Page 9 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
Nash loved sushi. Used to drag us to this hole-in-the-wall place where the owner knew him by name and always saved him the best cuts of yellowtail. He'd sit there for hours, picking at his food and writing lyrics on napkins while the rest of us got drunk on sake.
I push that thought down where it belongs, in the locked box with all the other Nash memories that hurt too much to revisit. The ones where he'd sneak into my bunk at three in the morning smelling like whiskey. The ones where he'd kiss me like he was drowning and I was air.
Hell, he may have been an alpha, but he served the purpose of keeping our volatile pack together almost like an omega would. Even though no one but the two of us knew what we were really doing when we'd sneak off away from the rest of the band.
We're fucking lost without him.
I'mfucking lost without him.
"So," Rafael says, unnecessarily arranging his chopsticks on the little ceramic holder. The crashing waves and tentacles of his kraken tattoo move like they're alive as he shifts. "We're just not going to talk about Rex confronting Bells last night?"
"What's there to talk about? Rex had questions. He asked them," I grumble with a mouthful of spicy tuna and the "chef's special sauce" I know is just sriracha mayo with sugar in it. Doesn't mean it isn't delicious.
"Not like that." Rafael's dark eyes find mine, and he looks uncharacteristically worried. He leans back, his bronze skin practically glowing in the light streaming through the bus window. Even at nine in the morning after a late night, he lookslike he stepped out of a rock magazine photoshoot, the bastard. "The way he looked at that Bells guy. That shit was intense even by Rex standards."
That Bells guy.
That's what we're calling him, like he's some random innocent bystander instead of the singer performing Nash's private songs. But I keep thinking about those honey-gold eyes, the genuine confusion when Rex confronted him. Either he's the best actor I've ever seen, or he reallydoesn'tknow where the music came from.
"Maybe Rex had a point," I say carefully, testing the waters.
Rafael's eyebrows shoot up. "You think Bells knew?"
“I thinksomeoneknew. Those were Nash's melodies, Raf. Note for fucking note. And words that only ever existed in his private notebooks. But?—”
The bus door opens hard enough to make the whole vehicle shudder. Rex enters in silence, energy crackling around him like electricity. He's wearing the usual mask he keeps on during the day, the smooth black one that's less theatrical but somehow more intimidating in its simplicity.
"Morning," I call out, trying to inject some lightness into the suddenly suffocating atmosphere. "Beautiful day to be alive, isn't it?"
Rex's one visible eye slides to me. "Is it?"
Rafael shifts in his seat, muscles tense beneath his fitted black t-shirt. He's ready for a fight, always is when Rex gets like this.
“You want some sushi? We got extra.” I hold up the container, knowing what the answer will be but asking anyway because that's what I do.
I offer. I try. I pretend maybe this time will be different. That maybe he'll eat with us, even though he never does.
Never.
Not once in all the years we've been a band. Not even when Nash was alive and would beg him to at least sit with us, even if he wasn't hungry.
Rex always has an excuse. Already ate, not hungry, has shit to do. Everyone else thinks it's just Rex being Rex, part of the mysterious persona like the mask itself.
But I know the truth.
Rex isn’t moody for the hell of it. He is suffering constantly in every way. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Not a moment goes by that he isn’t in absolute agony, and now that Nash is gone, I’m the only person who knows that.
So if there’s even the slightest chance I can at least take the edge off his loneliness, even if it irritates him, I’m going for it.
"No." Rex stalks to the kitchenette area, yanking open cabinets like he's looking for something to destroy. He grabs a glass and fills it with water from the filtered pitcher with sharp movements. The glass hits the counter hard when he sets it down. Not quite a slam, but close.
Rafael shakes his head. "Only Rex," he mutters under his breath. "Only Rex can pour water aggressively."
"It's really good," I persist, ignoring Rafael, because I'm either an optimist or a masochist, and at this point, I can't tell the difference. "This place does this thing with shrimp tempura that's?—"
"No, Phoenix." Rex's voice carries an edge that could cut steel.
Rafael sets down his chopsticks deliberately. "You've been wound tighter than usual since last night."
