Epilogue

EPILOGUE

FADING FAST

MAZEN

Music has been my refuge for most of my life. My solace during a dark time when I clung to anything that made me feel alive. Writing lyrics felt like my purpose. It gave me an outlet for the constant chatter in my head. While my new hobby didn't quiet the noise externally, it helped me hone it into a craft that I grew to cherish.

The hours my friends—turned bandmates—spent rehearsing and performing, to a point where we no longer needed sheet music because our lyrics became instinctive to us, muscle memory, an extension of our entire personalities, were some of the best times of my life. Before long, music became my identity and later my career.

I didn't realize it then, as an adolescent high schooler, but my pain took on a shape of its own when I began jotting down words that soon morphed into lyrics. I poured every ounce of myself into my lyrics, even before the Kings of Jupiter formed in Cannon's parents' garage. Long before Oliver ever found our dog, Jupiter, a stray, just like him—his words, not mine.

The written word is freeing, liberating. No sooner had I recognized that than I started to hum my words out loud, and they took on a life of their own too. They became lyrics, weaved into a melody. The tune of my life. My words were freed from the confines of my mind, and in them, a new purpose was born. I became a songwriter. A lyricist.

Remaining authentic in a world that was quick to judge, bash, or label anyone and everyone as a fraud was an easy feat. Because our songs were born from grief. That's something that everyone can resonate with, connect to. After all, isn't that what music, books—hell—art as a whole are intended to do? Offer an escape.

My little outlet that took up all of my time soon became my therapy. The one constant in my life, and I took my sessions seriously. Except I wasn't trying to heal a part of my soul by writing songs. No, the healing came later, when I met a woman, subsequently lost her, and then found her again years later.

Music was no longer my safe harbor. Sophia Rose Lozier was. My Rosella . My purpose for not only creating but living. Truly living. Embracing every day for what it was, a new beginning. None of that happened until I accepted her fully—and Oliver and Cannon too, if I'm being honest. They offered their love without a price. There was no admission ticket or backstage pass that they dangled in front of me. They simply gave me entrance into their hearts.

Not Mazen Wilde, the famous rock star, either. She only wanted me , the man behind the music, and the other two, well, they knew me better than anyone else. They had my heart in the form of true friendship. It was easy for more to blossom when I already held a special place in it.

As far as our careers, I can't speak for Murphy, Oliver, or Cannon, but I imagine they feel the same about our two-decade occupation as I do. I think in hindsight, we all know we danced a little too close to the fire, even back when we were a group of misfit kids. Each with our own backgrounds and stories to tell. That's what helped forge our friendship, united us. We each brought a separate piece of the puzzle, and together, we became a full-fledged work of art. My best friends and I are cut from the same cloth. We're one another's found family. Not the ones we were born into, but the ones we chose to love and protect.

When Jupiter came along, he quickly became our glue. Our hairy-as-fuck four-legged prince. We never got it twisted though—that mutt owned us. And just like the dog that stole our hearts, Sophia reappeared like a figment of my imagination, taking her rightful place in our lives.

Our queen, the final piece of the puzzle we didn't know was missing.

It's her eyes I look for as I climb onto the stage for the last time, ten years to the day Cannon was shot.

It's an eerie coincidence.

This time around, on our final tour, Sophia's not just our tattoo artist. She's our muse, the mother of our children, and our wife.

I know what you're thinking. How did Sophia create a life again without a uterus? The answer is simple. She didn't. The first time I thanked Lacey Lozier was when she offered her womb for rent in exchange for a forever truce— giving her sister the gift of motherhood again, as she agreed to be our surrogate. The second time was when my daughter, Bethany, was born .

The three of us—Cannon, Oliver, and I—put our names in a cup, just like we had done eons ago when we chose our pseudonyms.

Thank fuck I lucked out and didn't draw Scotty Girth. That gem belongs solely to Ollie. I'll probably engrave it on his tombstone instead of his real name, then send him out with a Barry Keoghan farewell like in the movie Saltburn .

Sophia drew Cannon's name first, so it was Cannon's little swimmers and an anonymous donor egg that was implanted in Lacey, who birthed a son, Elliott Rhodes, nine months later. She did it again two more times, spanning the next five years. Time and time again, the Taser-wielding psycho I now legally call my sister-in-law—my name was pulled as the lucky son of a bitch who got to legally marry Sophia, though we all proposed and had a joint ceremony—graciously offered us a blessing in the form of a bundle of joy for each of us to call our own. We're collectively raising our crew of groupies, as we like to refer to them.

Oliver's name was chosen last. I thought it was only fitting since he thought he was first at winning Sophia's affection that day many moons ago in her tattoo studio. Little Juno came barreling into the world, a spitfire, just like his rowdy father.

Sophia let us give the first names to each of our children like the true rock star that she is.

When we asked how Ollie landed on Juno as a first name for his son, he got teary-eyed and said, "My pal Jupiter is fading fast. This way, his memory lives on forever with my boy." Referring to the similarity of their names.

Jupiter ended up passing away the very night we brought Juno home from the hospital. He lived a great life, fit for the husky king that he was. We found him lying on top of Sophia's feet in Juno's nursery—always the protector of his queen—in his last and final slumber. It's been six months since we've heard him bark or tossed a ball with him on the beach.

Sophia tattooed Jupiter's name with a small paw print on each of our wrists not long after his passing. Photos of our fans posting pictures with the same exact tattoo and placement ended up going viral in the weeks after we publicly announced his trip over the Rainbow Bridge. It's heartwarming knowing Jupiter's memory and legacy lives on.

We wavered about what to do with his ashes. It only seems fitting that today, on the last day of our last performance ever as a band, we offer his ashes to the music, and those in attendance today who loved him as loyally as we did.

"It's been a long time coming." Sweat trickles down the back of my shirt, though it's the start of fall in Chicago as I hold my mic in my jellyfish-tattooed hand.

Chicago was the perfect location for our band's last show, and boy, did they show up. The atmosphere is electric. I harden my gaze on my wife, finding her like a beacon of light in the dark. I allow her to do what she does best—center me in the madness of my mind.

"We brought our friend tonight to help celebrate and bid farewell to the best fans in the world."

The screen behind us illuminates with pictures of Jupiter from his wild, zooming puppy stage to the last picture we took of him, meeting his brother Juno.

The crowd goes solemnly quiet.

It's been a fucking journey to get here. Despite the challenges and setbacks, some caused by yours truly—I never claimed to have my shit in order—we made it to the other side, together. The media had a field day when we walked together, the four of us, hand-in-hand, to the Grammys a year after Cannon was shot. Lindsey's phone was buzzing non-stop for a week or longer, magazines all vying for a quote from us. We denied them all, letting the pictures floating around of the four of us do the talking. In today's world, it doesn't take a scientist to see that we're all together.

The last thing I thought my dad did for me was make a promise. I was wrong. Unbeknownst to me, he turned over a file to the police, showcasing the illegal endeavors that Julian and Knox Caddell were a part of. The day Knox was released from the hospital, he was ushered into the back of a police cruiser. It's a core memory for us and Sophia. She'll never again have to look over her shoulder in fear.

Unless it's from Cannon chasing her with the monster he usually keeps fastened in his jeans. That dude is all show, no talk. I can assure you of that little fact.

I palm the small urn in my own jeans pocket, and my thoughts refocus. "We felt like it was only fitting that Jupiter be here in spirit for our last show." I slide out the small pocket-sized urn that holds our beloved husky's ashes. "I hope there are no qualms about scattering ashes. If there is, hold your fucking breath." I don't give the crowd the option to protest before I open the lid and shake out the contents. We're in the Windy City after all.

Oliver slides against my side. His blond hair has been replaced with hot pink—Lacey's talons run deep. "You good, Maz?"

Microphone in hand, I nod. Then, the bastard leans closer, planting a kiss on my cheek. The crowd goes bananas.

"I'll get my revenge for that later. You know that, right?" I whisper away from the mic.

He winks before sliding the strap of his guitar over his chest. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

"Don't I get a kiss? I did get shot twice, ten years ago today," Cannon calls out from his seat behind his drum set, putting emphasis on the word today . "I think that deserves something."

He doesn't need to remind us. We're more than lucky that he survived.

Ollie turns toward him. "Feeling neglected, HempDaddy?" he asks smoothly, no expression on his face.

Frowning in exasperation, our drummer pounds on his snare. Words have never been Cannon's strong suit.

Just as Ollie is about to abandon his spot on the stage, Murphy pulls our attention. "Can you save this marital spat or weird-ass foreplay for a more appropriate time?"

I nod, placing the mask I've worn like armor into place for the last time before addressing the crowd in a scream. "Are you ready to rock?"

As their chants echo, and Cannon's drums start the tempo, I turn to face my bride, offering her Taylor Swift heart hands—our daughter will be so proud. Our fans, not so much. Honestly, I don't give a single fuck. "Sophia Wilde … you stung me like a jellyfish."

The crowd erupts, and we soak it all in for the last time.

The End