20. Poppin’ Bottles

20

POPPIN' BOTTLES

CANNON

Kings of Jupiter has been nominated for a Grammy. It's the highest honor in music, being it's the only peer-recognized award there is in the industry.

I'll appreciate winning a little more knowing that fact, though I don't get off on the prestigious novelty of being called onto the stage like Oliver does. He eats it up every single time.

Give him a morsel of attention, and he'll come back for more.

Tonight is different. The vibe is heavier. I'd like to say it's because Sophia's presence has an added layer of pressure, weighing down our shoulders. There's no doubt that we want her to see us win. For her eyes to widen when the host calls out our name on the microphone and she realizes that the camera isn't even panning on us, but her because she's stolen the show by her raw beauty and eloquent class.

My head is usually in a cloud at these events. Daydreaming about anything else other than the reality of sitting in a penguin suit in a sea of people. It's my worst fucking nightmare. I loathe these events. No, that's not true. I loathe being around people and public places.

Give me a good book, an island, and my dog, and I'd be golden. Shit. That's not true. I need my drum set, Oliver, and Sophia too. Then I'll be as content as a man can be.

It's just not my style. I'm the background guy. The fourth wheel.

I don't make music for them . Not any of them. So, why should I accept any praise from a faceless crowd applauding us with nothing but jealousy in their irises? My relationship with music is all mine. I play for me. Every single time I pick up my sticks is like a Band-Aid to my soul.

Except tonight, when they call our band's name through the tense, hushed silence, and a fucking tear rolls down Sophia's ivory cheek. I've never been more excited to win anything in my entire life. The pride that dances between us, Murphy included, is abundant. It feels like she is hugging us all, though all she can offer everyone—except her date, Mazen—is a polite nod of her head and a friendly smile.

Tonight's victory is sweet.

Which is why our group demands we go out and celebrate our accomplishment, our win. Thankfully, it's decided we hit up a club a couple of blocks from our hotel and forgo the usual gaudy parties that follow award shows we've attended in the past. Another small win, even though the idea has me grinding my teeth. If I could stay in our suite, preferably between Oliver's and Sophia's legs, I would be satisfied.

"We good?" Mazen asks into the cell phone he's holding to his ear. He nods, then hangs up. "We have the whole VIP section tonight. "

Vanna and the girls let out a string of collective squeals. Oliver pops the top off a bottle of chilled champagne enthusiastically. Murphy leans back, planting both arms across the back of the leather bench seat and takes it all in, in true Murphy Miller fashion. Always the observer.

"We're poppin' bottles tonight!"

I can't even hide the upward curl of my lips if I wanted to as Oliver starts to spray everyone with foaming alcohol like the child he is. Undiluted laughter fills the limo. All feels right in the world.

Entering through the club's back entrance, we follow Ashton and a couple of other members of our security team through a dimly lit hallway. We're still sporting our tuxes, and the girls are still wearing their dresses. Lacey didn't attend the awards with us, so she's dressed a bit more casually in a form fitting jumper that cuts in the front to her navel. I bet we look like we just left an adult prom.

"I needed this." Lacey grabs her sister and kisses her on the cheek before turning her attention to Ashton.

Something is flourishing there even if the brute won't admit it.

"Let's dance," Vanna suggests, locking hands with Sophia and her sister. "I know the rules. Stay where we can be seen at all times, and don't take drinks from anyone not employed by the label."

Damn, she's good. It makes sense why Murphy was quick to tie her down.

The next hour is spent watching the three of them grind on one another like they're auditioning for a music video. Definitely not one of ours. We might need to change our genre if it means getting to watch Sophia hike up her dress, shaking her ass like the provocative little vixen I know she is. My dick throbs in my pants from just the sight of her letting loose, enjoying herself. She deserves it.

"I don't know how much more I can take of her being out there. Doing that." I adjust my junk, eyes trained on my woman.

Over the brim of his half-empty glass, Oliver says flatly, "Who knew she could let loose like this?" as more of an observation than a question. "I could get used to this version of her."

Mazen's dark brows bunch together like he's deep in thought before he chimes in by adding, "It's her sister. Lacey being here makes her comfortable. She can be herself."

The three of us nod in understanding, not speaking.

The truth is, Sophia has been different, more relaxed since Lacey joined us on tour. I get why. She was scared to death of Caddell hurting her sister, so she was in constant fight or flight mode. I just wish she had been open with us from the start. Been honest when she accepted Oliver's proposition to come on tour with us. There's not an ounce of doubt in me that she could have batted her eyes at him, and he would have accepted Lacey's presence as part of the deal.

Utilizing our time wisely, I break into a more serious topic. My voice grates harshly as I push out the question that's been haunting me. "What'd you get from the PI?"

After a long sigh, Mazen answers, "Mostly summed up everything we already know. Now that you guys know about her and me meeting before this tour, everything seems less like a coincidence. We're missing something vital. I can feel it. Don't you think?" Mazen's eyes are glossy. A mixed effect from the blunt he smoked before we walked in and the lingering questions he doesn't want to give light to.

I muse over his reply as his face pulls together in a somber expression. There's so much weight on his shoulders. Weight he thinks he must bear for everyone. Ever since Bethany's death, Mazen has developed a savior complex. Don't get me wrong, I understand why. He couldn't control the wreck, so he tries to have a hand in everything else. It's a fine line he's dancing since he used to be the reckless one of the four of us. I've never known a drug or thrill he would turn down.

As we stare through the horde of people dancing, rubbing up on one another, the evidence of his stress settles under the pockets of his eyes. His shoulders are set in a straight line, his spine rigid. Even with a drink in his hand lulling him into relaxation, his eyes stay glued on Sophia, tracking her every movement. He can't fight the need to be the protector, and truthfully, I don't think it's a battle he even realizes he's been waging.

Wary of the argument this might cause, I probe anyway. "You're going to dig into the secret she's still keeping, aren't you?" I ask, referring to the whereabouts of her son.

I'm amazed he hasn't flat out asked her again. Keeping true to his word, he's allowed her time to confide in us. There's no denying the attempt he's made not to push Sophia, even with multiple resources at his disposal.

He's already made his mind up. Time has run out.

My body stiffens. Exhaustion, caused by his need to know every detail she refuses to offer us, takes over. I want to refute. To scream in his face and tell him he's going to ruin this … with her … for more than just himself.

Blood roars in my ears. I'm trapped between telling him to leave it be and encouraging him to find the answer he so desperately needs to finally accept this thing that has blossomed between us.

I feel him staring at me, his look as sharp as a laser. There's a change to his face, a how the hell do you know me so well look in the form of a glower bunching at his brows. Our gazes hold for a beat before he dips his chin, offering me the answer I already knew to be true. It's a small movement, but it's there, and I accept it for what it is, knowing that he can't get past that detail of her history. I know that's what's holding him back from going all in with us. As much as I want to know the answer to that burning question myself, her withholding it won't keep me out of her pants. I'm afraid nothing will at this point.

At first, I contemplated why Mazen was so hesitant and thought it was due to his nerves that Oliver or I would make a move on him. Hell, I get it. Oliver repressed his desires for years, and I hid the details of my sex life from everyone.

The gloves are off now. We're open about our affection in front of our friends, most people on tour with us. I know Mazen though. I've watched him when Oliver's leaned in to claim my mouth on the tour bus. He's not fazed. Which is a relief and a burden because that can only mean one thing, and I know he won't stop until he knows where Roman Lozier is.

I don't fault her for keeping her past a secret. I don't even fault him for wanting to know. What I do fault him for is potentially ruining a good thing between the four of us by forcing her to tell us before she's ready. For dredging up her past while she's still dealing with the emotional turmoil from being kidnapped. I'm half-tempted to phone her psychologist as a precaution.

The look in Mazen's pewter eyes says he's determined and won't cease until he's uncovered everything there is to know about his father, Caddell, and the child the woman who stole all of our hearts birthed.

"Do us a favor." I swallow, knowing he's going to take offense to my warning.

"Don't mess this up."

Leave it to Oliver to call him out by blurting the sentence ringing loudly in my head. I didn't even realize he was paying us any attention.

"Me, fuck it up? You must be kidding." Mazen's laugh is anything but amusing, it's throaty, rough, offended. "I was buried in her before you ever even knew she existed." Heat flares from Mazen's nose like he's about to erupt in flames.

The sound of Oliver's empty glass clinks against the table. I can hear it over the blaring music. "Whose fault is that? You chose to keep her to yourself. You climbed on that bus with a shit-eating grin on your face and never spoke a word about her."

"You need to respect her boundaries, man. Before you push her too far, and she decides her privacy is more important than finishing this tour with us. This shit isn't cool. If she finds out you've been snooping, she's going to be pissed. It's not just you who's invested here. My heart is on the line. Ask yourself this: can you live with her leaving for good? I sure as hell can't." Oliver says without taking a breath.

Murphy and I sit, our eyes bouncing between our two friends. Neither of them seems willing to offer a ceasefire. This moment of reckoning is hanging on by a thread.

"We hashed this out before. No?" Murphy questions, stating the dreadful truth, reminding them both that we had a plan.

Mazen is bluntly choosing not to follow it. Threatening to shatter everything.

So much for him being patient .

"We were going to lay our curiosity to rest unless she decided that she felt comfortable enough to tell us about her son," Murphy repeats our plan as if he can will the idea to stay the course into Mazen's thick skull.

Mazen cups the back of his neck. His tension is palpable, his voice hoarse when he confesses, "I can't tell you guys why I need to know. I just do." His hand palms his chest. "It's … I just feel like—shit. What if I'm—" His words falter.

"What if the baby is yours?" Murphy interrupts, seemingly watering a seed that already took root in Mazen's chest long before this evening.

The question seems to come as no surprise to any of us. It makes perfect sense why Caddell mailed the birth certificate to Mazen specifically.

A cynical inner voice pulls at my thoughts, arranging them into order, forcing myself to consider the very real possibility that Roman's paternity could point back to him. My best friend could be a father.

I'm thinking, Where is your son then?

Mazen interrupts my train of thought. Several questions come out at once.

"What if he is? The birth certificate aligns with our one night … when we were together. Why else would someone send it addressed to me? Someone, most likely Caddell, was sending me a message, but why? I have a bad feeling I can't shake. I've tried. Fuck, I've tried. What if Roman is my son? Who the hell has him if Sophia is here with us?"

I try to ignore the pain in his voice, but it's unmistakably there, noticeable. Once the questions are out of his mouth, there's no taking them back. We sit, pondering on the answers.

The depth of his desire to learn the truth is as thick as the steady stream of patrons at the bar across from us. There's a stillness that seems to overtake the air surrounding the four of us. My heartbeat increases at the possibility of this situation blowing up in our faces, changing our lives, more so than Sophia's presence already has. Reality, logic, and reason claw at my insides.

"Holy shit." My lip trembles as the excitement of our night dulls. "I get why you need to know. I support you fully." I offer one of my best friends my understanding, knowing all the while if this turns south, my heart will be broken in the process.

"Call the PI. Tell him to look into Roman's whereabouts." The gruffness of Oliver's voice slices through the air. "We've got your back, man."

It's a declaration, an understanding, an acceptance that finding out the truth might change things for us all.

Our songwriter is at a loss for words. As Mazen bows his head, frozen in stillness for a long while, my thoughts race. I know if I feel like my world is crumbling, then he must be feeling ten times worse.

It isn't until the girls saunter back toward our secluded VIP section that he finally tilts his chin up.