4. Band of Morons

4

BAND OF MORONS

OLIVER

As the encore ends and the lights dim, I exit the stage. Feeling an instant lump form in my throat at the thought of Sophia. It was easier to mask my sorrow during the show when my mind was occupied with our set list and the echoes of hundreds of screaming fans. Now that the gig is over, I'm back to facing a bleak, sorrow-filled night without her in my arms.

A thick curtain separating this side of the stage from being visible hides my frame from our fans, granting me a moment to look into the crowd without being noticed. My gut tells me she won't be there. She hardly attended our shows when she was working for us. Still, my eyes scan the sea of faceless fans. My heart aches to find the fiery, red-haired siren who owns me as the crowd parts and heads for one of the many exits in the venue.

A couple of times after a show, I found her in our greenroom, reading, or on our tour bus, getting her tattoo station set up. Despite the knowing pull in the pit of my stomach, I search anyway, eyes darting from person to person in pursuit of the woman who sets my soul on fire.

The spark of hope I had is extinguished, and my heart feels heavy and weighed down, like the steel-toed boots covering my feet, as I thud down the steps behind the stage and round a corner into a dim hallway leading to our greenroom.

Like a dense fog dancing along the shore, Soph has vanished without so much as a goodbye. Don't ask me to explain why I'm so distraught because I won't be able to put my emotions into words. It's more of a feeling. A thick, sinking feeling that has taken up residence in both my heart and mind since we learned she had left. Between the miles and truths we shared, I thought I had forged a path into Sophia's heart. I trudged through the debris of past lovers that had left her heart cold and scorned. Wielded every weapon in my arsenal, and just when I thought I had demolished her walls, ready to claim her trust and companionship as my prize, she disappeared. I've lived a shitty life, and only one other time have I ever felt this utterly miserable.

Everyone always leaves.

Mazen greeted us this afternoon with some lame story that seemed a bit too fabricated and coincidental for my liking. Apparently, Soph was rushing around the suite in the middle of the night, seemingly frantic, spouting off about flying home to make sure her sister, Lacey, was safe.

As much as I love my bandmate, I wouldn't put it past Mazen to have paid her off, doubling what the label and I were already going to fork out. He's wanted her gone since the first day he laid eyes on her. Knowing him, the kiss they shared in the hot tub the day before was just another fabrication .

A means to an end.

There's no other explanation.

Especially not after the mind-blowing night she, Cannon, and I shared. Someone doesn't just walk away after sex as earth-shattering as we had. Least of all Soph.

She's the tether that binds us. The white flag in our ten-year war. Our ceasefire, clothed in jeans and a crop top. Without her, I'm afraid of what today will hold. Cannon and I will no doubt be back to ignoring the chemistry between us. Concealing our lust and feelings with insults and cold shoulders.

With my hands shoved into my front pockets and my shoulders hunched in defeat, I trek down the long, dark hallway, feet shuffling mindlessly as I go. My thoughts are too preoccupied, racing like an untamed wildfire burning through a forest the closer I get to our small oasis from the chaos of the venue.

Roadies croon my name as I saunter by. I offer a quick nod of my head, nothing more, which should be a giant red flag that I'm not in my normal state of mind, before pushing open the door and shutting out the noise behind me. I wish I could do it to the raging racket in my head as easily. I'm so overwhelmed by the torment of her absence that I can't recall how the show even went. I was half on autopilot, half numb.

Soph seemed to always be composed, methodical, even in her words and actions. And as much as Mazen tried to ruffle her feathers, she never cowered to his brashness, giving it back twice as hard. That was what attracted me to her first, that iron will of hers. She is both confident in her skin and who she is. Being a pushover isn't in her nature.

That's the only thing that doesn't add up. If he couldn't force her hand before, how did he accomplish it last night? The alternative was that she willingly left, breaching her contract with both me and our label. I know how much the money meant to her—what she planned to do with it. I rack my brain over the last three and a half weeks spent with her. Nothing of importance stands out or leads me to believe that she would willingly forgo our deal and forfeit her payday. Hell, she's made it blatantly apparent that not even her distaste for Mazen—the dude who teased her endlessly and then had the audacity to drive her to the fucking airport himself—could get her to back out of this deal.

She needed the money from this arrangement.

My gaze lands on Mazen, who is slouched over in a chair, a bottle of amber liquid in his hand. His unruly black hair looks like he's run his fingers through it repeatedly. His chin is set in a hard line, and his silver eyes are glued on the bottle's label. Metal-covered knuckles tap on the glass lightly. It's an absentminded gesture—I know because that's how I felt during our entire show.

Thank fuck I can play every song while drunk, standing on the edge of a cliff, or getting a Brazilian wax.

Wait. Is it still called a Brazilian if it's a dude getting stripped?

No. It's a Bro zilian. Don't ask me why that sliver of knowledge is lodged in the back of my brain. It's wedged somewhere between how to make a woman squirt and how far up a man's prostate is located.

I draw nearer to the frontman of our band, ready to demand to know what really transpired between the two of them last night while Cannon and I were sleeping soundly down the hall. Sizing him up, I notice that his thick brows are pulled into a deep crease. I watch him carefully, like a predator, as he takes a swig, abandoning a chaser, and when his eyes meet mine, realization throttles into me like I've hit a wall going ninety miles per hour.

The clear absence of his signature smug smile on his square jawline tells me all I need to know. I take in his dark expression and tight brows, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he'd be gloating if he finally got his wish and ran Soph off. Mazen's innocence is confirmed by his quietness. It's not in his nature not to run his mouth. Right now, his demeanor is resigned. He's as quiet as a statue.

If it wasn't someone who pushed her to leave, it had to have been something .

Like a thief in the night, she fled. This irrational knee-jerk decision to catch a plane and fly back to the States can't be as black and white as it seems. Something is going on, something bigger than checking in on her grown-ass adult sister. Call it intuition or whatever the fuck you want. I've been abandoned enough in my life to know the signs, and all the ones she left, which are scattered around her room, point to the conclusion that she left in a hurry.

My adrenaline is waning, much like my patience, as I try her cell again for the millionth time. It's not a shocker when it goes straight to voicemail.

"Fuck." I toss my cell phone onto the coffee table that's littered with booze and ashtrays.

The stage's sweltering lights, paired with my concern for Soph's whereabouts, have me breaking out in a sweat.

I rip my drenched shirt up and over my head with one quick swoop before biting out, "Band meeting. Right. The fuck. Now." The usual softness of my voice has been replaced with that of a deranged banshee. All of these mixed-up feelings swirling in my mind are pushing me into dangerous territory.

"You guys can sort your shit out later," Nick, our band's manager, mumbles under his breath, holding an iPad in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other. "You have a meet-and-greet in twenty. I suggest you focus on what's important—your careers—not some piece of ass."

As if on instinct, Cannon's wrought iron physique slides in front of me. A wall of anger and muscle blocks my view of Nick, so I don't see our manager when he adds gas to the already-engulfed fire that's a heap of our collective hearts.

"Who cares about the loose tattoo artist who couldn't make it on the road? The way I see it, she voided her contract. Saved the label a hundred grand. It's a win for the home team."

Nick's words, like the rolling sound of thunder, reverberate in my chest.

"I suggest you shut your fucking mouth unless you want it wired shut." Cannon's back is stone, a formidable force. "That would be a win for this team."

Cannon's a man of few words, so I sincerely hope for our manager's sake that he heeds Cannon's warning. Otherwise, I think Nick is flying right by Wired Jaw Avenue and headed straight into Full-Body Cast cul-de-sac.

"Enough." Lindsey, our band's publicist and childhood friend, comes out of nowhere like a ninja. Springing into action, she tosses herself into the trenches, shoving between them like a wedge of reason. "Nick, tell the fans that Mazen ate some bad sushi for lunch and isn't feeling well. Give them a couple of signed shirts, then send them on their way. I'll handle this from here."

When Nick doesn't budge, she squares up with him, chest to chest. "I said, I got it from here."

Rolling his eyes like a child being sent to his room, Nick shakes his head disapprovingly. "Go ahead and pacify them some more. It's what you're good at. Probably the only thing, if I'm being honest."

"Would you rather I let Cannon clobber you? Because right now, he looks like he could demolish a hotel, turning it to rubble with just his fists. If that's the route you want to go"—she waves a hand toward Cannon's expanded chest—"be my guest. It'll be your funeral."

"Fucking children," he says as he tucks his tail, slamming the door behind him.

"Sit down," Lindsey demands, her blonde ponytail hanging over her shoulder. "Now."

The four of us—Mazen, Murphy, Cannon, and I—slide to any open surface in the room. I take a small navy-blue ottoman. Murphy's wife, Vanna, remains standing, sorrow etched on her face, mirroring my own.

"I have a bad feeling." Vanna sighs.

She's a newbie, and she hasn't yet learned what Lindsey's cut-the-bullshit face looks like.

"Join the club." I chew the inside of my cheek—a nervous tic—as my eyes dart around the crowded room. They land on Vanna once again and find her holding her hands tightly around her core in a protective gesture. I don't even think she realizes she's doing it.

Her mouth parts when she adds, "Everything was fine at the beach. Dinner felt a little off, rushed. But Mazen didn't irritate anyone enough to want to stab him with a butter knife. I call that a win. Everything fell apart in the span of one evening after we parted ways. So, what happened last night, guys?"

Vanna's nutmeg eyes, like a laser, land on Mazen. Her glare is unrelenting.

He hasn't said much since he told us that Soph left. I can see straight through his aloofness. There's something he's not saying, and it's pissing me the fuck off.

"Sex happened." Mazen shrugs, breaking his vow of muteness.

"Is your dick so small that she decided to skip town because she couldn't bear to look you in the eyes again?"

"It wasn't my dick that scared her away."

Murphy pulls his bride onto his lap, whispering a faint, "Don't goad him, Van."

"Seriously?" She huffs from the safety of her husband's lap. "He's been provoking Soph since they met."

Lindsey fires off a message on her cell before pocketing it and turning her attention back to us. "We have no reason to believe anything bad has happened. Mazen watched her board the plane—the label's plane, your plane—which took her back to Tampa. Her phone could be dead, and she was probably too exhausted from the flight to charge it when she got to her apartment. Give her the benefit of the doubt, guys. You know it's not like me to give trust away easily. It's my job to call bullshit when I see it. I usually see the bad in everyone until they prove me wrong. That's pretty much my mantra. Sophia hasn't given us a reason not to trust her. Let's assume she's jet-lagged until we hear otherwise."

"Trust is earned." Mazen's raw voice cuts through the room, demanding to be heard. There's a rasp to his voice, and I don't for one second think it's from him performing onstage for two and a half hours. He's a master at manipulation. He's trying his damnedest to conceal something, or he chain-smoked ten packs of cigs between last night and today. Both are likely.

Another pang of doubt and apprehension stirs in my stomach.

"And what, she hasn't earned it? She's abided by all the label's rules. Hasn't once posted on her social media accounts without Lindsey's approval of the content first. Who the hell are you to say she hasn't earned our trust?" My temper flares.

"You didn't care about trust when you were fucking her throat with your fingers yesterday. Did you, Maz?" Cannon's voice is cold, exact, and lethal.

Adding fuel to the already-blazing inferno engulfing us, Mazen diverts his eyes from our fuming drummer and directs his gaze toward me. "She hasn't even been on tour with us for more than a fucking month, and you're already planning your nuptials, aren't you? How will that work anyway? Will you legally marry her"—his chin nods toward me and then swivels to face our drummer once again—"and Cannon will be the one to consummate the marriage or will it be the other way around?"

I see red. My resolve breaks like a string on my axe. "Fuck you. You're the sorry bastard who's going to end up alone. Just like your miserable father. At least Cannon and I have each other."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, a deep crimson warms my cheeks. Heat ignites my entire body like a marshmallow to a flame. Did I really just casually admit to Cannon and I having a…thing?

"Stop! This is bullshit. You've been friends for too long to be acting like you don't give a damn about one another." Lindsey's rationale does little to calm the situation.

"Casting judgment like stones, are we now? How about we throw stones at your precious tattoo artist?" Mazen's eyes darken, his voice deepening when he says, "She's flighty as fuck and hightailed it home in the middle of night." He finishes the bottle of amber liquid and smashes it against the coffee table in front of him before his eyes cut around the room. "She's just another bitch the road can claim."

A frustrated growl comes from Cannon, who's sitting with his elbows on his knees at the edge of the couch. He flexes his jaw, and his lips part. "If you call her a degrading name again, Mazen, I'm going to forget that we've been best friends most of our lives. You'll wish that you never met me in seventh grade gym class. I promise you that."

Mazen stands, eyes gleaming with mischief. There's a smile hanging off his mouth. Shit. This isn't going to be good. Murphy must realize it, too, because he jumps to his feet at the same time that I do. I place a hand on Cannon's broad shoulder to keep him seated as Murphy pushes against Mazen's heaving chest.

Distance certainly hasn't made our hearts grow fonder.

"We're more than a band." Murphy's voice rises with dismay, though he tries to rein in his twisted irritation. "We're family … brothers. Don't cross a line we can't come back from."

Mazen stares at Murphy, face paling with wrath. His steel-gray eyes darken like an angry thundercloud as his accusing voice stabs the air, "The line was crossed when Ollie hired her without consulting the rest of us."

"I agree," Murphy says, and I halt in shock.