10. Don’t Be Shy

10

DON'T BE SHY

SOPHIA

I'm wedged between Oliver and Cannon when I wake, throat dry as a priest's sense of humor. I'm half tempted to nudge one or both awake to help take my mind off … everything. Sex would surely be an escape from the reality that has literally barreled into me, captured my every waking thought, and left me feeling dirty and grimy.

Thanks to the endless questions about Caddell from the band—even after I asked them to let it go—and the incessant pings from my phone, alerting me that I've been tagged in another article about Mazen's crazed stalker who attacked me. I can't stop thinking about Lindsey's fabrication, the lie she perfected to cover up the truth, which just so happens to be masking another lie. Another female wanted to axe me because of my relationship with Mazen, and the best the universe could do was throw in the third-string quarterback. I'd feel like the laughingstock of the year if it wasn't for the hundreds—no, thousands—of Kings fans who keep the persistent comments rolling in with heart-eye emojis and well wishes.

OMG, so glad you're safe. Luv you and Mazen 2gether.

Did Mazen attack the bitch and white-knight you?

Plz air his proposal online. I'll die (skull emoji) if I don't see it.

A perfect distraction. It's what I need to keep my mind off the rumors, speculations, and lies Lindsey has blasted into the big web that caused this frenzy.

The warmth pooling between my legs from being sandwiched between these two mouthwateringly handsome men is enough to send me into a fury of wanton need. I'm appreciative for it all, of course. Thankful that the truth isn't being blasted for the world to see.

Felon father left daughters to fend off mobster for money he laundered before he was framed for murder.

Cannon shifts in his sleep. The dim light from the open bathroom door clings to his long torso, highlighting every mound of his perfectly sculpted stomach. My mind quickly pushes away any thought of the kidnapping and the media and is solely focused on the blond-haired bombshell of a man lying in front of me. Ripe for the taking.

His whole bad-boy drummer persona, tussled two-day-old waves, leave me wanting to mount him like he's Jax Teller's motorcycle. I'm ready to rev his engine. I could easily slide off my T-shirt, sleep pants, climb on top of him, and lower myself onto the large bulge in his sleep pants. In one swift motion that wouldn't warrant any prep on my behalf, I'd be fully sated.

My preoccupied mind is finally torn from the constant reel of bullshit it's been littered with. Resenting myself for the cloud of filthy images infiltrating my mind, I shake the thought of using Cannon.

He's more than a dick for you to ride.

It wouldn't be fair of me to use him. Even though the thought of him—both of them—being more is scarier than Knox's iron fist.

If the alleged news of Mazen being my son's father has taught me anything, it's that I need to stop thinking about sex so casually. Which is my singular thought as I chastise myself, peel my wedged body away from them, and beeline for the door. They've morphed into something far more than I'm willing to admit, even to myself. The two of them—three of them, if I'm being honest—haven't left my side in the days following the incident, as we're referring to it. I don't take their devotion to helping me heal or their constant concern or attention lightly, and because of that, I can't use them in the way that my body wants me to.

Even though I'm sure they'd both be willing to let my broken heart mend by allowing me to use their bodies for unadulterated pleasure. I clench my thighs again as I turn the bedroom door handle, sliding into the large, dark hallway of the suite we're in and make my way toward the kitchen.

Lacey is sound asleep on the living room sofa when I turn the corner. Everyone agreed that she is safer with us than staying at our apartment alone. Though I offered her my room and said I'd bunk with Oliver, she refused. Even at our apartment, where she had her own bedroom, I'd always find her asleep on the couch.

She'll be tagging along with me for the rest of the tour, and when this is all over, I'll collect my check and sever my connection to the band. I know their tour manager is counting down the days. Putting distance between us at the end of this is the only way to ensure their safety from Caddell hurting one or all of them just to spite me .

I spot a golden-rimmed bar cart adjacent to the kitchen as I plod forward. Discarding my thirst for water, I step toward the cart and pour a mouthful of honey-colored liquid into my mouth, straight from the decanter. This is exactly what I need to numb my mind enough to fall back asleep. The first shot of amber goes down like a gulp of thumbtacks. The second is smoother. By the third mouthful, I'm a renowned bourbon connoisseur.

Leaning back against the wall, I take in my surroundings. It's still bewildering that this is my life. I'm the personal tattoo artist for a famous rock band, and I'm sleeping with two of its members. Heat warms my cheeks, and it's not from the bourbon.

I stand like a creep, watching my sister sleep on the couch, pink-dyed locks hanging over the side. She looks so peaceful, safe. Not a bruise on her body. I intend to keep it that way. Which is why I've always tackled things on my own. Maybe it's foolish of me to want to protect her. She's no longer a child that I've been forced to raise. She's an adult, an equal. There's still a part of me that wants to protect her, an even bigger part that wants to spare her from Caddell's wrath by any means necessary.

If the tables were reversed and he got to her before me … I choke down another gulp in an attempt to rid the image from my mind when a deep voice startles me, cutting through the silence.

"You know the hotel supplies these things called glasses. I could get you one if you'd like. Unless, of course, you prefer the bottle."

The sultry sound of Mazen's melodic, gravelly voice ignites a wild flutter, as if a butterfly conservatory door was left open, and they all flew out to seek refuge in my chest. My pulse leaps with excitement, if only because he's the unreserved member of the band. The wild card. For whatever reason, after my confession about remembering our past while I was in the hospital, he's kept his space.

Keeping his distance is one thing. He needs time to process my recollection of him as much as I need it to filter through how remembering him makes me feel. It's his actions that have spoken the loudest in the days following our heart-to-heart on the hospital bathroom floor. I haven't once caught Mazen screwing anyone. It seems that he's turned a celibate leaf, as odd as that is to consider.

That ends tonight. I have no qualms about using him for his body. After all, he is my boyfriend .

"Drink?" I hold the decanter out toward him. Not that I think he needs to be sloshed to bed me. It's not fun to drink your misery away alone.

"Not really my thing," he declines quickly, shaking his head. A wealth of dark hair moves when he adds, "I have something stronger. If you're interested."

I take another swig before glancing at Lacey, who is sleeping, unaware of the scene unfolding in front of her. "Drugs are illegal." My voice is now a purr.

In less than a second, he retorts, "So is littering. Hello, global warming. Come on."

He grabs the bottle, sets it in its rightful place on the cart, and gently tugs me forward by my hand. I follow behind his large frame through the suite and toward the patio.

Moonlight shines in the reflection of the large pool. I stop to dip my foot as we walk by, only to find that it's heated. A night swim might be in my future.

I've never had sex in a pool.

Mazen sits on a lounger, bare feet resting on either side of the chair he straddles casually. Everything about him is casual. From the way he leads his band as their unspoken leader to the way he beckons me to sit with him.

"Don't be shy." He does that head nod thing that men have perfected that silently means come closer .

Like a clone of Jupiter, I submit. Listening to my master, tail wagging and all, I saunter toward him. When I settle onto the lounger in front of him, our knees hit, and our legs form a diamond, our bodies parallel. The remaining gap of space between us feels like an ocean, uncharted territory.

"Have you ever been high before?" he probes, curiosity in his voice. A thin sliver of paper, baggie, and lighter magically appear in his lap.

I contemplate giving him a simple answer, a quick nod. Instead, I flatten my palms on my exposed thighs and lazily swing my head up and down as a rush of words spill from my lips. "After my mom died, I did a lot with Knox."

His name tastes gross on my tongue. Like warmed-up frozen pizza that was a smidgen too freezer burned, but you ignored the thick layer of ice because you were starving and heated it anyway. I regret trusting him just as much as my judgment in frozen food choices.

"He used to smoke a lot. It started with him, I guess. The experimenting. I feel so stupid now. He was my mentor at first. Then my friend." I divulge this information willingly for some inexplicable reason. "Then more. Foolishly, I trusted him." I'm fully clothed in my pajamas, but I feel more exposed than if I were sitting here in the nude. "First, it was smoking, then sex. I wanted to feel numb all the time. But I stopped when I found out—" The words I was pregnant dangle on the edge of my tongue like a parachutist about to free-fall from a plane suspended in the clouds. "Lacey had asthma. I didn't want any smoke on my clothes. The smell would throw her into a coughing fit." Suave recovery , I think to myself.

Leisurely, Mazen nods. A faint, "Noted," dances from his mouth in the inky air around us.

I watch in amazement as he rolls a joint. It's not an award-winning task, though like everything else he does, each casual movement, led by years of muscle memory, is seamless. Hello, there are laws against this in some states. Though I think even the stigma around marijuana is waning. What has me staring at him—aside from his sinful allure—is that I can tell that he's done this a million times. It's as natural as his presence onstage, from what I've stalked online—in the privacy of my own bunk, sound on silent.

"Smoking Section" by Jelly Roll becomes our announced anthem.

Mazen's thick, dark eyebrows furrow just a tad as his thumbs and pointer fingers work on the stuffed paper in front of me in an art form that reminds me of a burrito being rolled to perfection. Under the moonlight, his lips glisten as he wets them once, then twice, his tongue moving ever so slightly as it peeks out of his mouth, licking the paper in his hand in wistful horizontal strokes before he folds it over, sealing it shut.

Glancing up, Mazen quirks an eyebrow at me questioningly when he realizes how attuned to his subtle movements I've become. The perfectly shaped arches gracing his face indicate a laugh is coming. I see his mouth part seconds before the hushed sound escapes.

"What?" Girlish charm hits level ten, followed by a lingering giggle. Here goes nothing, I think before I go all in, committing to the idea of being thoroughly screwed by Mazen Wilde. The ultimate reprieve from reality just out of reach.

He made me forget once before. I need that from him again. I need him to help flip my switch off, to drown out the noise. The bullshit brewing, a constant clattering of what-ifs in my mind. He's the perfect escape. Laden in darkness—from the strands of inky-black hair, to the thick eyebrows that scream his foreign ancestry, to the etching of ink across his knuckles that reads Wild . My thighs clench at the thought of that very hand, of those tattooed knuckles sliding past the edge of my panties, sinking into me far enough that the ink disappears completely. He's come so far from the boyish version I first met years ago. I want a taste of the man he turned into. The man who sings for a living, the man who uses his sex appeal onstage to make his female fanbase wanton.

Wrap me in a Wet for Wilde T-shirt because I'm here to stake claim as his number one groupie.

The lead singer of Kings of Jupiter is the perfect escape. It's an added benefit that he is my temporary fake boyfriend. Our bodies, like old friends, have already met in a previous era of time. It will be like two high school friends meeting for a cup of coffee to chat after college graduation. Except, instead of our hands holding mugs, our mouths sipping on caffeine, they'll roam one another's skin. An exploration of roads already traveled.

I'd be lying if I said I don't care about Mazen. He's impossible not to like. The bad boy every woman wants to tame. Though my feelings for him are different from the ones I have budding in my chest for his friends. Oliver and Cannon have staked their claim on me. I know where I stand with them. We've blurred the line between business and pleasure, and even though I know this tour has an end date, I have a sinking suspicion that neither of them will respect the terms of our initial agreement. I'd also be lying if I said I didn't want the same thing … them … both of them … maybe all three of them. It's a possibility that's just out of reach. I squash it before I can feed too much into it, only to get my hope diminished.

Since I admitted to remembering our one-night stand, he hasn't so much as tried anything with me or shown that he reciprocates any feelings whatsoever toward me. Just when I think I've figured him out, he somehow keeps me guessing.

"You made that look sexy. That's all."

Suddenly, his jaw is clamped tight, set in a grim line. That's the first clue that the brick wall he's standing behind is starting to crack. I get it. He's mastered guarding his heart, a heart that I forgot. A heart that my ignorance of the night we shared together broke.

I grin, refusing to cower, to accept defeat. I offer him an air of pleasure, before saying, "Does that embarrass you or something, Wilde?"

"Do I look like a guy who embarrasses easily?"

"No, but you also don't look like one who gets pissed off when a woman tells you she finds it sexy, watching you—"

A stunned expression descends over his facial features. Another crack in the hard exterior of his fortress. "I'm not pissed."

"You're also not as smart as I pegged you to be." I nonchalantly scoot forward on the lounger, our kneecaps brushing. My outer thighs are now encased by his inner thighs. "When a woman's had a couple of drinks, agrees to smoke with you, then peppers you with compliments calling you sexy, you shouldn't tense up like you just walked in on your parents boning. "

That earns a tight crease on his forehead.

Lightening the mood, I motion to the rolled-up paper in his hand. "Are you going to light that up? Then ask me if I want to S and S?"

The corner of his mouth twists. "Enlighten me. What is S and S exactly?"

"Smoke and swim." I shrug casually.

"Here I thought, we were corrupting you." Lighting the end of the joint, he takes a deep pull, inhaling. Its red cherry end burns bright, like my attraction to him.

The moonlight lingers above us, casting us in a glow, and a comfortable silence forms between us. Mazen hands me the rolled paper after another drag. I take it, allowing its smoke to fill my lungs as I take a couple of small hits before passing it back to him.

Even in the dead of night, it's hard to miss the gray in his eyes as they survey the thick space between us. There's a lethal calm in his glare that has me questioning the intense electricity flowing between us. Maybe it's because we're sitting so close, sharing a joint, or maybe it's because we're both tired of pretending that something didn't blossom between us all those years ago. Something that even time couldn't extinguish. Something that I hope Mazen's done fighting against.

I dive headfirst into the unknown, praying that he'll catch me. "They're treating me like glass." A small pout forms on my mouth. "They haven't touched me once. I feel like I'm going to explode."

"That's because when you came back to us, you were broken. Even if you claim otherwise. They're scared to push you. Break you more. Can't fault them for caring about you."

"I was already broken before you guys strolled into my studio." I'm walking a fine line. "I don't need to be coddled. I need to be fucked. I need them to take off their kid gloves, remind me that I'm strong enough to take them … both. Caddell can't collect all the broken pieces of me that he shattered. Ollie and Cannon shouldn't try either." Smoke fills my lungs, along with my newfound courage. "I need to be reminded that they want me. Their tattooist. That I'm still worthy in their eyes."

Eyes full of half-promises sparkle with satisfaction when Mazen says, "Then, I won't feel guilty when I do this."