Page 17 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
My hand is still pressed to the side of my face, fingers splayed over the mask like I'm holding it in place through sheer will. The electrical tape feels like it's already coming loose, cheap adhesive no match for the sweat beading on my skin.
"Just leave it alone," I say, but the fight's draining out of me, leaving nothing but exhaustion and the bone-deep terror that she saw, she fuckingsaw, and now everything's going to come crashing down.
Phoenix sighs, drags a hand through his hair. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere."
"Where the fuck would I go?" I snap, but he's already heading for the door.
"I mean it, Rex. Stay."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with my racing thoughts and the taste of copper in my mouth from where I've been biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.
The mask shifts slightly, the electrical tape creaking like a dying insect as it starts to peel away from the leather. I press harder against it, but that just makes it worse. The whole thingfeels like it's about to fall apart, just like everything else in my pathetic excuse for a life.
And despite Bells being a beta, her sweet and spicy vanilla and cinnamon scent is trapped in every crevice and cavity of my skull. I cantasteit.
This can't be happening.
After years of feeling nothing, years of being dead inside, my body choosesnowto remember what desire feels like? Forher? The thief stealing Nash's music? The one who just saw my fucking face?
It hits me all at once. Her scent flooding my senses, the memory of how she fit against my body, how her pulse fluttered under my fingers. And underneath it all, the crushing reality that shesaw.
My stomach lurches violently.
I barely make it to the industrial sink in the corner before I'm heaving. The whiskey I threw back earlier burns worse coming up than it did going down. My whole body shakes as I grip the edges of the sink, the damaged mask sliding further with each violent retch.
I have to hold the mask with one hand while my stomach empties itself, and when I lift my head, panting, I catch sight of my repulsive fucking face in the grimy mirror above the sink.
The rage hits before I can stop it.
My fist drives through the mirror with a satisfying crack, glass exploding outward, shards raining into the sink to mix with my pathetic bile.
"Fuck!" I snarl. Blood drips from my hand onto the dirty porcelain, but the burning and stinging in my knuckles drowns out the phantom scent wrapping around me like silk chains.
I rinse my mouth with my bleeding hand, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the bile. The combination makes me wantto puke again, but there's nothing left. Just dry heaves and the shake in my limbs that won't stop.
When it's finally over, I'm sweating through my shirt, legs trembling like a newborn colt. Her scent is still there, clinging to my clothes like an accusation. I rinse my mouth, spit, rinse again. The taste of bile won't go away.
Neither will the shame of being so fucking weak.
The busted door opens again just as I finish wrapping my bloodied hand in torn fabric and I stand up straight, turning around. Phoenix is back, something black clutched in his massive hand.
"Here," he says, holding it out to me.
It's a mask. One of mine, the backup I keep in the tour bus for emergencies. Smooth black leather with silver accents, the straps intact and strong. I stare at it for a long moment, then at Phoenix, trying to figure out his angle.
"How did you?—"
"I pay attention," he says simply. "Now put it on so we can get out there and blow these people's minds."
I grab the mask from his hand. I turn away and carefully peel off the damaged one. The air hits the scarred side of my face and I have to fight not to immediately cover it with my hand. The new mask slides on like armor, the leather cool against my fevered skin, and I secure the straps. The familiar pressure is almost comforting, hiding everything—the scars, the shame, the unwanted heat that's still coiling in my gut from our confrontation.
Phoenix's eyes track to my wrapped hand, the shattered mirror, the sink. He doesn't say a word about any of it. But I catch him inhaling slightly, and I know he can still smell Bells' scent clinging to me. The question is there in his eyes, but he doesn't ask it.
I can breathe again.
Sort of.
"Better?" Phoenix asks, and there's no pity in his voice, no disgust, just genuine concern. Which makes it worse somehow.
