16. Dick Master

16

DICK MASTER

SOPHIA

If my dopey expression isn't a dead giveaway that I'm still reeling even though the show ended over an hour ago, I don't know what is.

Specifically the band's lyrics and Mazen's heartfelt performance have me floating on a cloud, I don't ever want to get down from.

What does this mean for us—the four of us—moving forward?

Uncertainty stirs in my stomach. It sloshes around with the concoction of mixed drinks that seemed to be never-ending. I'm thankful that the guys were forced to ride with Nick in their own vehicle when I let out a burp that would have had them checking my chest for hair. That's the beauty of being around other women. No one even bats an eye or snickers.

Women are so mature. I stifle a laugh at my own commentary.

"Earth to Soph. What's so funny?" Lacey snaps in my face. "Hello?" She knocks on my skull. "Is anyone home?" When I tilt my head in her direction, she feigns shock. "Alert and oriented. Good."

"What, are you giving up piercings for nursing now?" I ask, crinkling my nose.

Sidenote: no offense to those in health care. They're the real heroes of our nation. It's just a profession I cannot see my sister fitting into. Hello, pink hair, cleavage that simply cannot fit into those adorable little scrub tops, and top-notch vulgarity that would leave human resources busy for days.

Lacey's still sweaty with a post-concert glow, and her forehead glistens in the light from the streetlamps we pass as we drive down the road. "Are you giving up monogamy for polyamory?"

Her retort is a solid question. One I pondered more than once during their concert. My eyes drifted from one musician to the next, capturing them in their own elements. Appreciating them in different ways. While I was enamored by their raw talent, I'm more intrigued by the people they are when they're not onstage. The men I've gotten to know on a personal level are just as deep as the rock stars pouring themselves into their music for their fans.

Vanna's gentle voice coaxes me back to reality. "If Sophia were a witch, would she say she's leaning toward group hex?"

"I can't with you." My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. "You give off these sweet and innocent vibes when, really, you're just as bad as Lace is."

We exchange a smile that immediately reiterates my first judgment of her. She's good people.

"Group hex is a good one," the pink-haired diva I no longer claim as my sister chimes in, nodding her head with pride .

She, on the other hand, is not good people. She's a skank. Who I love dearly.

"I'm supposed to be the joke master." My smile is wiped away in exasperation. "What did the triangle say to the circle?" I wait a whole five seconds before blurting the answer, "You're pointless."

Tossing her head back, Lacey mocks, "Maybe dick master is a better title now. I'd rather you claim that than continue to ruin your badass tattooist reputation with the dad jokes you somehow keep at the ready."

When the vehicle comes to a halt outside of the back of our hotel, I'm relieved. As much as I love touring on the bus, sleeping in a bed suited for a grown adult is so much better than the small bunks nestled on our home away from home on wheels.

Jupiter swings his head around, eager to get out of the car to see his owners and praise them for their epic performance.

"I'm happy too, buddy," I mutter, excitement coursing through my frame, eager to lick them in admiration.

I'm a dog—a dirty, dirty dog—and I don't give a single fuck when it comes to worshipping my three rock stars for a show well done. The fact that I don't bat an eye at the my thought speaks volumes.

With Jupiter in tow, Vanna, Lacey, and I make our way upstairs, following Ashton's lead. As soon as we hit the suite, we pile into my room.

"So, what'd ya think?" I ask my sister. I don't want to put her on blast, but she was jamming. "Mazen won, didn't he?"

Lacey unzips her faux leather shorts, slides them off, then faces me with hesitation on her face. "They're mediocre. "

"My ass! You had stars in your eyes. I contemplated smacking you when I noticed a little drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as you openly gawked at my men."

Seeing the teasing laughter in my eyes, Lacey giggles. She knows I'd never smack her with ill intent.

I won't lie and say that the open eye-fucking every female in the arena did with Mazen, Ollie, and Cannon didn't irk me though. How could it not? I guess it's something I'm going to have to get used to if we continue to mix business with pleasure—and I plan on mixing a lot of pleasure with those three later.

"One's mine," Vanna shouts over the stream of water from the bathroom she's standing in, washing her makeup off.

As soon as we're all changed into comfortable clothes, faces wiped clean of makeup, we lay on my bed. My stomach growls, sounding like it's hosting a rooster fight.

"Is anyone else starving?"

"Not for food," my sister coos from the left of me.

I turn my head on the fluffy pillow holding it up to glance at her flawless oval face, cheeks painted a blushing pink from pent-up desire. "You're insatiable. It's only been a couple of days since you left Devon. If you start humping the edge of the couch, you'll be on the next flight back to Tampa."

The capped mass of striking pink hair does nothing to soften the edge in her voice. "You're choosing to patronize me while you have a harem of sexy rock stars at your disposal?"

Vanna's beautifully compact build jolts upright on the bed, the mattress dipping just a tad by her sudden movement. "Ladies," she says with a horrible attempt to sound stern. Silky black hair follows her jawline when she tilts her head to the side. "There's plenty of man ham to go around."

Mimicking Vanna's stance, Lacey sits up and folds her arms over her T-shirt in a defensive gesture. "Says the woman who's holding the fourth member of the band hostage by the new wedding band on his finger. You know what? I'm going out. We passed a bar down the street."

"Lace!" I dart off the bed. "Do you really think that's safe with Caddell out there?"

"Do you think any human—or corner of furniture in this suite, as you so bluntly put it—is safe around me right now?"

She would never cross the line she's implying. I don't doubt that for a second. I do, however, doubt that she's going to make it the rest of the tour without getting her rocks off.

"I need to find someone who isn't tied down, like the entire fucking band and their security team, to blow off some steam with me. No one will screw with me. I brought this." She shrugs her shoulders and rummages through her suitcase.

"You didn't?" I ask, already knowing she damn well did.

"Sure did, sissy." A black Taser waves through the air. "Now, I'm going to get dolled up—again—and go hunting."

"This is the most fun I've ever had on tour. Your sister is my idol." The newlywed next to me smiles wide in admiration at my sister's brashness.

Thirty minutes later, much to my dismay, Lacey leaves the safety of our suite in search of a man to dominate. Yep, you read that right.

Vanna flees to her own suite, claiming all this talk of sex has gotten her own juices flowing, and Jupiter and I are left to count down the time until our three owners arrive. Yep, you also read that right. Mazen, Oliver, and Cannon own me .

If there was ever a doubt where feelings were concerned, their show laid them to rest. I still can't believe Mazen made such a public declaration about our relationship. A hum of hope thrums in my veins at the prospect of his words being real and not just fabricated, another act for the media's benefit. It couldn't have been just another speech Lindsey had him repeating to help sell our fake-dating story. I refuse to believe it was only a ploy for the crowd.

Jupiter's body, pressed tightly against my side, offers a sense of security, luring me to sleep.

My eyelids spring open only to find darkness. The time on my phone reads one in the morning. I glance around the room to find that it's empty and then check my phone once more only to confirm that there's no text messages from my sister.

Swallowing down my anxiety about her whereabouts, a new wave of unease washes over me when my eyes skim a text message I must've gotten while I slept.

Mazen: I told them about Chicago.

His message is short, and yet, I know immediately that he's referring to the fact that he and I met for the first time ten years ago. I wish he would have given me a little bit more than an, oh by the way text.

It is what it is, I think to myself when I notice the large vacancy that Jupiter's furry body left beside me on the empty bed. In his place is a note that steals all thoughts about both my sister and the bomb Mazen dropped.

Come eat when you wake up.

Starvation lures my body off the bed and out the bedroom door faster than a teenage boy stashing a nude magazine when a parent flings open his door. I stop at the edge of the hallway, inhaling a deep breath as I take in Oliver's ink-covered tan body. I openly study him, smothering a groan, and walk slowly into the kitchen.

There's something incredibly erotic about a man in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, midsection taut with glorious mounds of muscle, parading around, oblivious to his charm. I find myself staring again. My attention is now directed at the apex of hair nestled an inch above his waistband. The small, manly characteristic is like a giant flashing arrow pointing downward, a map to the promise land. Pair that mouthwatering view with a pair of bare tan feet gliding across the kitchen floor in an effortless dance, smooth, graceful and downright suggestive.

I'm salivating like a woman in heat, a string of excess energy from the concert now pounding in my chest like Cannon's snare. Oddly, my sudden hunger has nothing at all to do with the delicious aroma wafting through the air and everything to do with Oliver Collins owning the kitchen, owning me.

"Come here," he instructs, his sinful voice pulling me from my stupor. I'm caught red-handed. "Do you want a taste?"

Oh boy, do I ever .

The minute the wooden spoon slides out from my parted lips, I groan. "Wow. That's delicious."

"Greek lemon chicken soup."

"How long have you known I was watching you?"

Detecting a flicker of heat in his intense orbs, I have my answer before he even says the words.

"Long enough for that little spaghetti strap nightie to give me a semi." He gestures to the thickening bulge in his sweatpants.

"I found something else I want a taste of," I say, standing close enough to him to feel the heat emanating from his body.

Wanting to be desired and hearing that Ollie is undeniably attracted to me have my heartbeat throbbing in my ears.

We're in a standoff, chest to chest. From the moment we met in my tattoo studio, we've been like a live wire of frantic energy. Glimpses of the times he's bedded me—me panting his name begging for release, has me involuntarily breaking our eye contact in an attempt to reel my wayward thoughts back in.

His gorgeousness knows no bounds. There's no use in pretending that he doesn't affect me. If the pulse in my neck is any indication, Oliver knows exactly why I broke his intense eye contact.

Our proximity is a kindling, a purely carnal gas for fire.

"Learn some patience, Fireball," Ollie coos, using the nickname he dubbed me the first night we met. "Good things come to those who wait," he adds with a wink before turning his back to me, tending to his soup like he is blind to the ache he left me with.

Patience. I've been as patient as an ant traveling from Ohio to California. I want the soup. I want Oliver. It's debatable as to which one I want first at this point.

The hot ache that Ollie left me with stirs in my core as I stand at his back, watching him closely. His muscled forearm flexes with each stir of the wooden spoon he's holding. It's hard to remain quiet, to not pry into why he loves to cook.

Repressing my admiration for his talent both onstage and in the kitchen is interrupted by the intoxicating musk of another man approaching me from behind.

With each heavy thud against the floor, I know it's Cannon. My body knows when his is nearby. A tingle starts at the soles of my feet and moves upward, almost like our bodies are beckoning one another. His large, callous hands land on my exposed shoulders, sending an involuntary chill throughout my entire body. His touch does nothing to remedy the heat that Oliver started. If anything, Cannon's nearness only intensifies the ache between my thighs.

"Smells good in here." Cannon's lips part. "Greek lemon?"

"Is this a staple dish, Ollie?" I ask, confused that their drummer automatically knew the dish by scent alone. "Do you have a food kink I don't know about?"

For a beat, I think my questions will go ignored. I glance over at Cannon, who is now leaning against the refrigerator, eyes locked on mine. He must sense the movement next to him because a slow smirk graces his full mouth. A split second later, Oliver is standing directly in front of me again. His sculpted body is poised between my legs, and his eyes … look as hungry as mine.

His warm hand cups my cheek tenderly as he bends down so that we're eye level, and he says, "I have an aversion to starving. "

The truth behind that statement resonates and turns my stomach.

Just the thought of Oliver as a child—hungry, afraid, alone—makes me physically ill. It still amazes me that he lived through so much adversity before he turned eighteen. It makes me that much more thankful for the other members of Kings of Jupiter. Mazen, Cannon, and Murphy became his family in all the ways that actually matter. Maybe it wasn't them per se that saved Oliver from a life that could have been vastly different than cooking in this plush pad. They were all young adults themselves. Though it's clear they advocated for Oliver, and in the end, their families accepted him into their lives.

This realization makes the fame that the band has experienced mean so much more. Lindsey should really be leaking stories about this if she wants to earn brownie points with the media. We've all heard the whole rags-to-riches success stories more times than we can collectively count, but seeing it is something else entirely.

My heart hurts for Ollie as a child.

Rearranging the hardening bulge in his pants, Oliver steps back, handing me a bowl. "It's getting late. Let's eat."

I nod, accepting the bowl, and fill it to the brim before sitting at a stool at the island. "Where's Mazen?" I ask, blowing on my spoon.

"Had some business to take care of," Cannon answers vaguely, as if he was banking on me inquiring about the singer's whereabouts.

I'm half tempted to press for details, until my thoughts are overtaken by the goodness that fills my mouth as I take a bite of Ollie's delicacy. We eat in mostly silence, sitting side by side, enjoying one another's company. I imagine that this is what being content is. It's a fleeting feeling that I haven't been acquainted with in many, many years.

My mom was the rock of our family. When cancer stole her from us, we were left broken and shattered. Uncertain how to move on without her, Lacey and I attempted to build a new life, one in which we forged a bond that went deeper than the word family . She has been my person . My reason. The tether to humanity that kept me grounded when life stole another person from me. My son.

Until now … my heart has only thudded in my chest with a fierce loyalty to her and only her. The reality that it beats wildly and stretches to make room for Oliver, Cannon, Mazen, Jupiter, Murphy, Vanna, Lindsey, and even Ashton has me forcefully fighting back a sob of acknowledgement.

The silence surrounding us is calming. It feels normal. Right. I debate on bringing up Mazen's text. I'm not sure what he told them about our night in Chicago. The fact that Oliver and Cannon haven't brought it up leaves my stomach queasy, soup sloshing in it.

By the time I finish my bowl and rinse it in the sink, I turn my attention back to the two men before me. Ready to face them head-on, I say, "Mazen told me he told you guys about us meeting in Chicago years ago."

Cannon nods wordlessly.

Oliver finishes his last bite and leans back against the stool's backrest. With one arm draped over the back of the empty chair next to him, he says, "He did."

That's it? I don't know what I expected him to reply with, but it was more than that.

"I didn't know when we first met, I swear," I add, feeling a mixture of emotions. Guilt being the main one. "When you admitted you weren't Scotty Girth, I mean. I didn't know he was part of your band then." I laugh at the memory. "I only just remembered him after the incident with Caddell. I had suppressed memories or something. At least, that's what the psychologist I spoke to on a telehealth visit said."

"Psychologist?" Cannon asks on a deep huff.

"When I was discharged from the doctor, they mentioned speaking to someone, a counselor or therapist, about the attack." I flinch at the last word. "Lindsey set it up since the whole situation was all hush-hush. When I mentioned I remembered something from a long time ago, my therapist had her colleague reach out. I guess I had repressed his memory, she explained. It doesn't normally happen unless a trauma occurs, but she said it's not an anomaly. Then, she suggested that the trauma of being kidnapped unlocked that hidden memory."

"That's why he was a dick for weeks. He remembered you, but you didn't remember him," Cannon states bluntly, almost as if he's just pieced the puzzle together himself.

"Yep," my reply is short. It's all I can muster without tearing up or feeling like a complete monster.

"He had you first?" There's a tinge of remorse in Cannon's tone. He knows the answer before I answer.

"My body, yes. Not my heart. That trophy belongs to you and Ollie."

Oliver runs a hand over his spiky blond hair. "I can live with that."

When Cannon doesn't agree, my palms begin to sweat. I need to know that this hasn't ruined what's been budding between us. Everything has happened so fast since we got back on tour. There hasn't been any time to confront them.

That's a cop-out .

Mazen found time to tell them. Then hung me out to dry and deal with the aftermath of that confession alone.

From my brief research on polyamorous relationships online, I learned trust is the foundation. That's the same for any healthy relationship, though I've never really had one of those to compare this to. I inhale, prepared for the reality that Cannon won't be able to accept my past.

I shake away the thought and ask, "Can you live with that too, Cannon? Knowing that I met Mazen years ago at a tattoo convention and slept with him."

"He wasn't memorable enough," his reply is curt, short, and to the point. "Ollie and I won't make that same mistake. You'll know we've been in you with every step you take for the next week."

My chest constricts, along with my core.

He called Oliver Ollie. That simple fact tells me that all will be okay. Along with the thick fog of desire hanging in the air between us. We haven't been together, the three of us, since the day on the tour bus when Oliver caught me blowing Cannon.

I have a feeling that's about to change.