Page 12 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
The way he says my name makes it sound like an accusation.
"Rex."
"Break a leg out there," he says, and it sounds like he means it literally.
Then he's gone, disappearing into the hallway, leaving everyone exhaling collectively.
"Well, that was fun," Mike says weakly.
"Showtime!" the stage manager calls, and suddenly we're moving, heading for the stage, and I don't have time to process whatever the fuck just happened.
The show is... intense.
Maybe it's knowing Rex is watching from somewhere. Maybe it's the suppressants making my body rebel. Maybe it's the weight of possibly performing stolen songs from a dead man. But I channel all of it into the performance, and it comes out raw and angry and desperate in a way that has the crowd losing their minds.
Jake and I do our usual dance, but tonight there's an edge to it. When he grabs my throat during "Golden Crown," I bite his hand, making him jerk back in surprise. The crowd eats it up, thinking it's part of the show, but I see the confused bewilderment in his eyes. He thinks I'm losing my shit.
Hell, maybe I am.
By the time we hit the encore, I can barely breathe. The binder feels like it's crushing my ribs, and there's a sharp pain every time I inhale. But I push through, screaming the final notes like I'm exorcising demons.
The lights cut, and I stumble off stage, Jake catching my arm when I almost face-plant.
"Jesus, Bells?—"
"I'm fine," I growl, pulling away.
But I'm not fine. The room spins as we get backstage, and I have to grab the wall to stay upright. Phoenix and Rafael are there, already changed out of their stage clothes, and fuck, I must look bad because Phoenix immediately steps forward.
"You okay?"
"Lightheaded," I manage. "Just need to get to the dressing room."
The Reverie guys are all hovering now, Jake going full alpha-protective mode, and it makes me want to scream. They don't know I'm anything but a male beta, but somehow, they canstillfucking tell something's up, even on a subconscious level. Am I sweating through my cologne and suppressants? Shit.
"I'll be back," I say through gritted teeth. "Just... give me five minutes."
"Bells—"
"I said I'mfine."
I escape the green room before anyone can follow, my boots echoing against the concrete floor like a countdown to disaster. Every shadow in the hallway could be Rex waiting to ambush me with more accusations. My ribs scream with each breath, and I can feel sweat pooling where the binder digs into my skin. The dressing room door appears like salvation at the end of the corridor.
Just twenty more feet.
Fifteen feet. No sign of him.
Ten feet. A door slams somewhere behind me and I nearly jump out of my fucking skin, but it's just a roadie hauling equipment.
Five feet. My hand finds the doorknob, twists, and I'm inside, slamming it shut and turning the lock with shaking fingers. The click echoes in the small space, and I lean against the door, letting my head fall back against the cheap wood.
Made it. No Rex. No confrontation. No chance of him getting close enough to notice something's off about my scent, my body, my entire fucking existence.
For now.
The dressing room's silence wraps around me like a shroud. Finally alone, finally safe—or as safe as I ever fucking am these days. My hands shake as I fumble with the lock, making sure it's secure. The adrenaline from the performance is crashing hard, leaving me hollowed out and raw.
I peel off my sweat-soaked shirt, then the binder, and fuck, the pain when I unstick it from my skin makes me bite down on a scream. There's blood where it's rubbed me raw, little spots of red blooming against the compression fabric like some fucked-up Rorschach test.
