Page 4 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Rex." Phoenix steps between us, hands raised. "Save it for the stage, yeah? We need this show to go well."
He's right, and I hate him for it. This venue might be a shithole, but there's supposed to be label scouts here. Our chance to claw our way back to relevance, to finish what Nash started.
I turn back to the stage, adjusting my mask again. The metal edges dig into what remains of my cheek, a constant reminder of what I am underneath. A monster. A freak.
The mask is salvation and prison both. It lets me exist in the world, lets me pretend I'm just wearing a costume like the rest of the band.
It was Nash's idea originally. Said it would be a good look. He was right. Right enough that we've had countless bands rip us off, like that shitty new glorified boy band our fans won't stop talking about. They're obsessed with the frontman and keep drawing weird fanart of us fucking his brains out backstage.
What was his name again?
Balls?
The only reason I know his band is called The Reverie, other than that it's the most pretentious band name I've ever heard, is because it's the pet project of Stephen Hughes, our snake of an ex-manager.
And I know for a fact Stephen borrowed plenty of "inspiration" from Vespyr’s sound and aesthetics, although his versions are campy as fuck. There's no way the band is clueless about the connection, however much of a notorious dipshit their lead guitarist is.
"Yo, Hendrix!" The same all-legs-and-grease stagehand from earlier jogs over, clipboard clutched like a shield. A shield he's going to need if he keeps calling me that. "Change of plans. You guys got bumped up ten minutes."
"What?" I round on him, and he actually takes a step back. Smart kid. "Why?"
"Another band showed up last minute. Manager pulled some strings, so they're taking your original slot."
My blood turns to ice, then immediately to lava. "Whatband?"
The kid checks his clipboard like the answer might've changed in the last five seconds. "Uh, The Reverie? They're?—"
I don't hear the rest. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the rage building in my chest.
No. Fucking. Way.
"Rex—" Phoenix starts, but I'm already moving.
"Those motherfuckers," I snarl, stalking toward the wings where I can see movement. "Those thieving, backstabbing pieces of shit?—"
"Rex, don't." Rafael grabs my arm, and I nearly deck him for it. "Not here. Not now."
I shake off Rafael's grip, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel my teeth grinding.
The Reverie.
Here.
Takingourfucking slot.
"I'm fine," I lie through my teeth. "I'm fuckingfine."
Phoenix and Rafael exchange a look that says they don't believe me for a second. But I force myself to take a breath, then another. Can't lose it here. Not when we need this performance to be perfect. Not when there are scouts in the audience who might give us another shot at relevance.
Nash wouldn't want me to blow this.
The thought is like ice water on my rage, cooling it just enough to function. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension crack and pop along my spine.
"Let's just get through sound check," I mutter, stalking back toward our gear. "Then we can deal with those thieving fucks."
Matt finally emerges from the bathroom, looking pale but determined. Kid's got potential if he can get over his stage fright. Twenty-two, beta, decent range. Not Nash's range—nobody has Nash's range—but good enough for now.
"Sorry," he starts, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture.
