Page 16 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to fix this disaster and get on stage like nothing happened. Like some girl didn't just see the one thing I've spent years making sure no one ever sees.
I stand up, legs shaky, and start searching the maintenance room. There's got to be something here. Tools, supplies, anything. I tear through boxes of cleaning products, rags, spare light bulbs. Nothing useful. The roll of black electrical tape I find shoved behind an old mop bucket will have to be enough.
I prop my phone against a shelf, using the black screen as a mirror even though I'd really rathernotlook at my hideous face even if I can barely see it, and start working. The tape is awkward, too sticky in some places and not sticky enough in others. I have to layer it, wrapping it around the existing leather to create a makeshift strap. It looks like shit, but it'll keep the mask in place.
Through the gap where I fixed the strap, I can see the edge of the scarring, white and pink flesh pulled tight like melted wax. Even this tiny glimpse of the edge of it makes my stomach turn.
Her pupils had blown wide with horror. But how much did she see? Just a flash? Or enough to run her mouth to everyone about what Rex Steele really looks like beneath the mask?
If she doesn't stop stealing Nash's music, I'll have to tell the world her secret.
And she'll tell the world mine.
But even if the fans would be repulsed if they knew what I look like, it would be worth it to protect Nash's legacy. I would do anything for my brother.
Even if it means losing everything.
The door rattles. Someone's trying the handle.
"Rex? You in there?" Phoenix's voice, concerned and slightly pissed.
"Fuck off," I snarl, not turning from my makeshift repair job.
"Rex, come on, man. We need to get ready."
"I saidfuck off!"
There's a pause, then the door caves in.
Of course Phoenix would just break the fucking lock.
Phoenix fills the frame, pushing his messy blond mane out of his blue eyes that immediately go to my mask, to the obvious electrical tape holding it together, to the way I'm standing with my body angled so the damaged side faces away from him.
"What happened?" His voice is quiet, careful, like he's talking to a spooked animal.
"Nothing happened. Get out."
But Phoenix doesn't move. He steps into the room instead, closing the door behind him. "Your mask is held together with electrical tape and there's blood on your shirt. Try again."
I look down. Shit. Thereisblood on my shirt—a few drops from where her blade caught my cheek when the strap tore. Not deep, but enough to bleed.
"Bar fight," I lie.
"Bullshit. You've been gone for forty minutes. Rafael and I have been covering for you, but—" He stops, and I can see him putting pieces together in that stupidly perceptive brain of his. "This is about Bells, isn't it?"
"Just leave it alone, Phoenix."
"Did he see?" The question is soft, almost gentle, and it makes me want to punch him more than if he'd been aggressive about it. "Your face?"
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. My vision goes red at the edges, and before I can stop myself, I'm on my feet, getting right in Phoenix's space. He doesn't back down—he never does—but I see the way his shoulders tense, ready for whatever I'm about to unleash.
"What the fuck makes you think there's something wrong with my face?" The words come out razor-sharp. "You and Raf having gossip sessions? Speculating about your lead guitarist and why he never takes his fucking mask off?"
Phoenix's expression doesn't change.
"You don't get to stand there and act like you know me," I grit out. "Like you understandanythingabout?—"
"I don't," he interrupts, and that stops me cold. "I don't understand, Rex. But I know you're hurting. I know something happened tonight that's got you more fucked up than usual, and I know we were due on stage twenty minutes ago. You freak out when anyone's late, sosomethingis going on."
