Page 34 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
[RAFAEL: No shit. But sometimes with Rex, it's better not to know.]
Maybe he's right. Maybe I should just keep my head down, play my role in the band, pretend everything's normal. But I keep thinking about the way Bells looked during that phone call.
Trapped.
The same way Nash looked near the end.
We make it through sound check without Rex stopping us every thirty seconds, which is a minor miracle. Bells nails every song, pouring so much emotion into the performance that even the jaded sound engineer looks impressed. But I can't shake thefeeling that we're all standing on the edge of a cliff, and Rex is about to push us over.
"That's a wrap for today," Rex announces after the last song. "Bells, you can go."
Bells doesn't need to be told twice. He's out the door before Rex finishes the sentence, leaving his guitar propped against the amp like he can't get away fast enough.
I wait until I hear the main door slam, then look at Rafael. He nods. He's thinking the same thing I am.
Time for answers.
"Rex," I say, and something in my tone makes him pause. "We need to talk."
"About?"
"Cut the shit," Rafael says, standing up and crossing his arms. "What's really going on with Bells?"
Rex turns slowly, like a snake uncoiling. "I told you. His contract was up?—"
"And that's convenient, yeah, we heard." I move to block the door, not that Rex would leave a confrontation, but I want him to know he's not getting out of this conversation. "Now tell us the truth."
Nobody moves.
The studio feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are pressing in. Rex's eye flicks between Rafael and me, calculating. Probably wondering if he can take both of us at once.
Probably deciding he can.
The silence stretches between us like a noose tightening around my throat. Rex's fingers drum against his thigh—once, twice, three times—the only sign he's feeling any pressure at all.
"You want the truth?" His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes people piss themselves. "Fine. Bells built his entire fucking career on Nash's music. On songs Nash bled for,cried over, poured his soul into during those long nights when the demons wouldn't let him sleep."
My stomach drops. "Rex?—"
"I don't give a shit if Bells personally stole them or not." Rex's visible eye burns with the kind of rage that could level cities. "He stood on that stage night after night, performing Nash's words like they meant nothing. Like they were just another product to sell to screaming fans. He needs to pay for that."
"So this is about revenge." Rafael's voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.
"It's about justice." Rex turns to the mixing board, adjusting knobs that don't need adjusting. "Stephen Hughes stole those songs out of Nash's notebooks. I know he did. Probably rifled through Nash's things while his body was still warm, looking for anything he could monetize."
The cold, casual way he talks about Nash's death stings. Like he's completely detached and it's just another fact, not the thing that destroyed all of us.
"And Bells?" I ask, though I already know I won't like the answer.
"Stephen's golden boy." Rex's laugh is bitter. "So I'm taking him. Let Stephen know what it feels like to have something precious ripped away."
"Jesus Christ, Rex." Rafael runs a hand through his dark hair. "How did you even get Bells to agree to this? He walked away from The Reverie at the peak of their success."
Rex doesn't answer immediately, just keeps fucking with the board. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he won't look at either of us.
"You're blackmailing him." Rafael says it like he's stating the weather, not accusing our lead guitarist of a federal crime. "Holy shit, you're actuallyblackmailinghim."
"Don't be dramatic?—"
