Page 49 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Yeah," he mutters. "I could have."
But he didn't. He climbed into that cramped ambulance and rode all the way to the hospital, looking like he'd witnessed the end of the world. Looking like he was carrying something heavy enough to crush him.
I want to ask why. Want to dig into whatever the fuck is happening between him and Stephen and Rex that has them all bleeding and broken and tied together in ways that make no goddamn sense. But pushing people who are already at their breaking point is how you lose them completely.
He manages a little more of the omelet before he sets the fork down with a finality that says he's done. "I think I might go take a nap," Bells says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet as he picks up his plate and moves toward the sink. "Thanks for the food."
"Leave it. I'll clean up."
He hesitates, then sets the plate down on the counter. "You sure?"
"Yeah, man. Go rest."
He gives me something that might pass for a smile if I squint hard enough, then heads down the hallway toward Nash's room. I watch him go, noticing the careful way he moves, like every step requires conscious thought. Like if he stops thinking about it, his body might just give up entirely.
The door closes behind him with a click that somehow sounds louder than it should in the empty apartment.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the unfinished omelet on Bells's plate. At the cold coffee in his mug. At the space where he was sitting just seconds ago.
Something's up.
Yeah. No shit, Phoenix.
Chapter
Fifteen
REX
Everything.
Fucking.
Hurts.
That's the first coherent thought that claws its way through the fog of whatever pharmaceuticals they've pumped into me. Not the sharp, clean pain of a fresh wound, but something deeper. More invasive. Like someone took a cheese grater to the inside of my skull and then lit the shavings on fire.
I try to open my eyes and immediately regret it. The hospital room assaults me with that special brand of burning fluorescent violence I've hated since I woke up from the accident. Everything's too bright, too sterile, too fuckingwhite.
Fluorescent Violence. That would be a good name for a band, I think, because whatever they have in that IV bag apparently has me fucked up.
My right hand flies to my face on instinct—checking, always checking—and freezes halfway there.
Bandages.
The entire right side of my face is wrapped in gauze and medical tape, layers of it covering the scar tissue. My fingerstrace the edges carefully, mapping new territory on a landscape I thought I'd memorized years ago. The bandages extend further than the mask ever did, creeping past my jaw, up toward my temple.
They cut into me. They fuckingoperatedon my face.
Cold sweat breaks out across my skin. My hands start shaking as I touch the bandages again, confirming what I already know. They saw. They all saw. How many doctors and nurses stood over me while I was unconscious, staring at the monster underneath, taking mental photographs to share over drinks?
You won't believe what Rex Steele actually looks like...
My breathing goes shallow, fast. Too fast. The heart monitor beside the bed starts shrieking, matching my racing pulse. I need to get out. Need to run. Need to disappear before?—
"Rex."
Phoenix's voice cuts through the spiral, soft and careful like he's approaching a wounded animal. Which isn't far from the truth.
