Page 48 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Eat," I tell him, setting the plate in front of him and taking the stool next to his. "You look like you're about to pass out."
He picks up a fork, pokes at the omelet like it might bite him, then takes a tentative bite. "This is actually really good."
"Thanks. Learned from my abuela." I dig into my own plate, suddenly ravenous.
We fall into an easy silence. I'm so lost in my own head, I don't even realize my phone's going off on the counter in front of me until Bells taps me on the arm, right over the kraken tattoo.
"Your phone," he says, nodding to it.
"Hope it's good news," I say, bracing myself and picking it up. It's a text from Phoenix.
[PHOENIX: He's awake. Bandaged up. Calm now but won't let me in his room.]
I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back.
[ME: Yup. That's our Rex. Did you eat?]
[PHOENIX: They have a hot dog vending machine.]
[ME: You're going to end up hospitalized yourself if you eat that shit. Want me to bring you real food?]
[PHOENIX: Nah. Keep an eye on Bells. Something's up.]
[ME: Yeah. I noticed. Put him in Nash's room.]
There's a long pause before Phoenix responds.
[PHOENIX: Fuck. How did that go?]
[ME: About as well as you'd expect. The room feels like a crypt.]
[PHOENIX: Maybe it needs someone in it.]
[ME: That's what I said. Doesn't make it less creepy.]
[PHOENIX: Rex is going to lose his shit.]
[ME: Rex is currently in the hospital because he beat Stephen Hughes into ground beef. I think we're past worrying about his feelings.]
[PHOENIX: Fair point.]
[ME: But, uh. Don't tell him.]
[PHOENIX: No shit dude.]
I set my phone down on the counter, the screen still glowing with Phoenix's last message. Bells is watching me, those honeyed eyes tracking my face like he's trying to read the news before I can deliver it. His fork hovers over his half-eaten omelet, suspended in that particular kind of frozen anticipation that says he's bracing for the worst.
"He's awake," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Phoenix says he's bandaged up and stable. Being his usual charming self, apparently. Won't let Phoenix in his room."
Bells's shoulders drop maybe an inch. Not a lot, but enough that I can see the tension bleeding out of him in real time. He sets the fork down carefully, like he's suddenly forgotten how to use his hands.
"That's good," he says quietly. "That he's okay, I mean."
I take another bite of my omelet, watching him from my peripheral vision. He's staring at his plate now, pushing food around without actually eating it. The coffee's gone cold in his mug, steam long since evaporated into the apartment's recycled air.
"You didn't have to come to the hospital," I point out, because someone should probably say it. "In the ambulance, I mean. You could've just... left."
His eyes flick up to mine, and there's something in them I can't quite read. Guilt, maybe? Or just exhaustion so deep it looks like guilt from the outside.
