Page 21 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Fine," Mario snaps. "Then we need something else. Something... visceral." His eyes scan the set before landing on Mike, who's been watching from the sidelines while munching on craft services. "You. Drummer boy. On the ground."
Mike blinks, a piece of cheese halfway to his mouth. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Lie down. Bells, you're going to straddle him. It's perfect!" Mario's already directing his assistants to rearrange the lighting. "The lead singer dominating his drummer, the zombies reaching for them both. It's suggestive without being explicit. The fans will eat it up."
Mike's already on his back, grinning up at me like this is the best day of his life. "Come on, Bells. Don't leave me hanging."
Fuck.
I lower myself onto Mike's chest, trying to position my hips so the six inches of medical-grade silicone stuffed in my jeans doesn't press directly against him. He'd think I'm hard over this. But Mario's not having it.
"Closer," he demands. "I need to see the tension. The desire."
Mike's hands find my hips, pulling me down until I'm fully seated on him. The prosthetic shifts, pressing uncomfortably against my actual anatomy, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from wincing. Mike's eyes go wide for a second—he definitely feelssomething—but bless his beta soul, he doesn't say anything.
"Now lean forward," Mario instructs. "Like you're about to kiss him or kill him."
I plant my hands on either side of Mike's head, my white hair falling forward to curtain our faces. This close, I can smell his cologne mixed with the latex and fake blood. His pupils are blown wide, and I realize with a sick twist in my gut that he's actually turned on by this.
"Fuck, Bells," he whispers, quiet enough that only I can hear. "You're really committed to the character, huh?"
"Just shut up and look pretty," I mutter back.
The camera clicks. The zombies paw at us. Mario shouts directions about angles and intensity. My chest binder digs into my ribs with each breath, and the prosthetic is definitely not sitting right anymore, but I hold the position because this is what Bells would do. Bells wouldn't give a fuck about comfort. Bells would own this moment, make it art, make it dangerous.
"That's it!" Mario crows. "That's the shot! We're done!"
I roll off Mike immediately, maybe a little too eagerly. He sits up, adjusting himself discretely, and I pretend not to notice the confusion mixed with gross arousal on his face.
Jake appears with water bottles anyway, rescuing me. He presses one into my hand. "You okay? You look like you're about to pass out."
I'm not about to pass out, although I might be hungry enough to. I'm about toscream. The binder's been on for twelve hours straight, and my ribs feel like they're being slowly crushed by a python. The prosthetic has shifted so far out of position that I'm pretty sure it's sideways now. And somewhere out there, Rex Steele is sitting on information that could destroy everything I've built.
"I'm stellar," I lie, chugging the water. "Just need to change."
The dressing room they've given me is barely bigger than a closet, but it has a lock, and right now that's all that matters. Istrip off the blood-soaked shirt, gasping as the movement pulls at the binder. There are angry red marks where the edges have been digging in, and when I press gently on my ribs, pain shoots through my torso.
I should take it off. Give myself a break. But the photo shoot ran over, and The Reverie has a meeting in an hour. So I adjust it as best I can, stuff the prosthetic back into position, and pull on a clean shirt.
That's when I see them.
Roses. Deep red, the petals black along the edges, arranged in a clear crystal vase on the vanity. There's a note attached, my name written in careful script.
Not Bells.
Isabel.
My blood turns to ice water. I grab the note with shaking fingers, tearing it open.
Check your email. 10 PM. Olympic Hotel, Restaurant Elysium.
Come alone. Don't fuck up.
—R
I fumble for my phone, my fingers suddenly clumsy as I open my email. There's a new message from an address I don't recognize, just a string of random numbers and letters. No subject line. Just a video attachment.
I click play.
