Page 62 of Concerted Chaos

nineteen

Ihavemyusual list of complaints about Los Angeles, but I am kindly not airing them. Powell is already stressed enough with rehearsals and media events and the fact that someone is trying to kill him. He doesn’t need to listen to me whine about smog and traffic and crowds. At least we have his condo to escape to. There’s a rooftop pool and a decent fitness center. As an additional bonus, the building is quiet. The prior occupant of our unit was a heavy metal drummer, so we are completely soundproofed.

But I’m not spending much time there. Instead, in the interest of “security purposes,” Mike has been forcing me to accompany them everywhere. I’ve resumed my traditional role of watching the boys practice and coming up with effusive compliments to greet my brother with when he comes offstage. And I have to do that while avoiding Xander, who wants to “set up a dinner” so we can discuss “album possibilities.” Apparently, my repeated “you’ll never sing Jace’s songs” is not getting through to him.

Today, four days away from the memorial concert, I’ve finally managed to earn myself a bit of respite. Instead of listening to yet another interminable repeat of cheesy pop music, I am out with Brixley. We’ve just had a lovely lunch—I’m fairly certain Mike’s undercover bodyguards occupied two of the tables nearest us—and now we are at the Butón studio.

In the old days, as a non-celeb hanging out backstage, what I wore to concerts didn’t matter, as long as it was black. But this show is different because I’m making a public appearance as Jace Monroe’s devastated lover. I’ll be seated up close to the stage and cameras will regularly pan to me, which means designers were fighting to dress me. I fielded dozens of calls in the past two months, finally deciding on René Butón. He’s very French, très chic, and also he’s dressing Brixley, so I don’t have to go alone.

Brixley is the one currently standing on a platform while René’s assistants bustle around her with their pins and measuring tapes. Her gown is a gorgeous shimmery blue, which she would not have been wearing if this were the reunion concert rather than a memorial show. Had we gone through with the originally planned fun fan-centric event, we would both have shown up in vintage tour T-shirts and jeans. But now, since it’s a tribute, we have to be glamourous. Not my favorite way to remember Jace, but despite my status as his great love, nobody asked my opinion.

“Is perfect, you are always perfect,” René says to Brixley, making one final fussy adjustment to the hem. He had left it long, waiting to see what shoes she would be wearing. Brix is already a gargantuan six foot three and the heels she brought add an extra four inches. I’m going to look like a toddler next to her. I’m only five-eight, not tall enough to be a model, and just the right height to have short men be self-conscious around me. Even guys who are five-ten act like I’m too tall, because they don’t tower over me as much as they’d like. Fortunately, I don’t care about that kind of thing. I don’t put up with insecure man babies. Maybe that’s another reason I’m always single.

“You’re up, Cass.” Brixley steps lightly off the platform after she is divested of her gown. She sprawls on one of the couches, not caring that she’s in nothing but her undergarments. Granted, she’s appeared on billboards in much skimpier attire, so I suppose she feels quite covered up. Now it’s my turn to cast off my studio-provided robe and subject myself to the stabs of a thousand pins. This must be how Tanner felt when he was lying in the cactus.

René helps me into my dress. I usually prefer to wear muted colors, and he respected that. This one is a light silvery silk, with an edging of lace on the bodice. The skirt of the gown is tastefully decorated in lace and beading that gradually gets darker toward the bottom, so it ends in black.

“You are both Jace’s wife and widow in this,” René explains the intention behind the design. I get it; the top is elegant bride, and it fades into funereal wear. Subtle, and beautiful. It’ll definitely get people talking.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Brix gushes. “You look amazing, Cassidy.”

I’ll accept her compliment. I feel beautiful in his dress. I admit, I often try to pretend I’m too down to earth for this sort of thing, but I’d be a liar if I said I don’t love to don luxury designer gowns occasionally. There’s something about the sensation of the silk sliding across my skin, silk cut to my proportions and sewn just for me, that makes me feel special.

“Are you sure?” Maybe it seems like I’m just fishing for more compliments, but there will be a lot of eyes judging me and determining if I was worthy of Jace’s affection.

“You’ll make the best dressed list,” Brix assures me. Or maybe she’s assuring René. I would claim I don’t have any interest in those lists, but I’d be lying. I’m hoping this will be better than the time I went to the Music Video Awards with Powell and got mocked for what I had thought was a trendy and fun dress. Turns out, feathers were out that year, and sequins were in. Pictures of me did not have flattering captions, traumatizing my twenty-year-old self.

“You had better,” René says. “I turned down Zahna to make this for you.”

That would be more complimentary if I didn’t know Zahna’s invitation was revoked. She had the nerve to go on a talk show and brag about how her actions indirectly saved Powell’s life. She carried on as though she were some sort of hero for cheating on him. Her comments enraged Jace’s fans and Powell himself. As soon as my brother heard his ex’s claims, he started making angry phone calls, and hours later Zahna was on SwiftaPic expressing her sorrow that, due to circumstances beyond her control, she would be out of the country during the memorial tribute, but we’d be in her thoughts.

“If you want me on the best dressed list, does that mean my hair and makeup need to be professionally done?” I ask the question as innocently as possible, and the horror on René’s face is my reward. From the way he’s clutching his chest, I may have nearly given him a heart attack.

“Don’t worry,” Brixley promises him, after letting out one of her high-pitched cackles—her laugh is the one unattractive thing about her. “I took care of that. I lined J’Shanna up for the both of us.”

René is suitably impressed and relieved. J’Shanna is a top-notch stylist, one so well-known she’s only referred to by a single name. She worked with Powell once, but she’s more often busy prepping big money movie stars for red carpet events. We’ve an appointment before the concert, when J’Shanna will show up with her crew, and she will supervise as they paint me and comb my hair and do horrible things with hot implements until it meets their standards. I’m going to suffer for a couple of hours but will come out of it looking phenomenal.

“Thanks, Brix.”

“No problem. I can’t wait until Tanner sees you. He’ll know what he’s missing.”

“Tanner?” René asks, suddenly very excited by our conversation. “Tanner Woods, soap opera star? Or Tanner Vonn, action movie hero?”

“Neither. He’s a pap with a crush on Cassidy.”

“Oh.” René loses all interest when he learns of Tanner’s mediocrity, so it’s not worth correcting Brix’s description. She’s wrong though, especially given how quickly Tanner jumped into a relationship with someone else.

René finishes his pinning and has me step out of the dress, promising to have it delivered to me backstage. While I haven’t been looking forward to having to parade in front of the media play-acting about how sad I am about my lost love, I do kind of want to see the expression on Tanner’s face when he sees how well I clean up. Not because of what Brixley said though.

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