28. Orange Juice with Vodka

28

ORANGE JUICE WITH VODKA

MAZEN

Touring the globe with your best friends brings a certain level of chaos that never seems to wane. From the constant chatter, strumming of guitars, Jupiter barking, and crowds screaming our names when we attempt to do mundane things, like stocking up on energy drinks at gas stations, I've come to recognize that the commotion is never-ending.

A record on repeat.

The fame wavers between a blessing and a curse, and the noise can be a bit too much at times.

As I sit across from Sophia, who is moving around the yolk of her egg with the metal edge of her fork, a blank expression on her face, the silence I normally long for is overwhelming.

After I took her rougher than I ever have any other woman, we showered together in—you guessed it—complete silence. Then, I watched as she brushed her teeth, washing away the toothpaste that dropped off into the basin, knowing that we were in a hotel and the housekeepers would wipe it clean regardless. She dressed in silence. Blow-dried her long red hair—the sound of the blow-dryer a bigger buffer than I'd have liked—and then finally, finally, she spoke.

"Brunch?"

The one word she offered hit harder than a boulder rolling off a mountain straight into the cavity that houses my heart.

That was thirty minutes ago.

We're sitting, eating brunch in deafening silence at the small table in our suite like I didn't rearrange her guts for a solid hour and then get the cold shoulder. Just when I think I can't take it a second longer, my phone rings.

Sophia's eyes dart to the lit-up screen. "Are you going to answer that?"

"Are you ready for me to answer it?"

"No." The truth that bellows from her mouth speaks volumes. "I thought they'd just email you the results or something. Don't you want to see it in writing?"

"Apparently, this warrants a phone call."

Brows that she ignored the duty of penciling in this morning are a shade lighter than normal. I watch as they pull into a sharp frown. When she finally moves her gaze from my now-silent cell phone, her mouth pulls into a thin-lipped smile, which is nearly a spectacle in itself because her lips would make even Angelina Jolie envious.

I watch emotions dance across her ivory cheeks. I wish I could read her mind and ease her fears. It's my fault for acting like a grade-A asshole after the award show. I made her feel this way by painting her out to be a deceptive liar. Stomaching that truth is enough to make the contents in my abdomen swirl.

I gulp down my regret and orange juice with vodka— thank you, minibar—and little by little, my own nerves start to disappear. "I was telling the truth when I said it didn't matter anymore. You, Sophia, you matter."

"I don't think you'll feel that way when you call back, and they tell you that the DNA matches. It's still wild that they could do that overnight when it supposedly takes weeks or months."

"Rock star, remember?" My joke falls flat.

She runs her hand through her hair, her eyes pinned on me. "For what it's worth, I truly didn't remember our night together. I never once considered you—not this version, of course, but the guy I'd met at the convention—could be Roman's father. Trust me, I know how that makes me sound."

Her fork clangs against her plate as she readies her breath to say, "You held on to my memory for ten damn years, and I forgot yours like … like that night was as insignificant as this egg. I'm sorry."

"I feel a no more I'm sorry pact brewing." I fold my leg over my opposite knee, then lean back in my chair. "Listen, I was pissed when I realized you didn't remember me. I was also pissed at Murphy for getting engaged and buying his own tour bus. We all were, and we still care about him. Let's let bygones be bygones from this point forward. No more of that slut-shaming either. You're a woman who handled a tough situation all alone and came out stronger on the other side. Plus, sluts are hot," I add with a wink.

"Don't do that." She waves her hand between us. It's a dismissive gesture. "Don't paint me out to be some saint. I was a stupidly naive girl who slept with too many men to fill the void my mother's death left in me. Look where that got me—sitting across the table with a man who could be my child's father. "

I reach forward, collecting her hand in mine. "If I am Roman's father, it won't change anything. Bygones, remember? We just established that."

"You're lying again. It'll change everything." Her small voice grows louder. "You could have been there when he was born. Held him before he was stolen from this earth. Looked into his beautiful little eyes." The pain in her tone is palpable. It's written on her face, carved into the depths of her soul.

Losing someone you love is a pain that never diminishes. If anything, it only intensifies. Time dulls the constant reminder that they're not here, but the grief never wanes. It gets worse with each holiday or birthday that passes. A reminder that they're forever gone.

I would know. Losing my sister was painful. It numbed me, made my heart turn to stone. Sophia made it beat again. I hope my words help mend her heart as well.

"You don't get to blame yourself for this, Sophia." I've had enough. None of this is her fault. I'm a dick for making her feel like shit about something she had no control over. "I left you in this very room without a name, number, any way to contact me again. Even if you'd assumed it was me, that I could be his father, you couldn't have reached me. Roman died, but his death isn't in vain. If I am his father"—it takes every ounce of willpower in my body to bite back the emotion threatening to spill out—"then it's a miracle we found each other again. Do you know how rare it is to be given a second chance? This is ours."

My phone rings loudly again, echoing in the room, jarring us from our moment of suspended time.

"Answer it," she whispers, then gets up and walks to the window, offering me a sliver of privacy.

I hold the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"It's Peter Lanham from the lab. I assume this is Mr. Wilde?" The deep baritone of the man's voice registers, pulling me back from the tornado of thoughts whirling in my head. "I called earlier. As soon as the results were confirmed."

I cup the back of my neck on instinct. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I was, um … preoccupied. What's the verdict?" I ask, cutting to the point.

"There's no easy way to put this given the circumstances." There's a heavy pause. "The combined paternity index indicates that you are Roman Lozier's biological father."

My thoughts falter. All the breath in my lungs leaves in a heave that has me hunching over.

"We process every sample twice. Each test performed by a separate team of technicians. This helps eliminate the possibility of human error. You are without a doubt the father."

My phone drops, hitting the floor with a thud. "Let it Bleed" by The Used comes to mind at the exact time a stampede of emotions blur my vision. Wetness flows like a river down my cheeks. I don't think I even shed a tear at my own sister's funeral. I was too numb to feel anything. I wish like hell that were the case now because I feel it all. Relief in having the answer, the truth of his paternity. Sorrow for the time I missed seeing Sophia pregnant and the chance to hold my son.

Indescribable pain wrecks through every fiber, tendon, muscle, and vein in my body until I'm sliding off the chair and onto my knees on the floor. A violent sob bellows from my chest.

"I never got to see him," I say out loud to no one in particular. The words just need a release. Grief so thick that it causes a roadblock is lodged in my throat, preventing air from entering or leaving. "Smell him. Hold him." I grit my teeth until my molars hurt.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Mazen." Sophia sinks to her knees on the floor in front of me. My muscles tense when she caresses my arm, then my shoulder. Curving her small hands behind my neck, she forces me to face her.

Tears streak her cheeks, too, absent of debris. She didn't apply mascara this morning, I remember unexpectedly. We both knew.

"He was so little. His hair was as dark and straight as yours. He reminded me of a little monkey."

I catch her smiling at that memory.

"I have more than his hair in my chest. I have an outfit he wore once in the NICU when they allowed me to dress him, his blanket, and my ultrasound pictures. You can see it all, take whatever you want."

Trauma bonds people every day. Surviving an active shooter at your place of employment, the lifeguard of a public pool saving someone from drowning. I wouldn't wish this feeling on my worst enemy, but there's no one I'd rather have by my side as I crumble than Sophia.

Ignoring reality a little longer, we rose from the floor, gathered our emotions in a box sealing it tight, and climbed into bed for a midday nap. We both drifted off to sleep within minutes. I dreamed of Roman as an infant, toddler, and teenager. My dreams were a reel of possibilities that will never come to fruition because his life was stolen prematurely.

If I hated Julian Caddell before, I wish him a thousand painful deaths now.

We wake hours later to the sound of an iron fist pounding on the door. A voice booming from the hallway draws unwanted attention.

"Keith. Open the fucking door," the male voice calls out from the hallway. The use of my pseudonym is in full swing.

"Ashton," Sophia mutters, eyes widening. "Why's he here? Do you think something happened to Preston?"

It's adorable that she cares about my staff. Truly cares about them. It's evident by the look of sheer panic on her dewy face.

"Let's find out."

Hopping out of our bed, I throw my T-shirt over my head. Swinging open the door, I come face-to-face with my agitated head of security. Ashton pushes by me forcefully.

"Come on in, man." I motion to the couch, "Have a seat."

"Have a seat?" The flagrant anger in his tone leaves me confused.

Did something really happen to Preston or the rest of the team I assembled that could warrant Ashton flying here himself?

"You've got about twenty minutes before Near Death Records reports your ass as a missing person."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I eye Sophia, who is now sitting up in bed, a sheet tucked under her chin. Her high cheekbones turn pink.

"You flew off on your paternity crusade and didn't check in. That's what the hell I'm talking about. Shit's hitting the fan. Everyone's been blowing up your phone. Murphy's been on band patrol. Vanna's wrangling in Lacey, who is beside herself."

The mention of Sophia's sister, the only reason I didn't ask Ashton to accompany us on our little crusade as he called it, hits hard. I went with our second-string security team. I see the way he looks at the pink-haired she-devil. He can deny his attraction to her all he wants. Been there, done that. The signs are as noticeable as Jupiter being a husky.

We didn't check in with our friends. Shit.

"Preston and his team are here." I roll my eyes while running my hands through my hair. "It's not like I just borrowed the plane without anyone knowing. Why didn't you just check in with him?"

"Trust me, ole Pressy's been demoted. I'll be here from now on."

"He didn't do anything wrong," I hear from the bed. Sophia's full lips are pursed together, holding in what I can only guess is another retort.

"He failed to report for his two-hour check-in. Pair his idiocy with this one." Ashton's gaze meets mine. Apparently, I'm the second idiot in this hotel. "For not checking his phone."

I spot my phone about the same time that Sophia grabs hers from her nightstand. Loose tendrils of red hair hang over her shoulder. For a split second, I forget about Ashton's presence, the reason we came to Chicago, and the news that rocked my world this morning.. I stare at Sophia, the mother of my child, in complete awe.

She's overwhelmingly beautiful. Composed and always carrying herself confidently. It's what drew me to her specifically at the convention years ago. I wanted someone who looked the part to give me my first tattoo. I was all in, the idea of what a seasoned tattooist should look like in the forefront of my mind. When I landed on her, the first thing I accepted was her severe lack of ink. There was nothing there but velvety blank skin. She didn't resemble any tattoo artist I'd ever seen before. The simple allure she embodied, standing out like a red rose in a sea of colorful lilies, did me in. My previous notation of what a talented artist should look like went out the window as I saw her sitting in her empty booth, looking as graceful as an artist in front of a blank canvas. Even with an empty booth, determination was scrolled across her features. If I only knew then what I know now, our lives would be much, much different.

At another glance, Sophia's jaw clenches. Holding up her phone, she says, "We screwed up."

A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grows larger at the number of unread alerts on my phone.

I sink down onto the love seat opposite Ashton, swiping through my messages quickly. There's a handful from Lindsey and Ashton. One from the lab, which I evidently ignored, which warranted the personal phone call from the lab tech. I land on a thread that seems to have grown like the miles between me and my band. Sophia's mimicking my movements, her fingers scrolling wildly on her cell, a smile spreading on her face, most likely from the idiotic commentary our friends have been partaking in.

Ollie: Did you and the demon who stole you this morning land safely?

Lacey: Is Jupiter fixed?

Murphy: Yes.

Lacey: Good, because he's deflowering a blond-haired corgi right now like he just got out of a ten-year stint in prison.

Vanna: Aw, take a pic. Sweet boy. We can frame it at their wedding.

HempDaddy: Left the chat.

Ollie: Leave Jup and his red rocket alone. Let my man handle his business.

Ollie: Earth to Fireball.

HempDaddy: Joined the chat.

HempDaddy: Ollie, quit fn adding me.

Ollie: Why do you think it's me?

HempDaddy: Because you're sitting right next to me, grinning like a creep.

Ollie: If you don't leave it again, I'll make it worth your while.

Murphy: Will this ever not be awkward?

Lacey: I bet Jupiter's red rocket is bigger than Ollie's.

Vanna: STFU. (crying emoji) Sophia Rose can confirm or deny. Where are you?

Ollie: They should have landed. I'm callin' them both.

Ollie: No answer.

Lacey: Soph, pick up your damn cell.

Ollie: You don't think …

HempDaddy: They're fine.

Ollie: Did you see that in your crystal ball?

HempDaddy: If you want me to hold your balls and close my eyes, I promise you'll see more than the future.

Lacey: Wow. FN smooth. No wonder my sissy is smitten.

HempDaddy: Leaves chat.

The thread ends abruptly when Cannon removes himself. I can only imagine the shit they're getting into without us. I agree with Murphy that it's taken me a beat to get used to the sudden, open affection between the other half of our band members. It's not that them being together is strange. We're in the twenty-first fucking century. It's more the fleeting feeling of dominance maybe? There's a kindling feeling that hits in my heart—somewhere lower, too—every time I see or hear Ollie and Cannon that has become unsettling. I've never been attracted to a male, much less to any member of my band. The suggestion leaves my mind reeling. I think I feel like I'm the head of the household in this new little foursome we've founded. There's a need to protect all three of them, almost as intriguing as the conversation they've been having in these messages.

Ollie: Lindsey confirmed your plane landed in Chicago. I swear if you don't call me by morning, I'm flying there myself.

Murphy: Ashton's already on it. Chill.

Ollie: RU for real? Chill?? Caddell probably has them both chained in his fn basement.

Murphy: He's calling Preston.

Lacey: You're not giving Soph enough credit. She might be into chains.

Vanna: Hard pass, Mr. Miller. Don't get any ideas. I'm (ice cream cone emoji).

Murphy: My ass.

Vanna: (laughing emoji)

Lacey: Crap. I can't think about her kinks right now. Not when I'm really scared something is seriously wrong.

Vanna: She's okay. They're both okay. I know it.

There are zero boundaries or lines that our group hasn't crossed at this point. Hell, I can even distinguish whose boxers belong to which friend at this point. We've all seen one another naked in one way, shape, or form. Modesty is overrated, so the fact that Murphy is calling his new bride out is hilarious. It's always the quietest ones who bring the heat and the kinks.

HempDaddy: Joins chat.

Ollie: Rhodes, where r u?

HempDaddy: Stop adding me (insert skull).

Ollie: That's not what I asked.

Lacey: Here I thought Ollie was the cinnamon roll of the band.

HempDaddy: Bus.

Ollie: You have five mins to get up here and suck my (eggplant emoji), or I'm going to the airport. I can't think straight, not knowing if Mom and Dad are okay.

Murphy: Group chat! Keep the porn on your own thread.

My lip curves upward at the next message.

Murphy: Gag. You called Soph Mom.

Ollie: Sue me. I never claimed to not have issues. Oh, and tell your mom to shave her bush next time. I was plucking pubic hairs out of my teeth for a week straight after your wedding.

Murphy: Sick fuck.

A laugh passes through my lips at the blatant fact that Ollie is goading Murphy. It'll take a lot more than your mom jokes to rile him up though. He's as laid-back as a sloth. My eyes drift from my phone over to where Sophia is still sitting in bed. I wonder how far she's read on our shared thread. From the wide grin on her face, it's hard to tell.

Ollie: Three mins, Rhodes.

Vanna: What if he doesn't make it in time?

Ollie: You don't want to know.

Lacey: I do! (Sorry, sissy).

HempDaddy: Hold the hell on. There's a damn cheer convention in the lobby. Security is having a fit.

Murphy: I texted Todd. He's sending extra hands down.

That answers my question about who was left in charge since both Ashton and Preston are in Chicago with us.

HempDaddy: Thx. If I ever have a daughter, cheer is not in her future.

Ollie: When we have kids.

Vanna: I just choked on my latte .

I read the last message twice before a pitiful apology forms on my lips. "Sorry." I hold up my hand, preventing Ashton from replying or laying into me again. "Let me call Ollie before you read me the riot act."

It only takes one ring for my guitarist to answer. "Girth's Garage."

This fucking prick.

"Cut the shit."

"You cut your alternator, sir? Is that what you said?"

He's mad. I get it. A dull ache pulls at my chest. If any one of them had gone AWOL, I'd be acting like an asshole too.

"We're alive."

"Sorry, the connection is a little bad over all the fucking sobbing Lacey's doing, thinking that her sister has been kidnapped again. Oh, wait. She was." There's a scolding pause before he continues, "What the hell were you thinking, Maz? We've been going mad thinking Caddell got to you both or some crap. Lacey's a basket case. Lindsey called in the doctor. I shit you not; they're about to give her a sedative."

Irritability tugs at my chest. "She was a basket case before we left," I counter.

"I'm going to go in the bathroom to call my sister," Sophia murmurs, the pitch in her voice telling me she's as emotionally spent as I am.

The door shuts behind her, signaling she needs a moment. I use this time to my advantage.

"He's mine."

There's no need to elaborate. Oliver is smart enough to read between the lines.

Roman is … was my son .

Ashton's broad shoulders stiffen, shock carved on his usually hard exterior.

"Figured as much when you went off the grid." There's not a follow-up question. No how are you handling this? No filler or bullshit. That's not Oliver's style. "How'd Soph take it?"

"Harder than I did."

There's movement on the other side of the line, the sound of rustling, almost like Oliver's covering the receiver. "Mazen's a dad."

My heart pumps then breaks, squealing in anguish as Oliver's words register.

While birthing, then laying Roman to rest were the hardest days of Sophia's life, today will be mine.

"We'll be back tomorrow," I assure him.

"Why not fly back today?" There's a deep question masked in the aloof one he asked.

"There's something else I need to take care of. Ashton and Preston are here. We're fine. I'll text you throughout the day."