Page 84 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"I don't have friends."
She snorts. "You seemed pretty friendly."
"Jamie's friendly with everyone. And Jamie talks." I take a turn harder than necessary, the sedan's tires hydroplaning slightly on wet asphalt before gripping again. "A lot. Whether you want him to or not. Especially when you're a captive audience because he's working on your masks."
She makes a thoughtful sound, and I can practically feel her smirk without looking at her. "So you're saying if I wanted to take them up on their offer?—"
"I'm saying it's your choice," I interrupt, my voice coming out sharper than intended. "Why are you asking me like you think I care?"
She shrugs. "You know them. I want to know if there's anything weird I should know about if I'm considering it."
I shoot her a look. "Are you?"
"Maybe in the future. Who knows? If you leak that I'm a girl and I don't have to guard any secrets anymore, I might as well have some fun to keep my mind off shit."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
She's baiting me. Testing to see if I'll react, if I'll give her ammunition to use against me later. It's what she does—pokes and prods until she finds the weak spots, the places where the armor doesn't quite fit.
I should ignore it. Should let the comment slide off me like rain off leather.
"The scars wouldn't be a problem for you?" The question comes out before I can stop it, rough and coming off as too fucking interested. "Orion's scars?"
Why am I fucking asking?
I don't give a shit if she cares about scars or not. Everyone does. It's a stupid question to begin with. Jamie accepts Orionthe way he is, but Jamie is insane. His collection of cursed artifacts displayed like they're decor from Michael's is proof enough of that.
Bells shifts again, and I catch her shaking her head in my peripheral vision. "No. Why would they be a problem?"
She's just fucking with me.
That's all this is. She's testing me, pushing to see where my boundaries are, how far she can poke before I snap.
The problem is, I don't know where those boundaries are anymore.
Before, I would've been indifferent. Bells could fuck the entire Seattle rock scene for all I cared, as long as she showed up to rehearsals and performed Nash's music the way it deserved to be performed.
Now? Now the thought of her in Jamie and Orion's bed makes something ugly and possessive coil in my gut like a snake preparing to strike.
And I don't fucking knowwhy.
"They're bad scars." The words spill out before I can stop them, tasting like broken glass in my mouth. "Extensive. He can't eat normally. Can't drink without..." I trail off, jaw clenching.
Can't finish that sentence without reminding her of my own limitations. About the grotesque reality of trying to function with a mouth that doesn't work right, with a face so damaged that even basic human activities become exercises in humiliation.
"Yeah," Bells says simply. "I figured."
I risk a glance at her. She's watching the rain streak across the passenger window, seemingly unbothered by this entire conversation. Like we're discussing the weather.
"Youfigured." I repeat the words flatly, trying to process this response that makes no fucking sense.
She shrugs. "I'm not blind."
"And that doesn't bother you." Still not a question. A confirmation, because apparently I need to hear her say it again.
"Rex." She turns to face me fully now, those honey-gold eyes fixed on my profile with an intensity that makes those instincts I thought were long dead rise up again. "I don't care about what anyone looks like. I'm gonna sound like a fucking cheeseball here, but I care what's inside. That's all."
Liar.
