Page 20 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
Phoenix and I exchange glances. This is not the reaction either of us expected.
"I am?" Phoenix sounds as confused as I feel.
"Think about it." Rex starts pacing, and the energy coming off him is different now. Not angry, but calculating. "Bells is already performing Nash's songs. The audience loves him. He's got the range, the stage presence..."
"Rex," I say slowly, "what the fuck are you actually suggesting here?"
He turns to face us, and even with the mask hiding half his face, I can see the wheels turning. "I'm suggesting we solve two problems at once. We need a singer. Stephen Hughes needs to stop profiting off my dead brother’s music.
"You want to steal their frontman?" Phoenix sits up straighter. "Rex, that's?—"
"Poetic justice," Rex finishes. "Stephen stole from us. Now we steal from him."
The bus goes quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. I can feel the tension ratcheting up, that familiar sensation of Rex about to do something spectacularly destructive.
"Bells would never agree to that," I point out, trying to be the voice of reason even though part of me is intrigued by the sheer audacity of it. "He's got a contract with Starjam Records. Stephen owns his ass."
"Everyone has a price," Rex says, and there's something dark in his voice that makes me wonder what he knows that we don't. "Or a pressure point."
"Rex..." Phoenix starts, but Rex cuts him off.
"What? You were the one who suggested it. Bells is talented. He's already singing Nash's songs. Why shouldn't those songs be performed by someone in Nash's actual band?"
"You realize this would start a war with Stephen Hughes," I say, because someone needs to point out the obvious. "He could bury us."
"And I'll bury him, too. With a shovel if I have to," Rex mutters, downing the rest of his beer before stalking out of the room, leaving Phoenix and me staring at each other in stunned silence.
Fuck.
Now the shit isreallygonna hit the fan.
Chapter
Eight
BELLS
"Bells, tilt your head back more. Yeah, like that. Now open your mouth slightly—perfect!"
Mario Lombardi's camera clicks rapid-fire as I arch against the fake gravestone, synthetic blood dripping down my throat. The zombie extras crowd around me, their professionally grotesque makeup jobs making them look like they crawled out of a Tim Burton wet dream. One of them has her latex-covered hand on my thigh, fingers splayed possessively over the leather.
The whole setup is for The Reverie's first platinum album cover. Some pretentious concept about resurrection and rebirth that Stephen pitched to the label. What it really is? An excuse to pose me like a sacrificial lamb while barely-dressed zombie girls paw at me.
"Can we get more blood on his chest?" Mario calls to his assistant. "I want it pooling in his collarbones."
The makeup artist approaches with a squeeze bottle of corn syrup and food coloring, but I hold up my hand. "Shirt stays on."
Mario lowers his camera, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together. "But the concept?—"
"Has me fully clothed. Check the contract."
I know exactly what clause 7B says because I fought tooth and nail for it. No nudity, no shirtless shots, no "wardrobe malfunctions." My lawyer thought I was being a prude. If only he knew I'm hiding tits that would blow this whole facade to hell.
"It would look so much better if?—"
"The shirt. Stays. On."
Mario's jaw tightens, but he knows better than to push it. Stephen might own my soul, but even he can't violate the contract. Not without lawyers getting involved, and that would raise questions nobody wants answered.
