Page 37 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
I don't scream.
Instead, I bite harder, feel my teeth sink into flesh that gives way too easily, feel blood well up and spill down my chin. The pain in my lip is clean, sharp, understandable. Not like the infection, which burns and throbs and pulses with my heartbeat, reminding me that I'm still alive, still trapped in this ruined meat suit.
The ointment comes next—the special compound I have to order from overseas, the only thing that keeps the constant soresfrom the mask from getting worse. It's thick, greasy, smells like death's asshole. I slather it on with shaking fingers, and the pain that shoots through my face makes my vision go white at the edges.
My hands grip the sink so hard my knuckles crack. The porcelain is cool under my palms, grounding, the only thing keeping me from collapsing to the bathroom floor and curling into a ball like the pathetic waste of space I am.
Hospital. You should go to a hospital.
The thought floats through the fever haze, logical and sensible and completely fucking pointless because I'd rather die than let some doctor see what's under this mask. Rather die than endure the strained look in their eyes that saysthis is the worst thing I've seen all week, but I'm professional enough not to show it.
Death seems like a reasonable alternative at this point.
Preferable, even.
The mask goes back on.
It hurts worse than taking it off. The fresh ointment makes the lining slide against raw flesh, the pressure against the infection making my eyes water. But I buckle it on anyway because I sleep in this fucking thing. Have slept in some version of it every night since the accident. The prosthetic one, the one designed for comfort, which is a joke.
The reflection stares back at me, human again, mask firmly in place, blood on my chin from where I bit through my lip, sweat beading on the exposed parts of my face. I look like shit. Feel worse. But I'm upright, and that's going to have to be enough because Vespyr has a session today and I'll be damned if I let a little thing like sepsis stop me from finishing what I started.
Nash wouldn't want this.
The words echo in my feverish skull almost as if there's a tiny angel perched on my shoulder, whispering in my ear to go to the fucking hospital and live another day. The voice is right. Nash wouldn't want this.
Nash is dead.
What Nash wants is fucking irrelevant.
Foxhole Studios lookslike it's underwater.
That's the fever talking, I know that, but it doesn't make the psychedelic murals on the walls stop melting and reforming, doesn't make the floor stop tilting at angles that physics shouldn't allow. I grip the door frame harder than necessary, taking a moment to orient myself before stepping inside.
The air conditioning hits me like a slap, making me realize I'm sweating through my shirt. When did that start? Great. Phoenix is going to be up my ass about that the moment he sees me.
"Rex?"
Here it comes.
Phoenix's voice comes from somewhere to my left, and I turn to face him, movements slower than they should be. He's standing by his drum kit, concern written all over his stupidly open face. "Jesus, man, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I say, and my voice sounds like I gargled gravel.
"Your lip is bleeding."
Is it? I reach up, fingers coming away red. "Walked into a door."
"Bullshit. Did you get in another fight?"
"Leave it alone, Phoenix."
"Rex—"
"I saidleave it the fuck alone." The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with enough venom that Phoenix actuallysteps back. Good. He should step back. Let me self-destruct in peace.
Rafael appears from the booth, dark eyes taking in my state. "You look like shit. You're?—"
"Ready to work." I cut him off, moving toward my guitar. One foot in front of the other. Don't sway. Don't show weakness. Weakness is blood in the water and I'm surrounded on all sides by sharks who smell it no matter how hard I try to hide it.
