Page 22 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
And there I am. Fifteen years old, blonde and bright-eyed, wearing a sparkly pink dress. I'm on stage at Madison Square Garden, hitting the high notes of "Bubble Gum Princess" even though it's not the kind of shit I'd ever listen to on my own, let alone sing if I had a choice. The camera zooms in on my face. Young, innocent, completely unaware that in less than an hour, a stalker would force a half-formed mark on me in my own dressing room.
This footage should have been destroyed. I paid people—alotof people—to scrub Isabel Frost from the internet. Every video, every photo, every trace of that girl was supposed to be gone.
Not evenStephenknows who I am.
But Rex fucking Steele has it.
I delete the email, but I know it doesn't matter. Rex has the original. Rex has probably made copies. Rex has me by the fucking throat, and we both know it.
Ten PM. Restaurant Elysium.
Two hours to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do.
The wig itcheslike I've got a family of fucking fleas setting up camp on my scalp. Brown, shoulder-length, nothing like my actual choppy platinum hair. Combined with the makeup and red dress, I look nothing like Bells. Just another woman meeting someone for drinks at an overpriced restaurant. Hiding in plain sight.
Restaurant Elysium sits on the top floor of the Olympic Hotel, adorned with glass walls and ambient lighting they probably overpaid some yuppie interior designer to source. The kind of place where they don't put prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you shouldn't be here.
I catch my reflection in the elevator doors on the way up. Red lipstick, subtle makeup, expensive bag, looking like someone's mistress or trophy wife. The complete opposite of the leather-and-attitude persona I've cultivated.
Doesn't help that I feel naked as fuck without my knife.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since... fuck, when? Yesterday? Time blurs together when you're running on adrenaline and suppressants.
Rex is already there when I arrive, seated at a corner table with his back to the wall like some paranoid mob boss. Even in the dim lighting, his mask is visible like a shadow over the right side of his face. This one's sleek and minimalist, nothing like the theatrical one I slashed off his face. He's wearing an actual suit—black, expensive, fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders.
Looks like we're both playing dress-up tonight.
"Isabel," he says as I approach, and hearing that name in his voice makes my skin crawl.
"Don't call me that." I slide into the seat across from him, hyperaware of how the dress rides up my thighs. "Isabel is dead."
"And yet here she sits." His visible eye tracks over me slowly, taking in the transformation. His expression doesn't change at all. Not even a flicker. He looksbored.Somehow, that irritates me more than if he were checking me out. "Blood red suits you."
"Fuck off."
A server appears immediately, all practiced smiles and professional blindness to the weird energy crackling between us. "Can I start you with something to drink?" she asks, her eyes zeroing in on Rex like she's trying to figure out if she recognizes him.
"Château Margaux 2010," Rex says without looking at the wine list. Of course he orders the good shit. Show-off.
"Just water," I start, but Rex cuts me off.
"She'll have the same."
The server disappears before I can argue, and I glare at Rex across the candlelit table. "I can order for myself."
"Apparently not." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You look uncomfortable."
"The wig itches."
"Not the wig."
He's right, but I'm not giving him the satisfaction. Sitting here in a dress, trying to look and act stereotypically femininewhile my body's been trained to move like a guy for years… it's like wearing two different costumes at once.
The wine arrives. The server pours with unnecessary ceremony, and I watch Rex pick up his glass. He tilts his head slightly to the left as he drinks, keeping the right side of his face angled away. The movement's so subtle most people wouldn't notice, but I do. Because I saw what's under that mask, even if it was just for a second. The way he drinks tells me more than that glimpse did. Whatever's under there affects basic shit like drinking. Eating too, probably.
The thought makes something twist in my chest. Sympathy? Fuck no. Whatever it is, I shove it down. He's blackmailing me. He doesn't get my sympathy.
Or my mercy.
