6. Find a Clue

6

FIND A CLUE

CANNON

We're sitting around the large kitchen island, hearts hammering louder than my sticks on my snare, eager for answers, when Lindsey saunters into the kitchen thirty minutes later. It's not hard to miss the hard line of her lips. The frown on her normally jubilant face is a bad sign. Second is the crease in the center of her forehead. An indication that whatever she's about to say will be like pulling the detonator on the bomb in the pit of my stomach.

I turn off my music, effectively stopping the sound of Bad Omens' "Take Me First" with the press of my index finger.

"Lacey said that Sophia never showed up."

One simple statement sends me on a rampage of anger and confusion. I lose all sense of … everything. Becoming a fatality to the darkness, I let it envelop me, dragging me into its murky depth. In one quick sweep of my hand, everything flies off the counter—our coffee cups, a glass bowl th at was resting in the center of the island. As it hits the tiled floor, it shatters into a million pieces, just like my heart.

"Call her back," I growl. "Call her sister back. I want to talk to her."

"And say what exactly?" This comes from Murphy, the mediator. The most levelheaded person in our band, brotherhood, and lives. "Hound her about her sister's whereabouts? I'm sure she's as distraught as everyone else. We need to call the police, file a missing person report, and let the authorities do their jobs. Plus, we're thousands of miles away."

"Lindsey"—my voice is heavy, strained as it passes my lips, while I ignore the mediator's suggestion—"please call her back. We're missing something. I can feel it. Please."

The desperation displayed across my knit brows and in my tone must be dire because within a matter of seconds, Lindsey's phone is on speakerphone, ringing with an outgoing call from its place in the middle of the island. No one dares to move an inch, not even to clean up the mess I made on the floor. Six sets of eyes bore holes into the small device as we will Lacey to answer it.

"Lindsey?" Lacey's voice sounds hopeful. She thinks our publicist is calling back with good news. "Did you hear from her?"

"This is Cannon. I'm, uh, the drummer for Kings of Jupiter." I bite the inside of my cheek—a nervous tic.

"I know who you are." I imagine a sad smile pulling on her mouth. "I'm a little busy right now, so if you're just calling to chitchat, spare me."

I laugh internally. "Chitchat isn't my style."

"This I know as well."

"Busy doing what?" Mazen chimes in. His mock concern grates on my nerves .

He's the fucktard who drove her to the airstrip. I want to pummel him into next Tuesday, but now isn't the time.

A hefty exhale leaves Lacey's mouth. "Combing through my sister's office, trying to find a clue or something. Hell, I don't know. It's better than just sitting around, willing my damn phone to ring with her name flashing on the screen."

The six of us helplessly exchange glances over the tiled countertop.

"I want to help. I need her … back," I say as I clutch my hands behind my neck, biting back the word I really want to say … home. My home is on wheels and made of metal, but I need her in it, with me. With us. "Tell me what happened last night. All we know is that you called her, and then she left. Mazen said she was visibly shaken and rushing home to help you. What happened? What don't we know? What aren't you telling us?"

Mazen cuts me a look that says, Sherlock Holmes has arrived.

"To help me," she whispers. "She was coming home to help, to keep me safe. It's always because of me. She'd step in front of a flying bullet to save me. I should have waited to call her until I was in a better frame of mind. It just all happened so quickly. I freaked out."

Oliver leans down, speaking into the receiver, as if he can pull Lacey's truth from the phone, as if time and distance aren't hanging between us. "Lacey, what happened? We're all here, and we're all eager to make sure Sophia is safe. She's our priority just as much as she is yours. We care about her too. Why did you call her, upset? We can't pool our resources together and help if we don't have all the facts. Let us help."

"I played right into his game," she says hoarsely after a beat of silence. "It's because of me that he was able to get to her." Her next words slice my chest open. "Her life is in jeopardy, and it's my fault."

"Whose game? Who has her?" This time, it's Lindsey's turn to lean toward the receiver.

We're all fishing for clues, on high alert and demanding answers, but I don't know if we're prepared to hear what she has to say.

"Julian. He's going to kill her this time, and she'll let him to protect me."

A collective gasp reverberates through my friends as the late lunch I had before the show lurches in my stomach. A drowsy warmth spreads across my body like a wildfire, consuming all rational thoughts before my entire body is set ablaze. It feels like a flame starting at the soles of my feet, and it engulfs me.

I'm lost, unaware of what is happening. Then, a wave of obsidian drags me under, and everything goes dark.

Wincing like I was struck on the head, I force myself to pry my eyes open when I wake up. "The fuck happened?"

"I expect you'll need this." I hear Vanna's voice before my senses align.

I realize we're on a plane, and she is sitting in the seat next to me, eyes wide with hesitation as they sweep over me. She holds a small bag of ice, dangling it like a sack of gems, a peace offering.

"I told him not to do it." She winces. "Though you honestly didn't leave us with another option. "

What's she droning on about?

The ringing in my ears intensifies.

Reading my confusion, she answers, setting the record straight, "You went ballistic with a capital B. Blacked out or something. You're going to have a hefty damage claim on your credit card statement when the hotel—"

"Why does it feel like I was in a fight?" I run my hand through my hair that hits the collar of my leather jacket.

"Because you were." Vanna shrugs her shoulders. It's a dismissive gesture. "Look, you sort of lost it. Started breaking everything within arm's reach in the kitchen. We needed to get to the tarmac. You wouldn't calm down, so—"

"Spit. It. Out."

"So… " She sounds out a long O. "Oliver hit you with the heaviest thing within reach."

I arch my brow, demanding her answer.

"An air fryer. Like one of those big, fancy, industrial ones."

My voice breaks as I try to make sense of what she just said. "He did what?"

Oliver plops down in the seat adjacent to us. "Your skull became acquainted with the largest air fryer I've ever seen that wasn't in an industrial kitchen. Down you went, man. Like a sack of potatoes. You're heavier than you look too. Ashton's back is going to be fucked up from trying to carry your dead weight to the car. If he files a worker's compensation claim, you're footing that bill."

Memories resurface as I stare out the plane's window. Nothing but fluffy white clouds as far as the eye can see stare back at me. Ollie whistles softly, his innocence blowing out with the warm air from his mouth. My closest fucking friend—Lover? Boyfriend? Hell, I don't know what we are—assaulted me by throwing a kitchen appliance at my head. Things must have escalated pretty quickly for him to turn to KitchenAid for assistance in subduing me.

"Who's Julian?" I ask with a hedge of understanding that I'm not going to like the answer before it's even given. That name rings clearer in my mind than the ordeal he and Vanna are trying to explain with worried expressions.

It's Ollie's turn to rub his temples. His index fingers make small circular motions a couple of times before he settles back into the tan leather seat. I don't miss the pause before he clasps his slender hands together, answering me honestly. "Someone needs to make sure we have a countertop ice maker on standby." A trace of unease lingers in his reply, like he's scared his words are going to throw me into another fit of rage.

I'm irritated by his mocking tone, and a faint growl leaves my lips.

"Simmer down, or I'll take you to the back room and fuck some sense into you." The threat in both his tone and punishment is appealing.

Apparently, we're out , out to everyone now.

Though my skull is throbbing, I welcome the pain as I lean forward into his personal space and snarl once more, demanding an answer. "Tell me who he is before I take you to the back room, bend you over the bed, and fuck the answer out of you."

He already outed us, so I figure, What the hell? It's my turn to send him a message loud and clear. If my brain didn't feel like it had been pureed in a blender, I'd show him how serious I am. Instead, I say, "A lot has changed since we were boys fooling around after school, Ollie."

I cup his semi-hard junk through the front of his pants, not caring that Vanna is observing the whole scene. Her thin, dark eyebrows are pinched together, but there isn't an ounce of shock on her face. That fact alone should alert me that we weren't as stealthy as we thought since we decided to stop fighting our feelings and attraction.

"I don't just take orders or dick anymore. I give it just as much and as hard as you do. Keep running that pretty little mouth of yours, and I'll stuff it so full that your tonsils will hurt for weeks."

Flames of passion ignite like a forest fire in his eyes as his mouth spills for me. "He's some wanna-be-mobster that Soph's father owes a shit ton of money to. Apparently, that's why they fled Chicago. Only they didn't know that they were being followed all the way to Florida. The other night, someone threw a brick through the tattoo studio's window with a note. That's what started this whole fucking fiasco. Someone knows she's working for us too."

I bite back a good boy for his eager compliance because I can still feel Vanna's curious eyes honed in on us.

"The note. What'd it say?"

A troubled look passes between Oliver and Vanna. Their exchange is anything but reassuring. My suspicion is confirmed when his next words sting like battery acid dousing the already-burning inferno in my chest.

" I've been counting your breaths like I've been counting my money. Both don't exist to me. Give me what I'm owed or prepare for your shop and your sister to catch fire ."

"She's been kidnapped," I seethe with a mounting rage that not even a refrigerator, Jeep, or the entire fucking Icon of the Seas cruise ship to the skull would be able to diminish. My blood soars the longer the threat resonates.

"No shit," Mazen calls out from the row behind us. "Jupiter could have figured that out before you."

Ignoring him, I speak to everyone on the plane, not giving two shits that they just heard Oliver and me talk about taking and tossing dick like a champ. Narrowly missing looking everyone in the eyes directly, I ask, "This Julian guy, do we know anything about him? Why does her dad owe him? How much does he owe? Where is her dad, and why haven't any of you nitwits gotten your checkbooks out yet?"

Lindsey, our publicist, holds a finger in the air from her seat in the row across from us. A silent motion to calm the hell down. It's not lost on me that I'm usually the quiet one of the group.

Sophia helped me find my voice. It's my turn to help her now.

"She's been on the phone since we left, trying to gather intel." It's Vanna's composed voice, layered with a new gentleness that gains my attention.

She nods to where Lindsey sits, looking fierce, businesslike. A lady on a mission to find our friend.

"So far, all we know is that he's a scumbag businessman who has connections all over the globe. We did find out that Sophia and Lacey's father is incarcerated for murder. Apparently, he owed this Caddell guy a lot of money for skimming off him for years, and with their father out of the picture, he's made it his mission to collect from Sophia and Lacey. Their mother passed away—"

"Ovarian cancer," I say, voice choked. "We think he took her hostage for what, ransom? Like I said, call up … whoever our accountant is these days. Let's settle this debt, collect Sophia, and be on our way. It's a no-brainer."

Oliver crosses a leg over his kneecap, his voice stoic, "No one's reached out to us yet. Trust me, I've already texted Kenneth and had him pull some numbers. She's worth every penny I have and then some. I've been poor as dirt before. It's nothing new. "

I know how hard it was for him, growing up. His statement speaks volumes. I feel the same though. I'd cash in everything I own, my entire bank account, to have her back safely in our arms. I don't care if I've only known her for a little over a month. I want to know her forever, until the end of time.

"He's had her for hours by now." My voice is edged in steel. "Statistics say—"

The shuffling of movement behind me has me moving the bag of ice from my head, just in time to look up to see Mazen sinking into the seat Vanna abandoned next to me.

"While you were both busy stuffing Sophia like she's a flipping toaster, I assume this Julian fella was busy getting this into my hands." Mazen holds out a worn manila envelope.

Oliver and I exchange a wary glance before I grab the envelope, roughly pulling out its contents. There's an audible gasp from Vanna, who appears in the walkway, when she recognizes what the document is mere seconds before the rest of us.

Women really are the superior gender.

"It's a birth certificate," he acknowledges for us in a rush of words. "For a son she's never mentioned having. She didn't mention owing some mobster either. Fuck. Are you both this stupid or just blinded by good pussy to see the truth in front of you?"

Murphy makes his presence known when the sound of his voice echoes down the aircraft. "Her past isn't any of our business," he says, ordering us with cool authority to get our shit together. "There's plenty of reasons why she never mentioned bearing a child. Was she supposed to sign her contract with the label and dish out every detail of her twenty-nine years before she climbed on the bus with us? That's stupid, and you know it, Maz. I didn't see you airing out your dirty laundry to her. Forget that we've known you since before you had braces. There's a shit ton of dirty laundry in your basket, isn't there?"

Mazen's mouth opens, then closes before it parts again. "Mine's only one click away on Google, fucker."

"There's a perfectly good reason she kept this to herself. I wouldn't board a bus with five strangers and then air out my secrets either." Vanna's dark eyes dance between us, as if she's daring us to disagree. "She'll explain everything when she's ready. We just need to find her first and make sure she's okay. Tell her that she's a part of our family now. She has to know she can tell us about her secrets and trust us not to react like … well, this. It's not like you've done much to earn her trust thus far, Mazen. Did you even stop and consider why her kidnapper would send that to you specifically?"

The thought shatters me, tearing at my insides. This was all premeditated.

Yep, they're going to need a submarine to hit me over the head with this time.

"Trust isn't given freely," Mazen retorts ruthlessly, rubbing his hand over the five-o'clock shadow on his sculpted jaw.

Crumpling up the document, I stuff it into my front pocket. "I can't speak for you guys. I just know that all I care about is finding her, forging a future with her. Earning her trust and her heart. If we're not working toward the same goal, Maz, I don't want to hear your fucking commentary."

"When did I become the enemy?" he grinds out.

I ignore his question. "The fact that this man, Caddell, knew to send this to you means he knows she works for us. This is a good thing." I nod, trying to check the crazy mixture of fear stirring in my chest. "This means he knows we're good for the money. We just need to wait for the ransom call."

There's a bitter edge of what seems like regret in Mazen's voice when he admits, "I broke my phone." He quickly follows up with, "Not that I think I'd be the one to get that call or anything," masking the brief slip of his mask. "Someone wanted to ensure I'd get a copy of that birth certificate though, and I'm here, aren't I? Despite feeling conned by her … being here should earn me a little credit. Give me that before you write me off like she did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver's greenish toffee-colored eyes are wide with wild curiosity glinting in them.

"Nothing. Let's just find her. We'll figure the rest out later."

Everyone's voice fades into a hushed stillness as we collectively lose ourselves to the possibility of never seeing Sophia again.