Page 64 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
RAFAEL
The balloons are fucking ridiculous.
Phoenix insisted on them—bright metallic silver ones that say "Welcome Home" in that overly cheerful font that belongs on a kindergarten classroom wall, not in a pack house occupied by three emotionally stunted musicians and one mystery beta who’s apparently getting harassed by our psycho ex manager.
"They're perfect," Phoenix had said this morning, beaming like a kid on Christmas as he tied them to the back of the couch.
"They're stupid," I'd countered, but I'd helped him tie them anyway because arguing with Phoenix when he's in full golden retriever mode is like trying to stop a freight train with a wet paper bag.
Now we're standing here waiting for Rex to show up—discharged three days early because he's too stubborn to stay in the hospital despite the doctors strongly suggesting he remain longer—and those silver balloons mock me with their synthetic cheerfulness.
And then there’s the fucking cake.
Phoenix commissioned it from a bakery downtown that does custom designs. What hedidn'ttell me was that he'd given them his own artistic interpretation of the band to work with.
The result is... something.
Chibi Rex stands in the center, drawn as a tiny scowling knight in shining armor. Next to him is chibi-Phoenix with his drum kit, looking like a happy Viking. Then there's me, unnecessarily shirtless and my kraken tattoo looking decidedly noodle-esque. Bells stands in the middle, white hair drawn in spiky tufts, and the baker put gold sugar gems instead of eyes for some reason. It’s the scariest shit I’ve ever seen.
Rex is going to fucking hate this.
"The potatoes are adorable," Bells says as he comes out of Rex’s room in a white rabbit hoodie, leaning against the kitchen counter.
I blink. "The what?"
He points at the cake. “The potatoes. Why did they draw us as potatoes?"
Phoenix snorts, nearly spilling his coffee. "They're chibis, Bells. Not potatoes."
"Yeah, well, whoever made the cake can’t draw chibis. They look like potatoes with faces," Bells insists, and there's the faintest hint of amusement in those gold eyes. First genuine emotion I've seen from him in days.
"Well,yourpotato looks like nightmare fuel," I shoot back.
"My potato looks like it's dissociating while questioning all its life choices, which is accurate," says Bells. "And why is Rex a knight? His actually looks cool."
"Because he attacked Stephen," says Phoenix, grinning. "And he's chivalrous as fuck. You havenoidea. He just hates men, so we only get his bad side."
Bells's eye actually twitches. "I see," he says in a flat tone.
Phoenix is full-on laughing now, that booming sound that fills the whole apartment. Bells cracks a smile at the sound, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he takes a long sip of coffee.
Bells has been... off.
Not just stressed or exhausted, though he's definitely both. But there's something else. Something that makes him jump at sudden noises and check the windows compulsively and keep one hand in his pocket where I'm pretty sure he's gripping that bone-handled knife.
I know why.
Phoenix and I fished that card out of the trash can the day the flowers arrived. We didn't plan to—Phoenix was taking out the garbage and the card was conveniently sitting right there on top, impossible to miss, and we could read it without actually snooping.
The threatening words are burned into my brain. The elegant handwriting. The signature that was just a single letter B.
If Bells was telling the truth and the flowers did come from family, his family is psycho.
Phoenix and I had a whole silent conversation with just eye contact after reading it.Do we tell Rex? Do we tell Bells we know? Do we pretend we never saw it?
We decided on pretend.
"Should we hide and jump out when Rex walks in?" Phoenix asks, dead serious.
