Page 36 of Concerted Chaos

Fortunately, the wine arrives—and Xander makes a big show of tasting it before pronouncing the vintage ‘adequate’—so we don’t need to keep talking about nicknames or embarrassing food memories. Though I do have a few other stories to bring Xander down a notch or two, if necessary.

The first course—an intriguing sweet pea tart for me, a bruschetta involving lump crab for the omnivores—is delicious, to those of us at the table who aren’t trying to impress everyone with gastronomicalsnobbery. Apparently, Xander has sampled all of the finest restaurants in the world, and they are far superior to anything produced in our dusty little desert town. Or so he claims. All that restaurant sampling must have taken place in the past couple of years, long after the Last Baron’s tour where he tried to limit his explorations to American chains on foreign soil.

“If this is such an inferior restaurant, why did you invite us here?” I finally ask. I’m getting desperate to find out why I’m being forced to sit through a meal with him.

“I have exciting news. I wanted to share it with Powell, but it’s important for you too, and for our future,” Xander says, and I physically force myself not to go through with an instinctive eye roll.

“What future?” Tanner asks innocently. He sees what’s going on just as well as I do. He has also, I’ve secretly noticed, been letting Xander play footsie with him for the past five minutes. Xander hasn’t caught on that he’s toeing the wrong person.

Xander ignores him and taps out a drumroll on the tabletop before making his announcement. “Cassidy, it’s time to make my comeback. I’m going to record a new album.”

“How nice for you.” I try to make my tone as condescending as his has been. I can already see where this is going. He’s going to ask to use Powell’s recording studio, probably for free. And Powell’s mixing skills. And whatever else he can exploit. I bet he wants Powell playing uncredited back up as well.

“So you’ll give me one?”

“One what?”

“One of Jace’s albums.”

Oh. Well that was unexpected. And absurd. There is no way I’m going to sully Jace’s legacy by gifting his music to such a pompous jerk. Xander has a beautiful voice. If he didn’t, he never would have made it through the Last Baron’s grueling audition process all those years ago. But quality of vocal tone and range is irrelevant when I’m in charge of casting.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell him politely. I refrain from adding that Jace’s music would cost him a heck of a lot more than a fancy meal for three, especially when that meal also involves spending time with him.

“Why not? It’s perfect!” He reaches across the table to take my hand, which I immediately pull away again. “Cass, think about this logically. Jace was my friend and your lover. You give me the album, and I’ll dedicate it to you. The press will go crazy—Jace’s music as performed by the man who took his place in your heart. It lends an air of romance to the whole thing, since they’re love songs written for you, right?”

There are so many things wrong with that idea, I don’t even know how to begin to correct him. Maybe I should start with the worst and most disgusting assumption of all: “What do you mean the man who took his place in my heart?”

He flutters his eyelashes at me. Yes, Xander is a grown man who bats his eyelashes like a flirty teen girl. “Cassidy, stop playing around. You and I both sense this attraction. Isn’t it time we finally move on it?”

“I have a boyfriend!” I say loudly, backing my chair up and jumping to my feet. Xander’s eyes widen as he realizes that if I’m standing, the feet under the table must belong to the smirking man across from him. Tanner winks and I tightly purse my lips to keep from cracking up.

“A boyfriend?” Xander repeats skeptically. He’s aware of my lack of romantic history. And yes, I’m lying, but this is the only thing that will work on Xander. He’s one of those misogynists who won’t back off, who won’t accept any excuse from a woman—not even a straight up “I don’t like you”—but will respect another man’s territory. Or at least he will in front of other men. If I were alone, it would be a different story. He’d be trying to grope me and saying things like “he doesn’t have to know” or “I can keep a secret if you can,” all the smarmy lines sleazeballs like Xander use.

“Yes, a serious boyfriend.” I sit back down and give Tanner a pointed look. He reacts quickly.

“Cass, my darling, I didn’t think we were telling anyone,” he says and puts his arm around my shoulder. His body gives off a pleasant amount of heat. I lean into him. He smells like cinnamon, again. He must have been baking today. I wonder whose kitchen he used? Not mine, so he must be a kitchen tramp.

“We weren’t, but maybe we should now.” I flutter my lashes in an exact imitation of Xander’s earlier failed flirtation.

“You’re dating a gym rat?” Xander asks in disgust, proving that he genuinely did not recognize Tanner. I had thought it was an ego or superiority thing, showing he was too high above to acknowledge a lowly photographer. “He’s using you, you know. Probably angling for a promotion.”

“I doubt that. Tanner is not manipulative.”

“And I don’t need a promotion,” Tanner adds.

“Whatever.” Xander makes it clear he is no longer interested in discussing my fake relationship. He changes the subject to his preferred conversational topics: himself, how much money his possessions cost, and degrading gossip about others in the industry. Tanner and I are a quiet captive audience. The food helps; every course is extraordinary. I hope Tanner takes inspiration from the fabulously decadent dark chocolate delice served for dessert and asks to borrow my kitchen to replicate it.

At the end of the meal, while signing the receipt and writing a big fat zero on the tip line, Xander makes one last appeal. “Please, Cass, give me one of the albums. My lawyer drew up the paperwork, all you need to do is sign.”

Wow, presumptuous much? I’m not surprised he assumed I would so easily bend to his will and hand over the music. But that’s never going to happen. Xander barely deserves to be a footnote to Jace’s life story. Jace was a wonderful man and his songs should be sung by someone who will honor his memory, not just do it for the publicity.

“Absolutely not. You should write your own music instead,” I encourage Xander. I’m going to have to tell Powell I suggested that. He’ll think it’s hilarious. Xander has stage presence, he can sing, he can dance, but his writing skills ... they’re a bit lacking. I’ve heard some of his work before—he has a penchant for making every line rhyme. Lyrics don’t need an ABAB pattern. I could write better songs than him and I don’t have a creative bone in my body.

“I’m working on that too,” he says. “But having Jace’s name on this project...”

And there it is. Sometimes I dismiss Xander as a little bit dumb, but he’s not. He has poor social skills, but he understands the vagaries of fame. And he knows if he wants to be successful again, he needs to find some coattails to ride on, and what could be better than jumping on Jace’s posthumous ones?

“If Jace wanted you to have the music, he’d have left it to you in his will.” I want those words to stab Xander right in the heart. I’ve checked out his page on AuctionNet; he’s already started selling off the shoes Jace bequeathed him. He’s making decent money too, because Jace’s fans are buying them up.

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