Page 54 of Concerted Chaos

sixteen

Cookiehangovermightbe worse than alcohol hangover. I wake up and my stomach hurts and my whole body wants to punish me. Too much sugar, especially since I’ve been (mostly) sticking to Powell’s get-in-shape-to-perform diet. I owe myself an apology and an extra-long workout. And maybe Brixley and I should book spa appointments, too. For our health.

When I make my way to the kitchen, Brixley is already there. She’s prepared herself a poached egg and a plate of greens. “There’s tea ready,” she says, pointing to the carafe. It’s ginger—she must also be suffering from cookie-induced nausea. “And we’re definitely hitting your gym today.”

I pour myself a cup and toss one of Joel’s egg-white omelets in the microwave. It was labeled with my brother’s name, but he’s not here to fight me for it. When I join Brix at the breakfast bar, she slides her tablet over to share the latest celebrity gossip.

Supermodel Brixley made an appearance at a Scottsdale bar with bestie Cassidy Blaine-Corbitt, the late Jace Monroe’s lover. Is she consoling Cass for her loss, or setting her up? They seemed to be awfully cozy with an unidentified man.

At least the picture was taken from a flattering angle, though the lighting is dim. It was shot after our guards arrived, but fortunately before we started devouring all those cookies.

“Tanner’s going to love being called unidentified.”

“I tagged him on Swifta, so they know exactly who he is. These gossip blogs just like creating drama.” Brixley shrugs and finishes off her egg. “If you’re going to date him, he’ll have to get used to the attention.”

“I don’t know why you think dating is in my future.” Sure, he’s kind of cute. And funny. And he can bake. Oh, and there was that one kiss. But he’s also a paparazzo, so nothing could ever work out between us. We’re on opposing teams.

The security system sounds an alert, and a moment later I hear Powell opening the front door. He drops his bags in the foyer, like the lazy slob he is, and comes into the kitchen, followed closely by Mike. Neither of them look happy.

Powell hugs the both of us, and helps himself to my tea. “Yuck. Why didn’t you put any sugar in this?”

“Stop taking other people’s food. We’ve talked about this,” Mike reminds him. “It’s a security risk.”

“Or a germ risk,” Brixley says. “You don’t want to be sick for the big show. Where’s the rest of your team?” Devon, she’s told me, is constantly surrounded by a platoon of five armed bodyguards right now.

“If you haven’t seen them, I’m not going to tell you,” Mike is smugly confident. “And if you have, let me know so I can fire them.” The behemoths at the bar must not be part of his regular crew. If they were, I’d have spotted them before.

“See, Powell. This is why Devon keeps trying to steal him from you. When are your next contract negotiations, Mike? I may have a role for you.”

“Not a chance,” Mike rejects Brixley’s offer, which is too bad for him. He’d get to travel to more interesting places with her. “Powell’s my favorite client. He’s the only one who lets me drive his cars.”

“What? You said I had to! For security purposes!” Powell’s outrage is somewhat manufactured. Mike is a skilled driver at high speeds. My brother gets a thrill out of the idea that they might be in an exciting chase someday.

“Yes. Security. That’s why,” Mike deadpans. He goes to the fridge and retrieves one of Joel’s prepared meals. There are several in there marked with his name; he doesn’t participate in Powell’s restrictive diet plan, so his food is a little more appetizing. Maybe I should have chosen one of his breakfasts instead.

“Have you boys seen the hot news?” Brixley passes her tablet to Powell. Mike’s interest is piqued, and he comes over eagerly. He claims it’s part of his job to follow everything, but I think he also likes to gossip. I’ve seen who he follows on social media, and most of it is definitely not job related.

“Oh, that’s just Tanner Smythe. His background check came up clean.” He sounds disappointed, probably because last night’s outing is not exciting news to him. His team likely sent him a minute by minute update.

“Except for the ex-wife thing. Did you know he used to be married?” Powell looks at me intently and Brixley gasps as though this is some soap opera level drama. I bet she’s about to text Mason the next chapter in their ongoing gabfest.

“He got divorced shortly before moving here. Why’d you run a background check?”

Mike shrugs his powerful shoulders. “He showed up the day Jace died. Plus, since you put him on the list for permanent access, I had to, for security purposes.” That phrase is starting to become meaningless, given how often Mike uses it.

“Omaha put him on that list! Not me! Why is everyone acting like there’s something going on?” I’m getting frustrated with all the assumptions and insinuations.

“Speaking of something going on,” Powell changes the subject. “The FBI is on their way over. Should be here any second.” He turns in the direction of the front door and points. Nothing happens. He checks his phone. “Damn, I timed it wrong. Wait.”

Because we are an overly indulgent group, we wait patiently until he receives the notification that someone was waved through the guard booth. And then we give them time to make the drive to the house.

“Should be here any second,” Powell repeats, and points toward the door again. Now the doorbell rings on cue.

Mike lets them in. Our guests are the usual agents, accompanied by a third one, this time a man. He’s younger than me and dressed in khakis and a wrinkled shirt rather than a sharp suit like his colleagues. They all freeze when they spot Brixley.

“Am I not supposed to be here?” Brixley asks when the stares start to feel awkward.

I’ve met Agent Benítez several times now, but this is the first time she’s shown any sign of being anything other than firm, remote, and sort of scary. This time, she looks like she’s desperately—but ineffectively—trying to not to melt into a puddle of joy.

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