Page 18 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Yes," I mutter, adjusting the mask one more time, making sure every inch of damage is hidden.
"Good. Because I told them we'd be out there in five and Rafael's about to have an aneurysm."
We head toward the stage, and sure enough, Rafael's pacing by the stage entrance. His dark eyes immediately zero in on the different mask. He opens his mouth, probably to ask what happened to the other one, but Phoenix shoots him a look that could stop a charging rhino.
"About fucking time," Rafael says instead. "Matt's having a panic attack. Poor fucker's fighting for his life in the bathroom right this minute."
Our singer is indeed looking green around the gills as he comes up to us as if on cue, clutching his water bottle like it might save his life. Poor kid. If he knew what kind of shit show he'd signed up for, he'd run screaming. There's still plenty of time for that.
"Two minutes!" the stage manager calls out.
I grab my guitar, checking the tuning even though I did it three times during sound check. My fingers feel disconnected from my body, like I'm operating them by remote control. The crowd noise builds beyond the curtain, hundreds of voices merging into one hungry roar.
"Rex." Phoenix's hand lands on my shoulder, and I don't shrug it off. Can't find the energy. "We've got this. Just play."
Just play.Like it's that fucking simple. Like I can just forget that somewhere in this building, someone knows I'm a monster. Like I can pretend everything's normal when I can still feel the ghost of her against me.
The lights dim. The crowd screams.
"Showtime, motherfuckers," Rafael mutters, and we walk onto the stage.
The lights hit me, too bright, too hot, turning the audience into a writhing mass of shadows and phone screens. I find my position, muscle memory taking over when my brain checks out. Matt grabs the mic.
"Portland!" he screams. "Are you ready to raise some hell?"
They roar back, and I hit the opening chord of "Seraphs Don't Bleed," letting the sound wash over me. Phoenix's drums thunder in, Rafael's bass sliding underneath like oil on water, and for a second, just a second, I can pretend this is enough.
But then I catch movement in the wings.
She's there. Bells. Still in her stage clothes, that leather collar around her throat, watching us with those gold eyes that saw too much.
And despite everything—despite the rage, despite the terror, despite knowing she saw what no one should ever see—my body still remembers how she felt. The heat of her. The rapid flutter of her pulse. The way she'd fit against me like she was made to be there, even while holding a knife to my heart.
The same knife burning a hole in my pocket.
I pour all of it into the music. The fury. The shame. The unwanted desire that makes me hate myself even more than usual. My fingers bleed through the bandages as I play, and I don't care. Physical pain is nothing compared to this.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and something passes between us. Not understanding. We're too fucked up for that. But recognition, maybe. Two people wearing masks, hiding who we really are, bound together now by mutual assured destruction.
And Iwilldestroy her.
Chapter
Seven
RAFAEL
Matt's voice hits that whiny little bitch pitch that makes me want to shove my bass down his throat. He's been moaning and carrying on for the last twenty minutes, pacing around the tour bus like a caged rat who just realized the trap snapped shut. His fake ID excuse keeps getting more elaborate with each retelling, like maybe if he adds enough details we'll forget what we all saw.
"She said she was twenty-three!" He's practically shrieking now, running his hands through his hair until it sticks up like he got electrocuted. "How was I supposed to know?—"
"That the girl with braces and a fuckinglearner's permitin her wallet wasn't legal?" Rex cuts him off, voice deadly calm. That's when he's most dangerous—not when he's outwardly pissed off, but when he goes quiet. "You knew exactly what you were doing, you sick fuck."
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching this train wreck unfold. Part of me wants to intervene, but honestly? Matt dug his own grave the second he decided to feel up a high schooler at last night's afterparty. The girl's friend had to literally drag heraway from him. How she even got in is fucking beyond me, but someone else is getting fired when we find out.
Sixteen. She was fuckingsixteen.
Matt's mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. "I... she... it was dark and?—"
