Page 2 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"In your dreams, dude."
Ethan's waiting by my dressing room door, quiet and watchful as always. He doesn't say anything, just steps aside to let me pass. But I catch the question in his dark eyes, the same one that's been there for weeks now.What's wrong? What aren't you telling us?
Everything, I want to say. I'm telling you absolutely fucking nothing because the truth would destroy everything we've built.
"Great show tonight," is what I actually say, and disappear into my dressing room, locking the door behind me.
The silence hits me like a slap. No screaming fans, no pounding drums, no Jake's guitar wailing like he's trying to raise the dead. Just me and the mirror and this fucking mask—both the literal one still perched on my head and the metaphorical one I can never take off.
I stare at my reflection, trying to see what they see. Shaggy white hair that looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Honey-gold eyes lined with enough eyeliner to make a raccoon jealous. The leather collar that might as well be welded to my neck at this point. Pale skin flushed from exertion, making me look like I've either been fighting or fucking.
But underneath all that, if you know how to look, you can still see her. Isabel Frost, former teen idol, America's sweetheart before America decided it wanted to see her destroyed.
Instead, I'm here, playing dress-up in men's clothes, pretending my body doesn't curve in all the wrong places for this charade. The compression shirt is killing me, squeezing my ribcage until every breath feels like work. I want to rip it off, want to unbind everything, want to exist without feeling like I'm suffocating in my own skin.
But I can't. Not here. Not anywhere, really.
A knock rattles the door, and I know who it is before he speaks. Stephen Hughes has a very specific way of knocking.Three short raps, pause, two more. Like he's spelling out his ownership in Morse code.
"It's open," I lie, then unlock it just as he tries the handle.
Stephen slides in like oil. His prematurely gray hair makes him look distinguished, trustworthy even. It's bullshit. So is his false concern.
At least Stephen is a beta. He's gotthatgoing for him. It's the only reason I agreed to work with him in the first place—no alpha pheromones trying to control me, no real risk of him scenting what I really am through the suppressants. After what happened with that psycho alpha who marked me, I'd rather eat glass than let another alpha have any power over me.
"Best turnout yet," he says, settling into the ratty couch like he owns that too. "Our next show in Portland's already sold out."
"Great." I start yanking off my boots, needing something to do with my hands that isn't wrapping them around his throat.
"Actually, about that." His voice takes on that tone, the one that means I'm about to get fucked without lube on every level but physical. "There's been a change. We're doing Seattle instead."
I freeze, one boot half off. "Seattle? We just played?—"
"Different venue. It's a charity festival that's gotten a lot of publicity. Perfect promotion for the new album." He examines his nails, casual as fuck. "You don't mind, do you?"
It's not really a question. Nothing with Stephen is ever really a question. Starjam Records owns me body, mind, and soul—his exact words when I signed the last contract extension. He smiles like he's doing me a favor, and I want to feed him his own teeth.
"Sure. Whatever sells records, right?"
"That's my boy." The way he saysboymakes my skin crawl. "You okay? You've been turning down a lot of after-parties lately."
"I'm fine."
"Because if something's wrong, if you're not happy with the direction we're taking?—"
"I said I'm fine."
He stands, smoothing down his probably-expensive suit. But he doesn't leave. Instead, he moves closer.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?" His hand lands on my shoulder, and it takes everything I have not to flinch. "We're family here."
Family. Right. The kind of family that sells you to the highest bidder and calls it love.
"I know." The words taste like ash.
He squeezes my shoulder, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me who's in charge, then finally heads for the door. "Oh, and Bells? Mario Lombardi wants to do another shoot next month. Something with a zombie theme."
"Can't wait."
