12. Little Lozier

12

LITTLE LOZIER

MAZEN

I stumble through the kitchen like a newborn fawn, remnants of egg wash clinging to the apron that is tied around my waist. I'm no fucking good at being docile or domesticated.

"Shit," I call out, cracking yet another yolk. Its golden center no longer a globe. "Fuck, how do people make this look so easy?"

About the same time the yolk cracks, the toaster sends a piece of blackened bread into the air, like it's a flying squirrel preparing to glide toward a tree. I'm caught so off guard that I don't have time to catch it before the burned square and crumbs tumble to the ground.

As if it were a rare steak, Jupiter leaps off the love seat, abandoning his morning-sun basking spot, and makes it to my side in a nanosecond. Hell, that's quicker than I've ever seen him move. Much to my dismay, I watch as our husky eyes the blackened bread. His snout scrunches in horror at the monstrosity, and he tilts his head to the side as he glances up at me with almost as much disgust as he eyed the bread.

"I wouldn't eat it either, buddy. Cut me some slack though. You know I'm no chef."

His bark is all the confirmation I need to know that I would die on day one of Naked and Afraid . We're holed up in this five-star hotel, all the amenities you could want, and here I am, unable to toast a fucking piece of sliced bread to perfection.

My goal was to get up before everyone and prepare breakfast—another peace offering, if you will—to enjoy our last couple of hours of normalcy before we hit the road again. We're going back on tour with an additional female. Leaving without the Taser-wielding, pink-haired psycho was a deal-breaker for Sophia, which means I'll be sleeping with one fucking eye open for the next couple of weeks.

"I've heard happier servers slinging plates at Waffle House," says the Taser-wielding psycho, Lacey, as she sits up from her claim on the couch, a mound of neon hair on her head.

"A delicacy during our adolescence," a sultry voice booms from the hallway, joining in on the mockery before she's even rounded the corner.

I smell her before I see her. My senses are already that in tune with her essence.

"Morning, Lace."

Sophia stretches as she nears the couch. A thin line of skin on showcase makes me weak in the knees. I lean against the cool edge of the countertop, hoping that the large island is enough to hide my monster cock as it pants a hard throb in my sweats, begging to say good morning to Rosella.

A smile tips the corners of my mouth up, and I watch her sink onto the makeshift bed, a yawn leaving her luscious lips.

Morning Sophia is a sight for sore eyes.

In the weeks she has been on tour with us, I'm usually not around this early. I'm either still passed out from getting blitzed out of my damn mind after our show and post-show tattoo session or at the gym. There's no in-between in my schedule.

If we're being honest, I've been doing pretty much anything to keep myself occupied and away from the red-haired beauty in front of me. Smoking so much reefer that I could float away usually does the trick at keeping my thoughts of her delicate mouth at bay. I'm kicking myself in the ass for it now. If I hadn't been so caught up in pushing her away, punishing her for not remembering me or the night we shared, I could have had her in my arms sooner.

Apparently, I'm a shit cook and a shit human.

Last night, things changed. Today, I woke up for the first time in a long while with an excited energy coursing through my veins.

There's something so serene about seeing someone fresh out of bed, sleep clinging to their voice, hope of what the day before them holds dancing in their irises. I want to bottle this version of her up and use it to supply aid to my spank bank for eternity.

"You hungry?" I call out from my position in the kitchen, a gold knob poking into my flesh, as I'm still holding up the island with my morning wood.

If music doesn't pan out, I wonder if I'd hack it as a carpenter.

"Not really. I'll take some coffee though."

Filling up a steaming mug, I add a splash of creamer, uncertain how Sophia likes her coffee. I decide to add another pour of creamer, remembering Lindsey delivering sugar in a cup with a splash of actual coffee once before, and then I walk into the living room. I offer her the now-milky-white cup of coffee, and our hands brush innocently as the mug slips from my grasp to hers. Though I know this, it doesn't stop the jolt of fucking electricity, strong enough to power all of the Vegas Strip, in this one embrace. My skin burns in a delicious ache as my hand falls back to my side.

"You're a cup short, Wilde," Lacey teases, eyes slanting with a gleam as wild as her personality. "Lucky for you and your unchivalrous ways, I already have plans this morning."

As if she summoned him with her words, the door to our suite opens, welcoming Ashton, our band's head of security. Jupiter is hot on his heels when he darts forward, as if sensing that he, too, has plans with a new friend.

"Morning, handsome," the demented one says, extending her hand and rubbing Jupiter's thick mane when he jumps onto the couch, nuzzling his way between the two Lozier sisters.

And they say dogs are loyal.

With a click of the clasp on his leash, Jupiter jumps back off the couch and bounds back toward Ashton. I debate getting them Traitor Crew T-shirts made.

"Lacey, you still want to come on our morning walk?"

Jupiter wags his bushy tail.

Sophia awes.

Ashton fucking blushes, and I groan internally.

"Give me five minutes, and I'm all yours." She jumps up, gives her sister a quick peck on the cheek, and then bounces down the hallway.

The three of us, including Jupiter, make our way into the kitchen and shoot the breeze, standing around the island. Yes, the very one that looks like an atomic bomb detonated on top of the marble slab by my lack of culinary finesse.

"Decided not to wait for Oliver to make breakfast, I see." Ashton rolls his eyes at the mess I've made of the kitchen. He's been around too long for his own good, which means he has zero remorse about calling me out on my bullshit and my obvious lack of domesticity.

"I don't need Oliver or anyone else to feed me."

"Clearly," he retorts with another eye roll before his gaze darts back toward the empty hallway.

We haven't even left for the tour yet, and the brawny bastard already has it bad. Maybe we should set some ground rules about fraternization on tour. Who cares if I'm the one to break them? Rules are meant to be broken.

"Says the man who appears to have gone through a carton of eggs." Sophia nods to the empty container, and then her eyes track toward the empty plate resting next to said container. "With nothing to show for it." Peering at the stack of plates and then straight into my soul, she nods to herself, sending a string of embarrassment down my spine.

What feels like a century later but is only a couple of minutes, Lacey reappears, sliding up to her sister. Great. She's just in time to break the tension of my epic failure. Praise the little lunatic for doing me a solid for once.

"It's a good thing he's pretty, and he can sing, huh? Otherwise, he'd be totally useless."

I take back my previous compliment.

"You a fan of our music?"

"I'm a fan of music in general. Kings of Jupiter is subpar. I'm just here so my sister doesn't lose sleep over my well-being. Don't get it twisted."

"Bet you a hundred bucks by the end of the tour, you'll be our biggest fan," I counter her diss .

Her eager response matches mine in potency. "Bet you a hundred bucks my sister falls in love with your best friends before you even have a chance to show her that you're not just another pretty-faced male who never outgrew his emo phase, allowing it to become his entire identity."

Words as sharp as a knife cut into the hard armor of my skin, slicing through muscle and tendons until they're close enough to pierce the confines of my heart.

What the fuck?

Her bet resonates for a few beats before the challenge in her eyes pulls me forward, beckoning me to prove her wrong.

The bitch is goading me. The faint purse of her glossed lips, which tilt upward at the same time that I take my first step toward her, confirms it.

And it's working.

Little Lozier doesn't know it yet, but I never lose, and I don't take well to intimidation. Even if it's coming from a woman covered in ink, highlighter-pink hair, and balls of fucking steel. She might be standing next to my linebacker of a security guard, but his presence doesn't stop me from leaving the space I labeled as my own behind the island and intruding into Lacey's bubble.

Our chests butt up to one another, each of us gambling with high stakes.

I lean forward until my mouth is at the shell of Lacey's ear. It's not surprising that she doesn't gasp or move an inch. Her backbone is built from the men she's broken in her short time circling this earth.

I'm a different breed, and she's going to fucking learn it the hard way, it seems. Sophia's sister or not, I will win this bet, and when I do, she's not only going to be Kings of Jupiter's biggest fan, but she's also going to give an epic speech when I marry her sister.

This broad will eat crow for breakfast because it's the only thing I actually do know how to serve.

"You're on," I whisper through the pink locks framing her face. "Be sure to order your fan merch now though. I hear our website sells out fast."

The cunning woman in front of me turns her head to face me so quickly that I have to jerk away to nearly miss our lips brushing. Deranged is putting it mildly. She's a certified lunatic. My eyes widen as I wonder what Sophia is thinking. I can't move to take a glance because Lacey's next words steal all the air from my lungs, and I freeze in disbelief.

"You're already losing, Wilde. Don't you see? Your head has been too stuck up your own ass to notice. She's head over heels for your drummer and guitarist, and I don't know if you took anatomy, but she only has two holes below the belt that can be filled comfortably." Her hand, with her sharp-as-sin nails, pats me on my shoulder as she drives her warning home like a whack across my skull. "You're the odd man out. The sooner you accept that, the better you'll be."

Turning on her heel, she kisses Sophia's cheek, once again driving home the point of who is closer to her sister. In a cool, aloof manner, I stare at the crown of her head, speechless. I can't even rally up a quick enough response to protest her threat as she tells her sister she'll bring her back some food and leaves before I have a chance to trudge through the havoc her words left me in.

Words are my expertise. I'm a songwriter. A weaver of tales. In this moment, I've been reduced to nothing more than a crumpled-up piece of paper, waiting to be tossed in the garbage .

Before Ashton, Jupiter, and the worst future sister-in-law in the entire universe make it to the door, I dig deep and find my voice. The sound of the spatula I toss into the sink echoes as I call out, "Ash, will you please do me a solid and bring back enough for everyone?"

"You got it. Come on, Jupiter, Lacey." He gestures for them before shutting the door, leaving me with my hardened jaw clenched so tight.

I'm disoriented by what the fuck just happened.

"What's with the Martha Stewart impersonation?" Sophia asks as she backs away from the island, seemingly not shocked or disoriented at all from the tug-of-war that she just witnessed. She sinks onto her sister's makeshift bed on the couch, eyes still glossy with sleep, awaiting my answer.

I try to remain rational as she pulls a blanket over herself, but my thoughts are reeling as I sink onto the couch next to her, fighting the urge to pry into her indifferent attitude. I shoot her a commanding look, irritated that she's able to brush off the start of a war between her sister and me. I guess if we're being honest, the war started when she tased me. Her little declaration this morning only solidified that she'll fight to the death.

She doesn't know it yet, but I will too. I finally have Rosella back in my life, and I refuse to lose her again.

Swallowing down my insecurities, I lead with the truth. "Trying my hand at being nice."

"How's it going for you?" Her smile is infectious, as bright as the looming sun in the sky. Her pun is no doubt a dig at the tension that just wove itself around the room like a cat dragging a ball of yarn around on its paws.

Folding my arms behind my neck, I stretch out my legs. My shins gliding under the coffee table. "Not well. I can't cook or—"

"Be cordial?"

It's as if she's trying to erect a wall between us too. I thought last night … showing her … them … that I could be a team player, share her, meant something. At least for me, it did. I thought it was a step forward in the right direction. Partaking in their little group sexcapades was a sign of good faith that I'm here, I want in, with them. An indication that I could be what she needs me to be. Fuck. If I can't have her to myself, there's no one aside from my two best friends that I'd rather share her with.

It's not in my nature to share. My father instilled that notion in my head practically before I took my first steps. He ingrained in my sister and me that we were superior to everyone. He put us on a pedestal next to him in the limelight. After Bethany's death, when the world crashed around us, I broke every image he'd tried to fit me into. I shattered the perfectly sculpted family tree and burned it to the ground, along with any relationship that he sought after.

My sister died, my mom fled, and my father became nothing more than a name and a signature on a piece of paper. Oh, and my governor, but I've never cared for politics anyway.

There's no one else on the face of this miserable fucking planet that understands me like Oliver, Cannon, and Murphy do. They're the family I chose when my father tried to force his lifestyle, dreams, and ambitions on me.

Lacey's threat has a tinge of truth in it that rings loudly in my ears. I think that's what hits so close to home. The pain of that truth is like constant ringing, but it's nothing compared to the pang I feel in my chest knowing that Rosella has already fallen for my bandmates, and I'm the fourth wheel. They chose her over me .

Can I really blame them?

No one chooses Mazen Matthew Wilde. Not my mom, who deserted me, leaving me to mourn Bethany's death alone. Not my father when I refused to follow in his footsteps, and now, not my friends …

Somehow, Sophia's soft, "Mazen," clamors in my chest. Her voice is reserved yet packed with concern.

My internal monologue grows silent as she steals my attention for the seven hundred and forty-sixth time since I met her. The cushion moves when Sophia pulls herself off it and shocks the shit out of me as she climbs on top of my lap, straddling me. Her inner thighs hold firm to my outer thighs, as if she's got my entire body, heart, and soul in a vise grip.