonight instead of curling up in the media room with a bottle of wine, we’re going to a bar cookie contest.

All the air gets sucked out of the Rusty Mug when we enter. Opening the door creates a vacuum effect that leads to everybody turning, staring, and getting pulled toward us with their mouths gaping open.

But Brixley is used to it. She ignores all the gaping mouths, all the excited whispering, and strides in, head held high. I walk next to her, keeping my face impassive. This is no different from going out with Powell. Actually, no, it’s a little different. When I’m with Powell, I have to fend off horny young women from my brother, but men don’t bother with me, unless they want me to pass their demo along. Seriously, I’ve been slipped so much terrible music over the years. With Brix at my side, we run the risk of getting hit on by packs of men who are absurdly confident that up until this very moment, the only thing that’s stood in the way of hooking up with a supermodel has been lack of proximity.

Tanner is at the bar raising a glass to his lips, but he almost drops it when he spots us. Then he scans the room, as though wondering who we’re here to meet. I give him a little wave thinking yes, you ridiculous fool, it’s you. You made us cookies, so we’re here to cast a vote.

He jumps from his stool to greet us, and Brixley smoothly leans down and hugs him. Tanner is taller than me, but even he looks like a child next to her towering height, augmented by her favorite six-inch heels. Then he wraps an arm around my shoulders in a friendly hug without spilling his beer. As always, I am hit with the faintest odor of cinnamon. Perhaps he’s an alcoholic who constantly guzzles Fireball or some other cinnamon liquor. That’s my current working theory.

“I didn’t know you ladies were coming,” he says, with a huge grin on his face. His arm is still draped over my shoulders, but I don’t shake him off until I see the corner of Brix’s mouth quirk. I shouldn’t encourage her outlandish theory. “Let me buy you both a drink.”

“Don’t drinks come with the cookies? When does that start?” It’s sweet of him to offer, but I don’t need him to spend money on me.

“In about twenty minutes. You can buy your contest tickets over there.” He shepherds us over to a table where a dark-haired young woman is selling the punch cards. For fifteen dollars, we get to choose five cookie/beer combinations. Apparently, this is an annual fundraiser. There are twenty entries, so it’s expensive to try them all. I don’t necessarily want to scarf down twenty cookies, but I am willing to split things with Brix and try twenty half cookies.

The ticket seller is trying to be cool and calm, but she’s shaking from excitement. It takes her three tries to swipe Brixley’s credit card, and she almost drops it as she hands it back.

A whispering crowd is already surrounding us, and several people are pulling out their cell phones to take pictures. I don’t enjoy this, but I do know how to stand—if you slump your shoulders even the tiniest bit, your belly sticks out and the tabloids speculate as to how far along your pregnancy is. Is Jace Monroe having a posthumous child? Or Moved on already? Jace is dead and his true love is having another man’s baby! Details inside. Maybe I should have worn shapewear like Brixley did—though she claims it’s only because the pressure of tight binding helps relieve her cramps. I think she just doesn’t want pictures with any hints of bloat.

“Don’t mind us, we came for the cookies,” Brixley announces to our spectators. She is like Moses. The crowd parts around us, and Tanner and I follow her to the bar, where she orders him another beer and two vodka tonics for us. “Low calorie, since we’re going to be indulging soon,” she tells me. No surprise, the bartender says the drinks are on him. Also no surprise, she drops a fifty on the bar. She has the same view on tipping as Powell: spread the wealth. He’s been known to buy an ice cream cone with a hundred-dollar bill and tell them to keep the change. I once saw Brixley write a three-thousand-dollar check to a waiter Xander tried to stiff. A picture of it went viral, and she had to switch banks.

“I can’t believe you came out tonight,” Tanner repeats as we try to find a table. This place is packed, and newcomers are arriving every minute. I suspect some of them have motives other than noshing on homemade cookies.

“It may have been a bad idea,” Brixley concedes. She’s surveying our surroundings and checking the location of the bouncers. Maybe I should call Mike. He’s out of town guarding Powell, obviously, but I suspect he has someone clandestinely following me. Maybe I can get my possible hidden bodyguard to reveal himself, so we all feel safer.

“I’m surprised you don’t have security like Powell,” Tanner says. “He’s got a guy who follows him everywhere.”

“You knew Mike was security?” I ask, somewhat surprised. Tanner claims that, as a “serious photographer,” he’s able to read people well, but I didn’t realize he was observant enough to see past the accountant exterior. I’ll have to warn Mike his cover was blown.

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