Page 6 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
It's one thing to steal our aesthetic. To make The Reverie a plastic copy of what we were, skirting the line between "homage" and infringement, which Stephen Hughes has turned into an art form. But this? This is fucking violation. They might as well have dug up Nash's corpse and robbed his grave.
Matt shifts uncomfortably in the corner, clearly not sure if he should be here for this family drama. Poor kid. Should have read the fine print before joining this dysfunctional disaster.
Then we hear it. The crowd cheering as The Reverie takes the stage. And that voice again, clear even through the walls.
"Seattle! You beautiful fucking degenerates ready to sin with me tonight?"
"I'm watching them," I announce, already heading for the door.
"Rex—" Phoenix starts.
"I'm not going to do anything. I just want to see. I want to watch him perform Nash's songs and remember every fucking second so when we destroy them, it'll be complete."
Nobody tries to stop me. They know better.
I find a spot in the wings where I can see without being seen. The Reverie is in full swing now, Bells working the crowd like he was born to it.
He's got stage presence, I'll give the fucker that. Knows how to move, how to use every inch of his body to sell the performance. The way he wraps himself around the mic stand is almost obscene.
The band's lead guitarist moves in close to Bells for a choreographed almost-kiss move that has the crowd screaming. It's so fucking manufactured, so obviously fake, but they eat it up.
And Bells plays the part perfectly.
But there's something else. Something in the way he moves, the way he holds himself. Like he's hiding something. Like the swagger is a cover for something else, something fragile underneath all that leather and attitude.
What the fuck is this guy's deal?
Chapter
Three
BELLS
The backstage area at this shithole venue is even worse than the one in Seattle. Fluorescent lights flicker like they're having a seizure, casting everyone in that special shade of corpse-pale that makes even Jake's perfect bone structure look like he crawled out of a morgue.
"That was fucking electric," Mike's saying, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he mainlined Red Bull instead of beer. "Did you see that crowd? They were ready to eat us alive."
"Pretty sure that one chick in the front was literally trying to," Jake adds, pulling his shirt back on finally. Thank fuck. The alpha pheromones rolling off his sweaty skin are making my suppressants work overtime. "She had my name written on her tits. Both of them. In what looked like blood."
"It was lipstick," Ethan corrects quietly from his corner, methodically wiping down his bass. "I saw her doing it before we went on."
"Way to ruin the mystique, man."
I lean against the wall, trying to look casual while my body screams at me. The binding's been on too long—I can feel where it's rubbed my skin raw under my arms. The silicone prosthetichas definitely shifted during that last song, pressing into my thigh at an angle that's going to leave a bruise. Doesn’t help that I keep my treasured knife strapped to my thigh, either. But I keep the mask on, keep playing Bells, keep pretending this is all just another Tuesday night.
"You were on fire tonight," Jake says, turning those green eyes on me. "That thing during 'Golden Crown' where you basically deep-throated the mic? I thought security was going to have to perform CPR on half the audience."
"It's called showmanship," I say, forcing a smirk. "You should try it sometime instead of just standing there looking pretty."
"I'll have you know my standing there looking pretty is an art form?—"
The door slams open hard enough to bounce off the wall.
Rex Steele fills the doorway like something out of a horror movie. The green overhead light illuminates the silver details on the mask covering the right side of his face, and his one visible eye—that piercing ice blue—locks onto me with an intensity that makes my fight-or-flight instinct kick into overdrive.
Too bad I'm all fight.
Behind him, I spot Phoenix and Rafael hovering like they're ready to tackle him if necessary. Phoenix's massive frame takes up most of the hallway, his mane of blond hair making him look like he should be holding a battle axe, and even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders. Rafael looks exactly like his pictures—all bronze skin and tattoos with an inked kraken devouring a ship covering most of his left arm. Even in crisis mode, he looks like a rock god.
