Page 39 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
I make it outside, barely, shoulder clipping the doorframe because my depth perception is more shot than usual. The alley behind Foxhole Studios stinks like piss and rotting garbage, which would make me puke if I'd been able to eat a damn thing this morning. I lean against the brick wall, letting it take my weight because my legs are shaking.
The infection's spreading, the fever's getting worse, and I'm doing exactly nothing about it because death seems like a reasonable solution to the problem of existence.
"Rex?"
Fuck.
Bells's voice cuts through the white noise in my head. Of course she followed me out. Of course she can't just leave well enough alone.
"Leave me the fuck alone," I mutter, not turning to face her.
"What's your problem?" She moves closer, and I can hear the aggression in her voice, the challenge. "You're being even more of a dick than usual today."
"You'remy problem," I grit out. "You think you can just—" The words cut off as my vision does that fragmenting thing again, the world breaking into pieces that don't quite fit together.
"Shit." Her voice changes, loses the sharp edge. "You okay?"
The genuine concern in her tone makes something twist in my chest. I don't want her concern. Don't want her to see me like this—weak, failing, barely holding it together. The mask is supposed to hide this. I'm supposed to be invulnerable behind it, untouchable, the devil in the shadows that everyone fears.
"You don't know your place," I bite out, putting as much venom into the words as I can muster. "You think you can just?—"
I try to push past her, to get back inside where I can pretend this conversation never happened. My shoulder clips her, then hits the doorframe because my depth perception is definitely completely fucked, and suddenly I'm stumbling, catching myself on the door handle.
"Rex—"
"Don't." I yank the door open, using it as leverage to pull myself upright. "Just fucking don't."
Inside, Phoenix is hovering like he's been waiting for me to collapse this entire time. Rafael's got that assessing look again, the one that says he's figuring out exactly how bad this is and whether it's worth intervening.
"We're done for today," I announce, because I can't do this anymore. Can't pretend I'm fine when every breath feels like inhaling broken glass.
"You look like you're going to pass out," Phoenix says warily. He knows something's up. Knows I never quit.
"I'm. Fine." I enunciate each word carefully on my way out to the parking lot, because if I don't, they'll blur together into nonsense. When I reach my car, I almost end up on the asphalt. Somehow, I manage to wrench the door open and fall inside.
The steering wheel is cool under my forehead. The mask digs into my face. The infection throbs. The fever burns. The passenger window is fogging up from my breath. Or maybe that's just my vision going. Hard to tell anymore. Everything's distorted, reality bending at the edges like a Salvador Dali painting.
Is this what Nash felt like at the end?
This disconnection from the physical world. This sense of floating away from yourself. This quiet acceptance that it's over and there's nothing left to fight for.
Did he think of me?
Did he want me there?
Did he die scared and alone, wishing someone would come, or did he welcome the darkness like an old friend?
I'll never know. That's the worst part. Not knowing if he suffered. Not knowing if he called for me. Not knowing if he forgave me for all the times I pushed him away, all the times I was too wrapped up in my own pain to see his.
My phone buzzes again. The vibration travels through the seat, through my body, but I can't make my hand move to answer it. Can't make any part of me respond to external stimuli. I'm locked inside my own head, prisoner to a body that's given up the fight.
I'm just tired.
Sofucking tired.
Chapter
Thirteen
