Page 5 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Save your voice. We're on in ten."
I go through the motions, adjusting amp settings, testing the levels, but my mind keeps drifting to the other side of the venue where I can hear movement. Setting up. Preparing to performourtime slot with music they stole.
Then I hear it.
That voice.
It cuts through the ambient noise like a blade, sharp and clear even from across the venue. The frontman—Bells, that's his fucking name—warming up.
"You think you know me..."
My fingers freeze on the guitar strings. No. No fucking way.
That's Nash's melody. Note for fucking note.
"Think you own me..."
And those are Nash's words.
"Rex." Phoenix's massive hand lands on my shoulder, grounding me before I can spiral completely. "Breathe, man."
I don't remember moving, but somehow I'm halfway across the venue, my guitar abandoned on its stand. The rage is back, hotter than before, and this time there's no cooling it. But I force it down, compress it into something useful. Something that will fuel the performance instead of destroying it.
"We're going to blow them off this fucking stage," I tell my bandmates. "We're going to make everyone see they're the cheap knock-offs they are."
Ten minutes. But it's enough. More than enough when you're running on pure spite and rage. Every single person here is about to witness something they'll never forget.
“Are you ready to wake the fucking dead?” I growl into the mic, not bothering with pleasantries.
I hit the opening chord of "Resurrection" and Phoenix comes in with drums that sound like thunder in a cemetery. Rafael's bass slides underneath like shifting earth, and Matt actually fuckingnailsit. All that nervous energy transforms into something raw and powerful, his voice carrying Nash's words with a conviction that makes my chest tight.
We're three songs in when I see him.
Bells.
Standing in the wings, watching us with those honey-gold eyes that look too pretty for his sharp face. He's dressed like every other indie rockstar. Tight black jeans, vintage band tee, that leather collar around his throat like he's someone's pet. But there's something about the way he watches us—watchesme—that makes my skin crawl.
I turn my back on him, focusing on the performance. But I can feel his gaze like a physical weight, pressing between my shoulder blades. What the fuck is his problem? Come to gloat? Come to see what real music sounds like before he goes back out there and butchers Nash's legacy?
The last note hangs in the air like a funeral bell, and the crowd erupts. Real. Theyfeelit, the pain and rage and loss bleeding through every note.
We exit stage left, passing within feet of where Bells stands with his bandmates. Up close, he's smaller than I expected. Maybe five-eight tops. Thin, almost delicate-looking despite the tough-guy costume. Those honey-gold eyes track me as I pass, and there's something in them I can't read.
Guilt?
"Nice set," he says, voice lower than when he sings, raspy like he's been smoking. Or screaming. "You guys are legends."
The audacity of this motherfucker.
"Save it," I snap, not slowing down. "We both know what you are."
His brow furrows, genuinely confused. "Excuse me?"
But Phoenix is already herding me away, probably sensing I'm about two seconds from introducing this pretty boy's face to my fist. We make it to what passes for a green room in this shithole, a storage closet with a broken couch and a mini-fridge that hums like it's going to take off into outer space.
"Don't," Phoenix says before I can speak. "Just don't. We did good out there. Don't ruin it by starting shit."
"Starting shit?" I snarl. "They're performing Nash's music! His private fucking music from his journals!"
