Page 33 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Again," Rex commands through the intercom.
Bells's jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised his teeth don't crack.
"That was perfect," I mutter, not really meaning to say it out loud.
Rafael glances at me from where he's sprawled on the couch, one eyebrow raised. "You okay there, big guy? You've been staring at our new frontman like you want to eat him alive."
"Fuck off," I say without heat, but my face burns because he's not wrong. I don't think he knows about me and Nash, but I'm not sure, either.
The thing is, Bells doesn't move like Nash did. Where Nash was gentle, Bells is all sharp edges and simmering violence beneath the surface. A white wolf on a leash. He performs like he's fighting for his life, like every note costs him something vital. It shouldn't be attractive. It shouldn't make me want to protect him and wreck him in equal measure.
But here we are.
"Take five," Rex finally says, and Bells storms out of the booth, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the soundproofing.
"I need air," Bells announces to no one in particular, heading for the balcony that's really just a fire escape someone welded a platform onto.
Rex watches him go with that unreadable expression he's perfected, then turns back to the mixing board like nothing happened. The mask today is different from any of the others—smooth black leather with a subtle geometric triangle pattern. A different mask usually means Rex is in an even more piss-poor mood than usual, so Raf and I have both been on edge.
"Why is Bells here?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
Rex doesn't look up from the board. "We needed a singer."
"Bullshit. You hate him. You hate The Reverie. You've spent months talking about how they're everything wrong with the music industry." I stand up, needing to move, needing answers. "So why is Bells of all people suddenly in our band?"
"The label wanted fresh blood," Rex says, voice flat. "Bells's contract with The Reverie was up. It was convenient."
"Since when do you do anything because it's convenient?"
Rex finally looks at me, that single visible eye cold as ice. "Since when do you question my decisions?"
"Since you started making decisions that don't make sense."
The tension in the room ratchets up several notches. Rafael sits up straighter on the couch, muscles tensing like he's ready to intervene if this goes south. It wouldn't be the first time Rex and I have gotten into it, not by a long shot, but something about this feels different.
"Sound check in ten!" The engineer's voice crackles through the intercom, breaking the standoff.
Rex turns away, effectively ending the conversation. "Make sure Bells is ready."
I head for the balcony, needing space from Rex's suffocating presence. The aluminum steps creak as I climb up to theplatform. I hate these fucking death stairs, which is why I never come up here, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.
Bells is up here, too, pacing like a caged animal, phone pressed to his ear.
"I already told you, I'm done," he's saying, voice tight with anger. "No, Stephen, you don't get to—" He pauses, his knuckles going white where he's gripping the railing. "That's not how this works anymore. My lawyer will call—yes, I knowyourlawyer will—you can't just fucking show up?—"
He spots me and cuts himself off, ending the call without saying goodbye. "What?"
"Sound check in ten," I say, trying not to let on that I'm curious about what that was about.
Bells shoves his phone in his pocket, and for just a second, I see something crack in his expression. Not fear, exactly, but maybe exhaustion. Then the mask slams back down.
"Fantastic," he mutters, pushing past me toward the stairs.
I watch him go, then pull out my own phone and text Rafael.
[ME: Something's fucked here.]
His response is immediate.
