Page 101 of Kings Against the World

She curls up under the sheets and I slide in behind her. My arm wraps around her waist and I pull her close. We settle into position like puzzle pieces always meant to fit together.

I smell sugar as I wake up the next morning. It’s thick in the air as I rub my eyes and sit up in bed. Music fills the room, some catchy pop song I don’t recognize, the TV screen showing some kind of music station that’s been brought up.

My gaze slides over to the kitchenette area where the woman in a sleep shirt is dancing and using a spatula as a microphone as she cooks pancakes on a griddle.

I blink, still groggy, and try to figure out if this is real or a dream.

Zoe’s shaking her ass, holding the spatula up like she’s singing into it.

A grin stretches across my face as I lean back against the bed pillows and watch the show. She returns to the griddle long enough to flip the pancakes onto the other side, then transitions into a smooth two step that makes me laugh. The lyrics she does sing along to are off-key, but her enthusiasm—and how fucking good she looks in that sleep shirt—make up for it.

She’s transferring the pancakes to waiting plates on the counter when I clear my throat and get her attention.

“You selling any tickets to this concert, or is this a private show?”

She jumps slightly, startled, before spinning toward me with wide eyes. Then her face softens into a shy smile. “Fortunately for you, it’s your lucky day. VIP show just for you.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Hope you like pancakes. It was all I had for breakfast.” She sets both plates down in front of the bar stools at the kitchen counter.

“You kidding? I demolish pancakes.”

She laughs. “Just make sure you don’t put hot sauce on them. I’ve provided the syrup for a reason.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you try it, babe.” I smirk, joining her at the stools and grabbing a fork.

She groans dramatically but sits down next to me, shaking her head in mock disappointment. The moment feels easy, natural in a way that I’m not used to. I dig into my pancakes, cutting through the warm, fluffy stack, watching as syrup drips down the sides.

The first bite is perfect. I hum in satisfaction. Zoe notices and gives me a pleased little smile.

For a while, everything’s simple. It’s just the two of us, eating pancakes and talking about stupid stuff like her terrible taste in music (to which she kicks me under the counter).

“Ouch,” I groan. “You kick me when you should be getting better taste in music.”

“I’d love to see your playlist. Something tells me it’s full of either death metal or gangster rap.”

“That… actually is pretty damn accurate.”

We’re laughing some more when the violent vibration from my phone interrupts us. The screen lights up all the way from the bed, showing a slew of text messages coming through. I drop my fork against the plate, producing a clanging noise as I jump off the stool and go to check all the notifications.

Turns out, it’s not just texts that have come through. I’ve got missed calls too.

Seven of them.

I select the last person who called me, which was Cash, and ring him back. He answers on the first ring.

“Oz, we’ve been trying to get a hold of you. You weren’t at your trailer.”

My gaze meets Zoe’s. “I’m, uh, I’m out of town. What’s up?”

Cash exhales a breath, sounding grim. “It’s all over the news. The bus transporting Boone and Rollins to prison crashed.”

“Itcrashed? How the fuck did that happen?!”

“It was run off the road,” Cash continues. “By a motorcycle crew.”

I go still, clutching my phone tighter. “You don’t mean it was the…”

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