Page 63 of Concerted Chaos

twenty

Hereweare,concert day. The day which, by Mike’s calculations, is the day someone will most likely make another attempt on Powell’s life. I’m nervous, but I’m doing my best to hide it. Powell is nervous as well, but he’s pretending everything is fine. I’m better at doing that than he is.

One of Mike’s security staff spent the night outside our condo door last night, so Mike would be well rested for the main event. The nighttime guard cheerfully shoulders Powell’s duffel bag and escorts us to our waiting vehicle, which has yet another bodyguard in the passenger seat.

Excited energy radiates from my brother as the armored town car transports us to the rear entrance. “I’ve missed this,” Powell says, looking up at the Castillo Center through the tinted glass. From the back, there isn’t much to see. But on the other side of the building, crowds are already jostling for places close enough to spot the celebrity guests arriving.

“You’ve performed thousands of times,” I remind him.

“Yes, but I’ve been doing it solo for so long. It’s different with the guys. This is the biggest show of my career, and it feels good to be back with the old crowd.”

“But it’s not quite the same.”

“No, not quite.” We’re both silent for a moment, mourning Jace. I think that’s the real reason our parents didn’t come. The charity watch-party/auction was just an excuse. This whole event is a reunion for everybody who spent nearly a decade working with the Last Barons on their albums and tours and media productions, and there’s an enormous gaping hole in it. Every time we look around backstage, we’ll be reminded of Jace’s absence. It’s going to hurt. And knowing that his death wasn’t an accident makes the loss hurt worse.

“Don’t sit around talking!” Mike opens the door and yanks Powell out. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop making yourself a target?” He’s got a solid grip on my brother’s collar as he drags Powell toward the backstage door and the rather imposing guards.

Mike acts like every step is a risk and killers could be lurking behind every corner. But I think he’s overdoing it. We’re going to be perfectly fine here. Security at the venue is tight. Everyone is going to have to pass through metal detectors after the red carpet. In fact, they’ll be funneled through a press-free room where they may be subjected to an extra search. Nobody wants an embarrassing tabloid picture showing them all spread eagle while a security card waves a scanner around them and checks under their dresses. They’re even going to make me go through the whole rigmarole when I make my grand entrance. And that’s after the pat down at the back door.

We have several hours until showtime, but some entertainers are on stage and the lucky ticket holders are slowly trickling into the auditorium. Not the famous crowd, of course. They’ll make their entrances through the gauntlet of reporters later. The early arrivals are super-fans who won contests (or had a lot of money), bloggers, and the second-tier acquaintances and distant relatives of the band.

I’m backstage right now, hanging out in the green room where I was ostensibly supervising the catering staff and the buffet. I’ve fallen back into old patterns—I wiped down all surfaces for any trace of peanut residue and harassed the caterers about the ingredients in all the little cakes. They received explicit instructions prior to my inspection, but it never hurts to be on the safe side. Someone is out to harm Powell; we can’t be too careful.

Two people appear in the doorway and I glance up from the cookie I’m sampling—my mouth is an excellent peanut detector—to see my own guests. My unwillingly invited guests, I should say.

“Thanks for inviting us.” Tanner is almost unrecognizable with combed hair and a suit. Based on how ill-fitting the sleeves and shoulders are, I assume he rented it. I should have sent him to Powell’s tailor instead. Whitney is also in borrowed clothing, the tight red dress with a sweetheart neckline that I wore to the Grammys a couple of years ago. I might let her keep it, since she’s my friend. Also, she had to have the waist taken in, so if her seamstress removed any material, I can’t wear it again anyway. I’m not interested in dieting or losing my ab muscles to rewear an old dress, no matter how expensive.

“This is awesome! You’re so lucky to lead such a glamorous lifestyle,” Whitney says, surveying the room. Envy shines from her eyes. She’s made enough comments about my undeserved riches lately, she’s starting to sound like Tanner.

“Help yourself to the food,” I gesture to the heavily laden table by the far wall. Tanner, being himself, immediately asks if he can take some pictures. Great, now he’s become a still life photographer. He managed to convince Powell to upgrade his ticket with a press pass so he could bring in his ostentatious Hasselblad camera and a bag of spare lenses. Seriously, can’t he take some time off and enjoy himself? Spend one evening without documenting every moment? When old folks talk about social media and cell phone cameras being the downfall of society, they forget that photography junkies like him have existed since the invention of film.

Tanner takes pictures of food, and of Whitney enjoying the food, and of me rolling my eyes at their excitement. It’s not that impressive—the after-parties are where the real good stuff will be. Maybe I’ll wrangle them invitations to one. Devon’s is going to be epic. I stopped by yesterday and checked out the set-up.

I’m trying not to be annoyed about seeing them together. I had no claim to Tanner, after all. And he’s clearly happy with her. He smiles when he looks down at her, and he doesn’t shake her off when she clings to his arm. And she’s whispered in his ear several times, bringing a blush to his cheeks. This trip is their first romantic getaway, so I’m sure they’re having a wonderful sexy time of it. But I’m not jealous. I don’t even care at all. Not one tiny bit.

After they sample some treats and take selfies with me, they head out to explore the venue. The main show, obviously, doesn’t start for another couple hours, but there are numerous distractions available, including a large display of old tour merchandise and vintage T-shirts. No doubt Tanner can find something to photograph.

Once my slightly unwelcome visitors have gone, I take one last cookie—can’t eat in my fancy clothes—and head down the hall to Powell’s dressing room. My hair and makeup were done by J’Shanna and her flock of assistants earlier; all I have left is my gown and shoes. My brother has just finished up his pre-show massage, so he and the massage therapist courteously leave so that I can borrow the room.

My dress is hanging near Powell’s post-show party suit and his outfit for the opening song, the only clothing left on the rack. All of his other costume changes have been taken to the wings, where the Last Barons will strip down between songs. I like to tease Powell because they wear literal stripper clothes so that they can rip them off quickly. Devon and Mason used to perform quite a provocative green room show sometimes, until Mason accidentally damaged the snaps in a very important shirt right before a performance and ended up having the wardrobe lady screaming at him. Good times.

Unlike them, I have to remove my clothes the usual way, unbuttoning and everything. I can’t risk messing up my professionally done hairstyle by yanking things off. Then I step into my dress carefully, pull it up, and realize I have a problem. I can’t zip this thing. I thought I’d be able to get the zipper at least part way up my back, but it seems to be stuck.

I poke my head out in the hallway, hoping a female PA is walking by. I don’t want to go knock on someone else’s door. And I certainly don’t want Xander to see me holding the bodice up like this. But the hoped-for PA isn’t available. The only person visible in the entire corridor is ... Tanner. Seriously?

Oh, well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Tanner, can you help me?” I ask, and he turns around, startled.

“Cass? What are you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed for the concert. What did you think I was doing?”

“I thought you were already ready.”

“In a button-down shirt and jeans? You thought I was wearing that to a formal event?”

“I thought I was overdressed. I was going to ditch the jacket and tie.” He tugs at his neck, clearly uncomfortable. That’s fine, I’m sure Whitney will happily take it off him later.

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