Page 58 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
For a rockstar, that's... weird.
Hell, Jake has three full-length mirrors in his bedroom alone, positioned at different angles so he can check himself from every possible vantage point before a show. Most performers I know are borderline obsessed with their appearance, constantly adjusting, primping, making sure every hair is in place.
But Rex? Nothing.
I move toward what I assume is the bathroom, pushing open the door to reveal gleaming black marble and chrome fixturesthat look like they belong in a luxury hotel. And there, finally, I find it—a mirror. But it's not hanging on the wall like a normal fucking person would have it. It's inside a shallow medicine cabinet, the kind you have to open to see your reflection.
Like someone who can't stand to accidentally catch a glimpse of themselves.
Rex clearly has self-esteem issues that go way beyond the typical musician's insecurity. The man who performs in front of thousands wearing elaborate masks, who commands a stage with predatory confidence, who blackmails people without flinching—that same man can't even have a mirror in his own bedroom.
I think about what he said in the hospital, his voice raw and broken.
Even Nash couldn't look at me.
Fuck.
I close the medicine cabinet with a soft click and return to the main room, trying to shake off the weight of that realization.
I can't afford to feel sympathy for Rex.
The knock on Rex's door makes me jump, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I'm halfway to grabbing my knife before I recognize Rafael's voice through the heavy wood.
"Bells? We ordered pizza. You hungry?"
My stomach growls in answer, loud enough I'm pretty sure he can hear it through the door. Shit. When was the last time I ate? Rafael made omelets for Phoenix and me this morning, but I didn't have much of an appetite then.
"Yeah," I call back, my hand already on the doorknob. "Give me a minute."
I do a quick check in the medicine cabinet mirror, the only fucking mirror in this entire room. The collar's secure around my throat, hiding what needs to stay hidden. Dark circles rimmy eyes. I'm a few shades paler than usual, which means I might puke if I eat something heavy like pizza, but I'm hungry enough it's worth the risk.
I look like shit, but that's nothing new lately.
The living room smells like grease and hot cheese and marinara when I emerge, and maybe this is a mistake after all, but the three open pizza boxes spread across the coffee table are already calling my name.
"Holy shit," I mutter, taking in the spread. "Did you order enough to feed an army?"
"We didn't know how hungry you were," Rafael says, settling onto the couch. He sprawls out on his back, head resting on Phoenix's lap, long legs kicked out with his decidedly goth cowboy boots kicked up on the armrest.
Phoenix doesn't seem to mind being used as a human pillow. He's got a slice of pepperoni and ropey cheese halfway to his mouth, grinning at me like a kid who just got away with stealing cookies. "What's the point of being adults if we can't have a pizza party whenever the fuck we want?"
"Fair point," I admit, grabbing a slice with sausage. I take a bite and have to choke down a purr. Not a moan, thank god. My mom's one of those.
Fuck, Iwasstarving.
"How's Rex's room treating you?" Rafael asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice, not judgment. "Find any skeletons in the closet?"
"Not yet," I say.
Emphasis onyet.
Phoenix snorts. "Check under the bed."
Rafael elbows him in the stomach. "Don't scare him."
"I'm not afraid of Rex," I say dryly.
"I am," Phoenix says with a stiff laugh.
