Page 40 of Concerted Chaos

If anyone made it past Mike’s nondescript exterior toreallystudy him, they’d notice his forearms are ropey with muscle and when he moves his neck little bits shift beneath the skin, muscles that don’t exist on most mortal men. He’s fast, too, and smart. Also, he’s an expert in five or six different kinds of fighting, and he carries a gun concealed so well you’d never know it was there until he’s pointing the barrel at your head. Powell couldn’t be in better hands.

“Morning, Cass,” Mike greets me cheerfully. He and I get along well. He was head of security on Powell’s last tour, so we shared a bus for a several months. That’s how I learned not to play poker with him. Or any card game. I don’t like losing.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I reply, hugging him. I’m not merely giving him a friendly welcome; I’m secretly trying to see if I can find any weapons hidden under his shirt. Other than the muscular guns in his sleeves, of course. “Do I get a bodyguard too?”

Mike is about to answer, but Ethan interrupts.

“You aren’t in any danger, and if you were, I’d protect you.” A couple of problems here: for one thing, he’s heading back to wherever he came from today, so no, he’s not going to be around to protect me. And what’s with saying I’m not in danger, when before he said I was? Was that a line? Oh. Oh, it was, and I fell for it too. Bad Cassidy.

“This is Ethan, he’s one of the investigators in Jace’s murder,” I introduce my disappointing almost-lover to Mike, and the horror of that again washes over me. Someone murdered Jace Monroe, my dear friend, and worse, it was a case of mistaken identity because they were trying to kill the person I love most in the world.

“You’ll be fine, Cass, I’m keeping eyes on you, but nobody thinks you’re a target. Powell isn’t going anywhere without me until this is resolved.” Mike makes the proclamation with confidence, but it doesn’tassuage my fears.

“So what’s the plan now?” I ask. I assume some kind of security upgrade to our house. Maybe defensive turrets, mounted guns, an entire entourage of Mike’s highly trained personnel moving in. Sure, he said I don’t get my own bodyguard, but I wouldn’t turn one down.

“We start with home safety. I’ve already taken care of the perimeter. This morning my men are examining all the windows, and I need to check your panic room, make sure it’s fully stocked.”

“It is,” Powell assures him. “I always keep it prepared.”

Mike’s skeptical expression means he’s going to check anyway which he should—I know what Powell thinks prepared means.

“So, what food did you put in there?” I ask my brother pointedly because I already know the answer. I was in the panic room that connects our closets last week, switching out books. I keep my to-be-read stack in there, so if we get trapped I have something to entertain me. The only food I saw was my candy stash and a bottle of merlot.

“Food? What for? How long do you think we’d have to hang out in there? No, I have my cello and an electronic keyboard. That’s all I need.” Basically, music is life, is what Powell is saying. This is why he has staff to take care of him. Or, rather, this is why he needs staff to take care of him.

“Why a cello?” Ethan asks. His interest in the conversation piqued when the panic room was mentioned. I bet he’s picturing it as a dungeon, the way he imagined my bedroom.

“It took up too much space in the music room. Made it look cluttered.”

“And that’s why I’m in charge of security,” Mike informs him. “You can have your cello, but you’re also going to have forty-eight hours’ worth of actual supplies, just in case.” Ethan nods along with this pronouncement, as though being an accident investigator gives him some insight into the world of personal security. Though I suppose it’s possible that, like Mike, he is ex-military. I really don’t know anything about him besides his job title and his humiliation fetish.

“Whatever, we’ll deal with that later. What I’m more interested in is when the FBI gets here.” Powell’s voice is way too enthusiastic. You aren’t supposed to be excited when killers are after you, even if it does give you the apparently exciting opportunity to meet real FBI agents. “They’ll be here any minute.”

I’ve watched the movies, so I knowexactlywhat to expect from the FBI. We’ll have a whole team here, and they’ll bring computers and establish a command center in our living room. They’ll connect to everything, our security cameras, the neighbor’s security cameras, they’ll likely hack some satellites so they can look down from above.

Our case will be assigned to two agents. One will be younger and sexy. He’ll have short hair and a chiseled jaw, and I’ll be able to tell by looking in his eyes that he’s seen some things, some hard and difficult things. He’ll be single, of course. They all are, because relationships don’t survive the job. But he and I will form an instant powerful connection, beyond just sexual chemistry, though that will initially predominate. The other agent will be an older, wiser man, bald and with a bit of a gut. He’s been on the job for a long time and he’s familiar with the criminal syndicate that is targeting my brother. We’ll trust his smart grandfatherly vibe, and he’ll share pithy words of wisdom while tracking down the perpetrator, the one Agent Sexy will bring down in a firefight. I might be as excited as Powell about this.

But when the doorbell rings, it isn’t who we expect. No, it’s Tanner, because somehow the gate guard can’t get it through his head to stop letting that man through without checking with us first.

Mike answers the door and lets him in because Powell says so. He doesn’t ask me, or I would have sent him away. Well, maybe not, since he’s carrying a box of donuts.

“Cassidy, I wanted to talk to you...” he begins, but then he notices Ethan perched on the kitchen stool next to me. “Oh, sorry, you’re obviously ... busy.”

“This is Ethan”—crap! I don’t remember his last name!—“from the National Aircraft Safety Board.”

“National Transportation Safety Board, babe,” Ethan corrects me. So I’ve transitioned from mommy to mistress to babe, all in a twelve hour period? Does he think we’ve reached the faux relationship level of him calling me pet names in front of others? What’s with every guy getting so possessive over melately?

Tanner’s eyes meet mine and his lips press into a grimace. Disgust? Disappointment? Whatever it is, it makes little tiptoes of guilt creep up my spine, even though I should have nothing to feel guilty about. “I brought you some breakfast. But since you have company, I’m going to head out.” He sets the box down on the nearest counter and walks away.

“Tanner, wait!” I chase after him, catching him right outside the front door, but he jerks his arm out of my grip.

“I came by because I thought we should talk about what happened last night,” he says. “But after what I just saw, I don’t think we have anything to talk about after all.”

“That wasn’t what you think.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m sure pink sweatpants are the standard uniform of the NTSB.”

“Ethan only came here to give us an update about the helicopter explosion.”

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