Page 59 of Concerted Chaos

eighteen

ItisfinallyJune, and we are officially one week away from the Jace Monroe Tribute Concert. I will be so glad and relieved when it’s all over. I’ve been getting interview requests, and I don’t want to talk to anybody. Somehow word of the car bombleaked, despite the FBI’s attempts to keep things quiet. When it first happened, they were aided by the fact that it took place on the same night a serial bank robber led police on a dangerous chase through downtown Phoenix, culminating in crashing into a busy fast-food restaurant. Our dramatic explosioninitially ended up as nothing more than a “car fire” line in the news. But now it’s out and everyone knows that someone—possibly the same person who killed Jace—attempted to kill Powell. Plus, the aficionados over on the Rolls-Royce forums are in deep mourning for the car. Apparently, that particular one had some limited-edition features.

And I can’t seem to escape the press even at home. I swear, I’m going to leave spike strips in the driveway to discourage uninvited visitors. How on earth did Tanner decide he has the right to just drop in whenever he feels like it? And why didn’t the security guard patrolling the perimeter tackle him, preferably into a cactus?

When he rings the doorbell, I answer through the intercom. “What do you want?”

“You sound like you’re in a bad mood,” he responds.

“When you show up like this, it puts me in a bad mood.”

“Good thing I’m here to see your brother and not you.”

“Why? So you can harass him?”

“Cassidy, let the man in.” Powell’s voice cuts through mine on the speaker. “I invited him over.”

“Where are you?” That’s one thing I hate about this app—it doesn’t reveal his location. Powell can just sit back and relax and make me deal with whatever random paparazzo shows up at our door.

“I’m in the basement. Bring him down, please.”

Ugh. Here’s the problem with living with my employer: I have to do what he says, even when I don’t want to. But I put my book down and get up from my comfortable chair and go open the front door, where Tanner is buckling under the weight of his photography equipment.

“Finally,” he says, as though I was inconveniencing him. “This stuff is heavy.”

I take a bag from him and throw it over my shoulder. “Powell said I had to let you in. He’s probably in his recording studio.”

“I guess he didn’t tell you I was coming. He needs publicity shots, so he offered me the job. The label was going to fly one of their usual contractors out for it.” Tanner seems inordinately proud of being the chosen one. He follows me happily through the house and down the stairs to the lower level.

In addition to our Downstairs Drinkery—yes, I won the naming-rights battle—Powell has a recording studio and a small dance room for rehearsing, even though he prefers to use my gym. The one here is fancier though, with mirrors on two of the walls, so he can watch himself, and a camera to record videos so he can give himself scathing feedback. His ego is unmatched when it comes to his music, but he is hypercritical of his dance skills. One article fifteen years ago saying he had two left feet has made him permanently self-conscious.

Also our laundry room is downstairs. But I doubt Powell wants pictures there.

“So what’s going on with you, Cass?” Tanner asks as I lead him down the hall. We haven’t spoken much in the couple of weeks since our unpleasant double date. Well, it was unpleasant for me, at least. Everything seemed to work out just fine for Tanner. Whenever I encounter Whitney lately, she gushes about how much fun they’re having together and how wonderful he is: he’s so sweet, and oh my goodness I can’t wait to see him later followed by a bunch of nonsense exaggerations about Tanner’s attractiveness.

“Nothing’s going on with me.” I open the door to Powell’s studio where my brother is playing with his soundboard. “Here’s your victim.”

“The word you’re looking for is subject,” Tanner corrects me with a grin, which makes that annoying dimple appear on his left cheek. It would make him attractive, if that were possible. But it’s not, because no matter how cute he is, he’s still kind of a jerk. If he were really my friend, he would have been supportive and stormed out of the restaurant with me when Silas morphed into a false-rumor obsessed jackass.

“Hey, come on in,” Powell greets Tanner and leaves me standing outside. “Deedee, you want to hang out and watch?”

“Gosh, that sounds fun!” My exaggeratedly excited tone conveys the mockery I intended. Powell laughs and waves me away.

They are down there for over two hours, not that I’m paying attention to the time or anything. What could possibly take so long to shoot? Is Tanner so bad at his job that he can’t make my objectively attractive brother look good in pictures? If so, he needs to find a new line of work.

Then my phone buzzes with a text. It’s lazy Powell who can’t be bothered to come and look for me.

Where are you?

Upstairs. Why?

Come down and have a drink with us.

Oh, no. They moved to the bar. That means poor Tanner is sipping expensive cognac and listening to Powell play old records and go on and on about the quality of vinyl over digital. And they want me to join them? I consider not going. Maybe I should head into the gym and get in my second workout of the day. Or maybe there’s paperwork I need to do. Yeah, that’s a believable excuse.

But I go downstairs anyway, where they are not drinking cognac and listening to blues. No, they’ve got gin and tonics instead, and Powell set up the sound system to play his self-made instrumental versions of his own music. Yes, he’s showing off.

“You should try these, Deedee.” Powell’s cheeks are already pink from alcohol. Despite his well-stocked bar, he doesn’t drink much. It exists primarily as a place to show off to guests, not as an alcoholic’s fancy retreat. Moreover, he’s not supposed to be drinking on his diet—his nutritionist would have a fit. “Tanner made them.”

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