Page 66 of Concerted Chaos

“No, I’m talking about how you ... you forgot one of your zoom lenses.”

“I did?” He pulls a convincing confused face. But he’s wasting his acting skills. He’s not going to fool me again.

“You left it on the table in the green room.”

“I don’t think so. I wasn’t using one in there.” He reaches toward his camera bag as if he’s going to check. The movement is too much—he might have another bomb—and that’s what triggers the hidden agents jumping out to seize him.

It’s over rather quickly. They take his gear and cuff him, and the whole time he has a bewildered expression on his face, like he can’t believe he got caught.

“Cassidy,” he tries to call to me, but I watch dispassionately.

“You tried to murder me and my brother. I have nothing more to say to you until I see you in court.”

“I swear, I didn’t do it,” he says, quoting every bad guy ever, but he is dragged out, and my part in this is over. All I want to do is cry. I want to sit down in a comfy chair, wrap myself in a blanket and weep. I’ve never been so betrayed in my life.

But the big show is starting soon, and Brix is waiting for me, and I have to go pretend nothing happened. I check my makeup and am pleased to find it has remained undamaged, possibly because of the thick coating of setting spray J’Shanna covered my face in. Good. I’m presentable. I can do this. I square my shoulders and stride out as confidently as I can. The show must go on.

Brixley holds my arm as we walk the red carpet. I’m blinded by the flashes. This is a new experience for me. I’ve walked the red carpet many times before, but as someone’s date. When you’re there with a celebrity, you trail a few paces behind them and do your best to stay out of the way of the cameras. Lesser informed press will accidentally take your picture and try to nab a short interview, but they’ll move on when they realize you’re a nobody.

But this time, I’m not a nobody. I’m the love of Jace Monroe’s life, arriving at an event to memorialize his death. They request quotes from me, wanting soundbites beyond my planned “This? Why, it’s a René Butón, of course.”

“This is difficult for all of us,” I tell one. To another I say, “Jace would have loved this. I still feel his presence with me, every day.” I tell a third, “I am so honored to be here on behalf of Jace.” Then I repeat the cycle for the next set of interviewers. Brixley is answering her own questions, but hers are more focused on the design of her dress—why, it’s a René Butón, of course—and the fabulous jewelry she’s wearing.

We finally make it through the first gauntlet, and arrive at the second, the security checkpoint.

“I’ve already done this, multiple times,” I complain to the guards. “Besides ... never mind.” I was about to say that an arrest has been made, but we’re keeping that confidential for now. Brix knows, and she was almost as horrified as me that it was Tanner.

“No wonder he was so obsessed with you,” she said when I shared the top-secret news. I found that rather insulting, since she’d previously insisted he liked me. I guess I’m not likable, except when someone needs my help to commit murder.

“Have they figured out Tanner’s motive?” Brixley asks me when we find our seats. She covers her mouth when she talks, overly cautious in case any lip readers are watching the live video feed. I doubt this is being broadcast yet, since the enormous clock in the back of the auditorium is still counting down. Despite Tanner’s terroristic intentions, he didn’t even delay anything.

“Not as of the last time you asked me, five minutes ago,” I say, after checking my phone. Mike said he’d update when he heard any news. I assume it’s going to turn out Tanner was a deranged fan, maybe someone still upset over the breakup of the Last Barons. Or maybe he was a hired hitman, sent to wreak havoc. He was cold-blooded, I’ll give him that. All those times we hung out and I never once suspected a thing. I even let him kiss me once. And I asked him to take those pictures for the magazine. He must have been secretly gloating the entire time. “I feel like a terrible judge of character,” I confide.

“It wasn’t just you. He fooled everybody. I had him on my SwiftaPic. Once they let us release the information about his arrest, I’m going to excoriate him.”

“I won’t stop you.” At the moment it’s being kept secret because for all they know, he wasn’t working alone. He may have had an accomplice, somebody skilled at making bombs. Though perhaps Tanner made them himself. He drives around in a beat-up old van. Isn’t that an indicator of maladaptive behavior? He’s one of those off-the-grid hoodie wearing manifesto writing lunatics. I bet when they search his van, they find stacks of notebooks detailing his nefarious schemes.

The lights over the audience dim and the voice of a ghost comes out through the speakers. “Hello, America! Are you ready for the Last Barons of Sound?” It’s Jace, in a recording from years ago that sends chills down my spine.

Five spotlights illuminate chairs on the stage, with four men standing behind them. Mason is on the far left, with the same devilish grin that won him so many hearts and got him into so much trouble. Next is my brother, the golden boy, with his easy smile and boyish charm. On the far right is Xander, perfectly coiffed and exuding the charisma he can switch on so easily for an audience. Devon is posed casually behind the chair next to him, but I can see the tension in his body, and Brixley hisses out a sympathetic breath. And there in the middle, is an empty chair. Jace’s death has never felt more real than it does right now, as the opening notes sound, the remaining Barons strike a pose, and the show begins.

This first song, with the infamous chair dance, is painful to watch. My eyes are drawn to the heartbreaking void in the center. I can picture Jace, with his effortless sexiness and smooth movements, in his customary position as the anchor of the group.

I am overwhelmed by grief now. All I can think is that Jace was murdered, and I befriended his killer that same night. Tanner must have been so proud when I called him to take Powell’s photo, worming his way in with hardly any effort. I wonder how long he was stalking us. It had to have been for months before he made his move, since my computer systems were hacked long before the first bombing. I knew he was good with digital manipulation software—though he claims he rarely uses it—but I had no idea he was talented in other forms of manipulation. He tricked me and I despise him for it.

Brixley’s hand finds mine, and we cling tightly to each other throughout the performance. She tears up multiple times, especially when Devon steps up and begins singing their new single, Fallen Brother. It’s the last song of the night, and cynically, I know the producers timed it so that the downloadable version goes live the instant the Last Barons hit the final note. The profits are intended to go to Jace’s foundation, but I’ve seen how record companies define profits. Little of the money will ever arrive in the charity’s coffers.

When it’s finally all over and Brixley and I make our way backstage to begin our circuit of post-show events, I am too drained to continue.

Devon and Mason are doing shots, Powell is sprawled in a chair where he’s being fawned over by one of Brixley’s supermodel friends, and Xander is apparently waiting for me. I find myself wrapped in his smelly embrace. The cologne he swam in earlier doesn’t fully mask his dance-sweat odors. None of them have bothered to shower yet.

“Stop touching me,” I slip out of his arms, hoping he didn’t leave stinky wet marks on my dress.

“Jace ...” he says, and his eyes well up with what I can only assume are false manipulative tears. Please, just stop. I need the whole messed up world to stop and give me a chance to breathe.

“The tribute was beautiful,” I tell him, because even in my weakest moments I can still be diplomatic, and then I go join my brother. He’s relieved to see me. Even the boobs spilling out of the supermodel’s dress weren’t enough to distract him. He’s tired and miserable, despite all the applause and the glory of having put on a stellar performance. He trusted Tanner too. He let him into our home on numerous occasions. He is almost—but not quite—as betrayed as me. At least Tanner never kissed him. That I know of.

“Deedee, you want to get out of here?” he asks hopefully. “You look like you aren’t feeling well. Can I take you home?”

“Yes!” I say immediately. I want to go back to my brother’s condo and chisel the centimeter-thick layer of cosmetics off my face and soak in a hot bath and mourn. Mourn for Jace, for my friendship with Tanner, for experiencing the ultimate betrayal. Alas, it is not to be. Or not to be for one of us.

“Sorry, Powell, it’s in your contract. You’re required to go to the after-party.” That comes from Liam, my brother’s manager. He used to be an assistant on the group’s tours, and he was the one roped into handling this concert. He’s a great manager, he always does a fantastic job. But he’s also a stickler for rules, and he won’t bend them, not even just this one time.

Powell makes a face. “I’m tired.” But he knows better than to breach a contract. “Fine, I’ll have one of Mike’s men escort you instead. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Poor guy. If he were to ask, I would attend the party with him. I don’t want to, but I’d do anything for my brother. But since he made the offer, I go in search of Mike and request a car before Powell can change his mind.

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