Page 12 of Concerted Chaos

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Jace’sfuneralhasbeen scheduled rather quickly. It’s only been a week since his death, and yet here we are, arriving in Los Angeles for a couple of days of press in the lead up to the main event. I cringe when I think about it. I’m not one of those people who believe funerals should be solemn affairs. I prefer the ones where we trade funny stories and celebrate the life of the deceased, rather than sit in mournful yet tasteful silence.

There’s already a media circus at the airport. Fortunately, we’re experts at evading them. Also, it helps that they somehow expect Powell to arrive on a flight from Phoenix. My brother and I drove down to Tucson and flew out of their much smaller airport, taking us to a different gate. Our parents are the Corbitts who came from Sky Harbor, and they are accidentally ambushed instead. Mom doesn’t mind, she’s been through this before. She likes to wave to the reporters and jokingly tell them to make sure they get her best side.

Powell owns a two-bedroom luxury condo in downtown LA, but he offered to let mom and Hank stay there. We go to Devon and Brixley’s Los Feliz mansion instead. When we arrive, Devon greets Powell with a hug, but not one of those awkward barely touching hugs. No, this is a sad, desperate “our loved one has died and we have only each other to cling to” type hug that lasts minutes and ends with both of them wiping away tears. I am glad there are no photographers here. The moment is too poignant to cheapen by selling it to tabloids.

I follow them into the large living room, where Brixley is draped across a chair in the effortlessly beautiful way that models lounge around, in a pose that would break anyone else but makes her look glamorous and unapproachable. A very jet-lagged Mason is sprawled on one of the couches, but he springs to his feet to embrace me. His wife and newborn didn’t make the journey, but in the first few seconds after greeting him, I am shown perhaps one thousand pictures of an adorable black-haired little baby with a wrinkled old man face. This is a privilege—the family hasn’t released any photos to the media yet. Gossip blogs in India are offering bounties for the images, not because of Mason, but because his wife is a huge Bollywood star. Though he has a fanbase over there, too.

Mason moves on to show his baby off to Powell, and I am about to join Brixley when suddenly arms wrap around me from behind and I am enveloped in an overly pungent odor.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here, Cassidy,” Xander says, far too close to my ear. I don’t understand why he’s always so awkward and handsy with me but can behave with other people just fine. He’s got good looks, wealth, and fame, so he should be perfectly capable of finding someone else to attach himself to, someone who can tolerate him. Someone who doesn’t break out in figurative hives when he touches them.

“Stop!” I pry him off and go over to take the chair next to Brixley. I am unable to imitate her relaxed pose, but I try.

“Xander being a creep again? He has such a crush on you,” she murmurs in a voice so low I can hardly hear her.

“No he doesn’t,” I say, but a chill runs down my spine. I don’t want to think about Xander and his frustrated desires. I want to focus on losing myself in the moment and missing Jace.

“Always has. Remember his countdown to your eighteenth birthday? Don’t worry, we all agree you’re too good for him.” She gives me a sad smile. “I wish Jace were here.”

“Me too.” Much like Powell, Jace always knew how to put Xander in his place.

“What kind of monstrosity is that?” Powell’s shocked voice interrupts every conversation in the room. I turn to see him staring with an expression of wide-eyed horror.

“Good, Powell finally discovered the new piano,” Brixley tells me in her quiet voice. “Devon’s had it for weeks, and he’s been so eager to post it on SwiftaPic, but he wanted to witness Powell’s reaction in person first.”

The piano in question has clear acrylic legs and an acrylic top, while the body of the piano—also acrylic—is bright red. My brother is examining it, both skeptical and appalled. He’s a purist and a traditionalist. He still plays his mother’s piano that she inherited from her own parents.

“Devon, it’s ... plastic. Why ... what ... no...” Powell sits down on the bench and winces as he tentatively pokes a few keys.

“Stop acting like a baby. The sound is great, check this out.” Devon plays a few chords, and I recognize the beginning of Only You, one of JaDed’s smash hits.

“Huh.” Powell takes over playing, head tilted to the side, face screwed up in concentration. While he is making his assessment, the others disappear into Devon’s instrument room. When they emerge, Devon is lugging his double bass, and both Mason and Xander are carrying borrowed guitars.

“That,” Brixley indicates the guitar in Xander’s hands, “is Devon’s most expensive one. No surprise Xander claimed it.”

Nope, no surprise at all. We watch as the boys set up and begin tuning. While they were all brought together by the record company on the basis of their singing and dancing abilities—as well as, let’s be honest, their physical attractiveness—they also have numerous other musical talents. Powell is a piano prodigy, who plinked out songs before he could walk. He also plays every note on his solo albums, though obviously he tours with a backup band. Devon is a string genius. If something has vibrating strings and a soundboard, he can play it, even if it’s an instrument he’s never seen before. Both Mason and Xander play the guitar, and in addition, Mason has been—according to his social media profiles—learning to play a whole slew of traditional Indian instruments. He likes to post videos of himself serenading his gorgeous wife.

My heart aches as the remaining Last Barons start jamming. This used to be fun. Back in the old days, on tours, they would pull out their instruments when they were riding a post-show high, and everybody would dance to the improvised tunes. In the later years, they wrote many of their own songs. The lyrics always started out horrifyingly raunchy, but eventually evolved into romantic words that were catchy and palatable for the masses.

Now though, it’s painful and melancholy. Powell is playing in minor key, and nobody is smiling. Jace isn’t here to liven things up, Devon isn’t demonstrating bizarre dance moves, Mason and Xander aren’t competing to see who can play fastest or who can come up with the most obscene choruses. All the joy is missing.

I’m relieved when Devon’s housekeeper interrupts. Apparently, there are investigators here who want to talk to Powell and me.

“Don’t say anything without an attorney,” Xander warns us both.

“You aren’t under arrest,” one of the investigators says. There are two of them, an older man with a scraggly ponytail, and a strikingly attractive younger one. They stand in the doorway somewhat awkwardly, possibly starstruck—though their eyes are fastened on Brixley, not the famous boyband.

“We’re not the police. We’re with the National Transportation Safety Board,” the younger one explains, managing to tear his gaze away from the supermodel. “We couldn’t arrest you even if we wanted to.”

“Cass?” Powell asks me. I know what he’s wondering. These are the kinds of decisions he relies on me to make.

“We don’t need attorneys,” I respond. “I’m sure they’re only trying to build a timeline.” No need to delay the inevitable. Besides, just the fact that Xander recommended we have a lawyer present makes me not want to call one. Yes, I’m petty. And I assume Xander is always wrong.

The younger investigator gives us a reassuring nod. “That’s right. We just want to talk about what happened before the flight. This isn’t a criminal investigation.”

“You still need a lawyer,” Xander mutters under his breath, but as usual, we ignore him.

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