21. Honeybear Café

21

HONEYBEAR CAFé

MAZEN

If there was a limit on heartbreak per lifetime, I'd be nearing it.

I know the moment Sophia's petite frame stops in front of me that I'm a glutton for punishment. Hair sticks to the sides of her perfectly carved cheekbones with sweat. Her chest is glistening. And her smile is so pure that it nearly wrecks me. Searching for answers that I shouldn't have any business needing, but desperately do, my lungs begin to clench. It feels like all the air has been vacuum-sucked out of the large room.

"Shame on Me" by Catch Your Breath infiltrates my mind at the same time a burst of adrenaline courses through my veins. Thoughts muddle. The apprehension I have about outright asking her sloshes around in my empty stomach, alongside the alcohol I've swallowed by the pint this evening.

"My legs are going to feel like jelly in the morning." She falls onto the thick leather cushion next to me. "I haven't danced like that in years."

Sitting forward, I look at her intently, silently trying to drag the truth from her beautifully carved lips. Did we create a baby together in Chicago, Rosella?

It's on the tip of my tongue when Oliver sits back down, having returned from the restroom, wedging himself between us. "What flavor would you be?" he asks, masterly pulling me from my thoughts. Breaking the tension with his wit. It's what he's known for. Good at even. He's the one who keeps us all smiling, on our toes.

"What?" Sophia asks.

"Of jelly," he states matter-of-factly. "I'm a strawberry guy. Grape is too tart for my liking."

"You're a mess, is what you are." She laughs, her infectious smile lingering.

"I'd be honey. Thick and sticky." I chime in.

The amber liquid I've been steadily sipping has me relaxing into their conversation. It's a lot less accusatory than the one I want to have with her.

"I'm plain butter." Cannon shrugs before taking a sip of his drink. "Nothing special."

I watch as her forest-green eyes flicker with hurt.

"Believe it or not, butter is how I prefer my biscuits." Her eyes sweep down as she drinks Cannon in before they move upward to his broad chest.

The buttons of his white shirt are undone at the top, showing just enough skin to entice Sophia.

Lust lingers in her polished jade eyes as they turn from Cannon to me and then land on Ollie. The invisible web of attraction that connects us builds at a rapid beat. The music pulsating through the air mimics the pulse throbbing in her carved neck. I stare a little too long, my lips wanting to sear a path down her neck, urgent and exploratory.

"Why don't we move this party to the diner down the street before you all eat one another in front of us?" Murphy asks sternly, sensing the hunger forming between us.

"Yes, please," Lacey begs. "I'd rather not be present when my sister gets plowed by these three."

The diner is nearly empty when we arrive. Ashton slides the label's black credit card across the counter. The owner takes it greedily before unplugging the Open sign in the window. Another perk of our line of work.

We order and eat in silence. The greasy food soaking up the liquor in our stomachs.

The sound of my phone dinging causes my heart to pick up a steady hammering motion in my chest. I texted my PI before we left the club. One simple request, a sentence: Find out where Roman Lozier is.

"So, a Grammy." It's the pink-haired Lozier who forces my attention back to the table. She can't leave well enough alone. "That's gnarly."

Giving the table my attention, I decide to finish eating before I slide my phone out of my pocket. It might not even be him. It's most likely not. He couldn't have tracked down Roman's whereabouts that quickly.

"Are you conceding?" I ask, reminding Lacey of the little wager we shook on.

Of course it'd take our band winning a Grammy for her to see we're real musicians, and we're kind of good at what we do. I think the Grammy indicates we're the best actually.

"Are you?" she presses, lips pursed, daring me to answer.

Sophia interjects, drawing my attention from the plate in front of me, "This place reminds me of Honeybear Café. Don't you think, Lace?"

"Yeah. A little. Rogers Park was always so crowded though. This gem seems like a hidden treasure, and these biscuits are mouthwatering. I think I'm going to ask for a sack to-go for breakfast."

With a mouthful of hash browns, Ollie asks, "Where's Honeybear Café? Cute name."

"It's a little café in Chicago." Lacey's tone holds an edge that she usually only reserves for me. The word Chicago cold on her tongue.

There's no amount of willpower in my six-foot-two frame that stands a chance against the incessant nagging in the pit of my stomach. It's as if fate backhands me across the face. With my cheek still stinging, her remark echoes through the drunken wavelengths in my brain. A simple reminder that there are important questions that need answering. Much more important than where a fucking café is located.

"Have you been back to the tattoo convention in Chicago since we met, Sophia?" I ask, shifting a guard around my heart just in case her plate of pancakes hasn't absorbed all the alcohol in her system, and she falters at my question.

Wide-eyed and stunned, she chokes on her orange juice. She pounds on her chest, and those green eyes of hers are quick to douse me in scrutiny. Her silent question— Why are you asking? —is replaced by a quick, awkward clearing of her throat.

Ignorant to the palpable shift in the diner, Lacey carelessly clicks her tongue, opening a door that teeters off its hinges. "We used to visit home every year on the anniversary of his dea—"

Regaining her composure, Sophia cuts in. Her answer is chaste, to the point. "No, I haven't." The usually enchanting emerald of her eyes fades into a hazy mist. "Is everyone done? It's late. I'm getting pretty tired. I hope no one wants celebratory tattoos."

There's no going back now.

"Whose death?" I demand an answer, nostrils flaring.

Lacey must sense my resolve crumbling, or she drank more than I thought because she answers immediately, without pause, like I've summoned a fact she can't swallow down.

"Roman's." Her voice is nearly a whisper, yet his name pounds against my eardrums with a force that is hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

My eyes dart to Sophia's at the mention of her son's … our son's name. I don't need a DNA test to confirm my suspicions. My gut hasn't led me astray thus far. I don't even need to pull my cell phone from my pocket to confirm the worst possible news I've ever heard. I do it anyway. Just in case Lacey's just sloshed out of her mind, telling tales.

I skim the text message from my PI, and my heart sinks when I read, Roman Forest Lozier. Date of birth: July 13, 2013. Date of death: July 15, 2013.

No. There must be some mistake.

Seemingly lost in her own musing, Sophia painfully slowly pans her glossy eyes upward until they meet mine across the dingy linoleum table. The answer I've been searching for is reflected both on my screen and in her ashen face. There are no more diversions for Sophia to hide behind. His name ignites a spark of grief, despair. Like she hasn't allowed herself the pleasure of speaking his name out loud for some time.

The seconds pass by as the fearful clarity of the moment solidifies. A veil of reality hovers over the seven of us, a rainstorm on the horizon. A deep thunder on the verge of a rousing storm.

I am the hail. The wind. A disaster about to wreak havoc.

"Who was Roman's father, Sophia? Surely he visited his son on the anniversary of his death too, right? Do you still speak to him? After all this time, I mean, I'm sure you've remained friends, haven't you?" I goad her.

She stirs uneasily in the booth, and the silence growing between us becomes more uncomfortable. If I had expected her to answer me directly with a yes or no, I would have been indisputably mistaken. Dread swells in my heart with the pregnant pause that hangs from Sophia's parted lips.

My fist slams down on the table. Plates and cups rattle as the first round of the brewing storm inside me flares. The contents of juice, water, and milk slosh over the rims of our half-full glasses.

Like my heart, they overflow, puddling into nothing.

"That's enough," Cannon huffs, sensing the escalation of the situation in the air. "Do not do this right now." The anger illuminating in his blue eyes cautions me not to push his resolve.

There's not a soul in this restaurant who thinks I'm the person he's protecting right now. Even as my heart slowly stops beating, falling stagnant, it's Sophia's heart that my drummer is guarding .

Murphy stands at the edge of the table before he briskly walks up behind me. His callous hands grip each of my shoulders, grounding me in place. "We don't want to cause a scene. Let's go back to the hotel. Take a beat, and get some rest. We'll come back to this conversation tomorrow, when we're all not so on edge and drunk."

"Take a beat," I scoff, my body flinching at the audacity that I need to chill.

Anger is a tangible being in my chest, flicking a lighter with the promise of destruction on his face.

"I can't even fucking breathe right now, and you want me to take a beat." My fingers find the long black strands of hair on top of my throbbing head, and I pull so hard that I wince. The pain is a welcome distraction. I call out to it. Allowing it to tether me, an attempt to rein myself in from the madness darkening my vision.

With the snap of a finger, I lose all sense of reality. Misery takes up all rational thoughts. The raw, primitive sorrow that marred my heart at the mention of Roman's death leaves me feeling grief-stricken, tormented by the fucking truth she still won't give me.

I deserve the truth.

I have the right to know I was a father.

I deserve to hear it from her goddamn mouth.

Clinging to the wretchedness that has filled my entire body from head to toe, I grip the edge of the table before tossing it to the side as if it weighs nothing. The dishes that were atop it shatter as they hit the floor. Chaos erupts, but my eyes never leave Sophia's.

With the barrier of the table now out of my way, I take a step forward, sinking to my knees in front of her. With my arms outstretched, I hold on to the top of the bench behind her, caging her in on either side. She presses a hand over her mouth compulsively, like seeing me reduced to the shaking, blubbering man in front of her physically pains her.

It should pain her. I want her soul to be split in half like mine is. I want her throat to feel like it's closing, restricting the very breath she needs to survive like mine is doing.

A glazed look of torment spreads over her face as I lean forward, crowding her, demanding her attention.

"Who was Roman's father?" My voice is raw, devoid of all emotion, even though emotion is the only thing guiding me. "Look me in my eyes, and tell me, Rosella. There isn't a father listed on his birth certificate. But you already know that. I need to hear it from your mouth."

Unbridled anger hardens my features.

Sophia's arms fold around her sparkling red gown as I trap her in, refusing to back down now. I clench my teeth, furious, bathing in a rage that's consuming me whole.

There's a deep tremble in her body when she whispers, "I don't know."

I crack.

I bleed.

I die a little on the inside.

A tense silence cloaks the diner as recognition settles over our friends.

The sharp intake of breath from my left sounds like it comes from Vanna, and it is the only proof that we're all still alive because I feel as if my world just imploded. I don't know … anything. I don't feel … anything other than sorrow.

Anger is replaced by an ache in my chest so robust, I can feel it in every chamber of my heart. It's so forceful my knees weaken. Nothing registers, aside from the tightness in my chest, coiling with a frightening intensity.

A scream bellows from the depths of my soul when I stand, stalking toward the counter. It's as if I'm reliving the pain of losing my sister again. Except this time, the ache is deeper, greater, clinging on to every fiber of my being in a vise grip. It bleeds into each crevice of my shredded heart.

The torn pieces break into smaller shards over the son I didn't know I had. The child who was laid to rest without his father there to bid him goodbye.

Caddell knew all along. It's why he mailed the certificate to me.

I'm a fucking fool.

Rage engulfs my soul, guiding my clenched hands without thought. Paper towel holders, salt and pepper shakers, and bottles of half-used condiments fly into the air as I slide my hands down the entire length of the counter, sweeping everything off.

How did the best night of our careers, turn into the worst night of my entire fucking life?

Darkness is all I see.

Emptiness is all I feel.

Without a backward glance, I stagger toward the restaurant door, swing it open, and step out into the night with nothing but my savage heart beating wildly in my chest.