18. Sinkhole

18

SINKHOLE

SOPHIA

There's something magical about being out of the country. It's like when you go on vacation, nothing back home matters. The stress of your job, the balance of your bank account, responsibilities—they all disappear into thin air. Your mind abandons the worries and stressors that real life brings you. That's how it's felt being back on tour with the band. Especially since my sister is with me this time, and I don't have to worry about her safety.

In the secluded bubble of the tour bus, I become invincible.

I'd be ignorant not to think about our tattoo studio. Knowing Devon is there has lessened some of that worry, thankfully. He's proven to be more than just a security guard. He's managing the shop with an expertise that has me questioning why I didn't look closer at his résumé from the beginning.

While I still get to do what I love for a living and tattoo the guys after their shows, it's been nice, being allotted this time away from Tampa and some of my obligations. Which is why, as we sail through the clouds on the band's private plane, I am not excited about our next destination.

California.

It's not that I have beef with the Golden State itself. My loathing for this flight in general has more to do with being back on American soil. The same soil that both Caddell and Knox walk on. They've ruined any sort of comfort I have being back in the States.

The safety I felt with an ocean between us was dismantled when I was told that the Kings of Jupiter are up for Album of the Year. I'm Mazen's plus-one. I should be elated, ecstatic even, at the opportunity to hold his arm, stake my claim for the world to see. The butterflies swarming in my stomach aren't the good kind, I'm afraid.

Here we are, flying to attend a major award show, where Mazen and I will be paraded on the red carpet like bait for Caddell. That's the real qualm, my blatant fear unleashed. A shiver of anticipation dances across my skin because I know that my date is one of the most handsome, most admired—thanks to the fake-dating PR stunt Lindsey fabricated—musicians of our time. I'm overjoyed for him and the others—I swear it. Being nominated for this award is monumental for their careers.

I'm scared that the cameras will show how enthralled I really am with my fake boyfriend. Painting a mark on Mazen for his own father or Julian Caddell to loathe him more is the last thing I need. I haven't even come clean and told the band much more than the basics about my kidnapping. Small details, here and there, to get them off my back is about the extent of how we've left things. I did cave and informed them that I'm planning on paying off Caddell with my check from their record label, and they know about my past with Knox, his equally awful nephew. That's all I've given them. Though, when I think about it, it pretty much sums up the entire situation in a nutshell.

The only morsel of truth I have left to spill, I've bitten my tongue to keep quiet. The truth about Roman. I can tell that both Cannon and Oliver are onto me. It's in the way they watch me and Mazen. It's like they're reading between the invisible lines I'm trying so desperately to shield.

Another drawback of the evening ahead of us is that I can only hold on to Mazen's arm. Look into his eyes when they announce the band's nomination, kiss his lips to congratulate him when they call out their band as the winner— because, duh, they're going to win. All the while, Oliver and Cannon will be seated right next to me, watching with front-row seats when I gush over their best friend, ignoring them wholly. Guilt of our predicament eats at my insides as I stare out the window, eyes dancing from one puffy white cloud to the next.

There's no room for despondency in our busy schedule. As soon as the plane lands, the men are hauled off in one vehicle, and Vanna, Lacey, Jupiter, and I are piled together, driving in the opposite direction.

We spend the next several hours being waxed—holy hell, I feel like my below-the-belt-lips are being ripped from my body—styled, and pampered. By the time we make it back to the hotel, thoughts of tripping on my gown as I walk hand-in-hand with my famous boyfriend barely crosses my mind. Thanks to the copious amounts of champagne I ingested without eating lunch.

Here's to hoping I won't need to use my clutch as a barf bag.

Ashton says he's going to escort my sister and Jupiter to our room for the evening while another hired guard, I think his name is Paul or Preston, maybe, brings us to meet the others.

"Thank you," I tell the stern-faced security guard as he opens the back door of another limo, gesturing for me and Vanna to get in. I feel like we're children of divorced parents, being transported from one car to the next at a shady rest stop.

With my hand flat against the door, I reach behind me, grabbing on to Vanna's while attempting to hold on to my clutch at the same time. "Safety in numbers, right?" I say over my shoulder.

"Right. We're rolling six deep tonight." She encourages me to climb inside the dark vehicle, not a shadow of tension on her beautifully painted face.

"Come the hell on. I have to piss."

That'd be my date.

Which means the band is in tow and Vanna and I really weren't being lured into the back of a limo by a crazed stalker—and by stalker I really mean, Julian or Knox Caddell.

What a relief , I think.

Vanna follows me in, and we both fight back a grin as the band's collective whistles echo through the confined space.

"Baby girl," Murphy mumbles, voice deep, eyes roaming his wife from head to toe.

"You approve, Mr. Miller?" The Cambodian bombshell next to me shimmies, giving her husband fuck-me eyes that are hard to ignore.

I stifle a laugh, turning my attention to my guys. They're all black tuxes and business. If it wasn't for the ink adorning their hands and dancing up their necks, I might have honestly thought we stepped into the wrong limo .

"What, no catcalls for me?" My eyebrows arch mischievously as I fish for a compliment.

Oliver is the first to speak, cutting the silence, extinguishing my self-doubt. "The words I want to say are not for anyone else's ears."

We spent the day getting spoiled. Which was amazing—don't get me wrong. But I couldn't help the nagging feeling that kept sneaking up, reminding me that I'm not this girl. I'm not a supermodel or an actress or one of those influencers who crept into the spotlight by making silly makeup videos online. Though I'm not throwing shade at my girl from Pucks & Mascara blog and podcast. She's a riot, and she knows her stuff about both hockey and makeup. I envy her a little because she's the type of woman who would be better suited in this position. She's poised, beautiful, and drips class.

Though I may have been physically groomed for this evening, I'm not prepared for the myriad of feelings that are circulating in my lower belly. I'm sure as hell not in any position to afford the gown and jewelry that are on my body. I'm a small business owner. A tattooist. Just a run-of-the-mill woman trying to make her mark in this world. To say I'm feeling a tad inferior about this whole evening would be putting it mildly.

Inclining his blond head, Cannon takes a swig from his glass before his gaze settles directly on me.

I'm scorched by his intense glare. My insides turn molten.

"I second that," he says, mimicking his pal next to him.

With an adventurous toss of my head, I turn to face Mazen. The wild horse, the dark king. There's a pensive look on his face, almost like he's contemplating saying screw who's watching and taking me right here, right now. I almost wish that were the case. He's still being … distant, withdrawn. Hesitant is more expressive of how he's been toward me sexually. I don't want to rush him or push him into something he doesn't want to do. I'm a woman though, so I can't control my longing to know what is holding him back from sealing the deal between us. I know he wants me. I've felt his need thickening in his pants on numerous occasions since we entered our little ceasefire of sorts. I just don't know why he's holding back.

What's stopping him from claiming me like his friends have? Or maybe I do know and just refuse to believe that the universe could be so cruel.

There's still a secret the size of the Titanic wedged between us. One that only I'm privy to. One that is starting to corrode like a car battery in my stomach. It's probably for the best that he's abstaining from bedding me. I honestly don't think I could look him in the eyes as he sinks into me, knowing that I am hiding such a huge thing from him while enjoying getting lost in the pleasure I know he'd deliver.

I'm a liar—this we already know to be true. It's a new freaking personality trait.

There's no way in hell I'd do anything but enjoy myself while the man who wrote and dedicated an entire song to me about a tattoo I had given him slides into my sweet spot. I'd bite the inside of my cheek, sealing my mouth shut, forcing the truth to remain hidden. I'd relish every minute of pleasure that Mazen offered me. I'd lap it up like a dog on the brink of dehydration in the summer heat.

I'm so going to hell.

A giant sinkhole might as well open up and swallow me whole right now. I wouldn't even claw at the sides of the earth as it dragged me into its pit. I'm in the wrong, and I know the longer I keep Roman's life a secret, the worse the consequences will be.

Conjuring up a plan to come clean gets added to the top of my to-do list. I park the thought, offering my attention back to my friends.

If Mazen refuses to give me a compliment, I'll offer him one. "You look like you just won a trial. Then screwed the judge in front of the entire jury."

"And what are we"—Ollie gestures between himself and the broad blond beside him—"chopped liver?"

Knowing that Mazen is my date, the only male in the band that I'm permitted to be openly affectionate with in public, I seize the chance to plant a kiss on Oliver's mouth. He should know he never has to fish for compliments from me, even if I'm not allowed to show him how much I want him. He owns a part of me. My heart is split three ways.

Leaning forward, I hunch down, careful not to hit my head, as I inch toward him. Noting the rise of his thick eyebrow, I can see the question written on his face. Normally, no one is around, aside from the four of us who have entered into the vast unknown with one another. Having Murphy and Vanna as spectators is new, scary even. I'm forced to conceal my feelings for the drummer and Oliver in public, but I refuse to hide my attraction to them in front of our friends too.

"You're," I say before sealing my lips to his. They're warm and taste like … Fireball. The realization causes my heart to thump wildly in my chest. When I pull back, I turn my attention to meet Cannon's robin's-egg-blue-colored eyes as I say, "Mine." Angling my body toward his large frame, I lean forward, cup his jaw, then seal my mouth to his, gifting him the same peace offering I did the guitarist next to hi m.

"Mazen hasn't made his mind up entirely if he's with us yet or not. Don't be jealous if I give him a little more attention while I try to convince him that he'd be stupid to turn his back on us , from all that we can offer him."

"Girl, you've almost convinced me to switch teams," Vanna squeals.

A deep huff booms from her husband's chest. I think he's going to retort, pound his chest caveman-style, but what he says shocks me to my core.

"Shit, even my morals are wavering. Team Quartet." He holds his hand up in solidarity.

We collectively eye Murphy, questioning his brutal term for our situationship.

"What? I've done my fair share of Googling."

Murphy's tight-lipped smile is enough to tell me he's joking. Though the married couple's commentary hangs thick in the air as we ride in silence the rest of the way to the venue.

Thoughts of walking the red carpet infiltrate my mind. Sweat forms in areas it should be illegal to perspire. Sensing the tension coursing through my body, Cannon's oven-mitt-sized palm finds my leg.

"I didn't walk the red carpet at our first show."

Ollie chuckles. "Shit. I remember that."

The small bit of information Cannon dangles like a steak in a lion's den piques my interest. Though we've been doing this dance for a couple of weeks now, he's still not very forthcoming in the communication department. I eat up his confession, chasing any crumbs he's willing to spare.

"The tabloids blew up, claiming there was turmoil in the band already. Lindsey had a field day, trying to repair the damage my absence caused. If I remember correctly, she chose to be spiteful. Telling the press that I came down with a horrible stomachache and was stuck in the restroom."

"She didn't!" I laugh.

Lindsey is my hero. There hasn't been a time when she isn't on her A-game. She's as professional as they come, but knowing she blasted Cannon like this paints her in a new light. I like her style even more now, knowing that in the end, that was probably the last red carpet he chose to miss.

"She sure as hell did," Oliver answers. "Remember when we won and the stage crew motioned for us to get up and go onstage. One of them was holding their stomach, bending over. It was a silent gesture, asking if you felt well enough to join us onstage to accept our award."

"I could have died from food poisoning." Cannon pats his hands on his thick thighs—a nervous tic I've come to notice.

"You should have died from embarrassment," Murphy bellows, joining in on the fun. "I got an alert that night that said someone saw our tour bus parked outside a 7-Eleven, and they were praying for you, dude."

All jokes aside, I might have to pull my own Cannon-carpet-fiasco when the limo comes to a halt outside of a building that looks like it could house the entire United States Senate. Flashing lights ping every which way, causing my stomach to gurgle in a very unladylike way.