Page 50 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
I turn my head—slowly, because apparently even that hurts now—and find him sitting in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs that are designed to make visitors leave. His massive frame dwarfs the thing completely, knees nearly touching his chest. His blond hair is messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it. There are dark circles under his blue eyes.
He looks like shit.
"You saw." It's not a question. My voice comes out rough, raw, accusatory. "You fucking saw everything. Didn't you?"
"No, I?—"
"Who has seen my face?" The words scrape out of my throat like broken glass. "Rafael? Did you all stand around and geta good look while I was unconscious? Take some pictures for posterity?"
"Rex—"
"Who. Else." My fists clench in the sheets, knuckles white. The heart monitor's going crazy. "How many people in this fucking hospital know what I look like? How many?—"
"The surgical team, that's it," Phoenix says quickly. Too quickly. Like he's trying to calm a bomb that's about to go off. "And they're bound by HIPAA?—"
"HIPAA doesn't mean shit when someone's selling photos to TMZ for fifty grand." I try to sit up, need to get out, need to leave before— Pain shoots through everything and I collapse back. "Fuck.FUCK!"
"Nobody took pictures." Phoenix leans forward, hands up like he's trying to show he's not a threat. "And nobody took your mask off. In the operating room, yeah, probably. But in the ambulance, no."
"What..." My voice cracks. Actually fucking cracks. Pathetic. "What the fuck did they do to me?"
"Surgery." Phoenix looks away, can't meet my eye, his shoe tapping nervously on the floor. "The infection had spread into the bone. They had to debride the tissue, clean everything out. You're on antibiotics and fluids."
Debride. Clinical word for scraping away dead flesh. I've had it done before, back when the burns were fresh. Back when Nash would sit with me through the screaming because our parents sure as hell weren't going to.
"My mask." The words come out flat. "Where's my mask?"
"Safe." Phoenix gestures to his leather bag on the chair beside him, and he gives me a wary grin. "You can probably wear it over the bandages if you want to look like a shadow daddy again."
The attempt at humor falls flat. Everything feels flat. Like someone took all the color out of the world and left just grayscale behind.
"What the fuck is ashadow daddy?"
"Do you just deliberately avoid everything the fans say about you online?"
"Yes," I grit out through my teeth.
Phoenix gives a tired laugh. "Never mind."
"How long was I out?"
"You've been asleep for two days. They have you on some heavy shit because..." He trails off, and I know what he's not saying. Because they needed to do extra work because my face is fucked to the point I don't even know how—or if—they managed to stitch the cut closed.
My hand reaches for the bandages again to make sure they're there.
"Bells didn't let them remove your mask in the ambulance," Phoenix says, watching me.
Bells?
Bells protected my secret?
Bells, who has every reason to want me exposed, humiliated, destroyed. Bells, who I'm blackmailing into singing for a band she hates. Bells, who saw my face in that tunnel and could have told everyone, could have taken photos, could have?—
But didn't.
And now I owe her. Now she has something over me. The knowledge sits like acid in my stomach.
I close my eyes, and immediately I'm back in that alley. Stephen's hands on her. The way she froze. That look in her eyes that I recognized because I've seen it in the mirror. Pure, primal terror masquerading as paralysis. It was something that demanded immediate, violent correction.
