Page 107 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"Isn't going to get better no matter how gently I sing," I interrupt. "We done here?"
He sighs. A good sigh, full of resigned frustration. The kind doctors reserve for patients they know are hopeless cases. "Yes. But Rex?—"
I'm already standing, mask secure. The world narrows back to manageable proportions once the familiar leather separates me from direct observation.
"Thanks for not puking on my shoes this time," I mutter on my way to the door.
"That wasone time," he calls after me. "And I was a resident."
The hallway outside is typical hospital sterile—fluorescent lights that make everyone look like corpses, that smell of antiseptic barely masking decay, people in various states of falling apart. I navigate it with the ease of someone who's spent too much time in places like this.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting updates from the studio or some bullshit from the label.
Nothing.
Same as it's been for three days.
Rafael's last text sits at the top of my messages.
[RAF: Emergency. Had to leave town. Will explain later.]
Later. Right. Because that's not suspicious as fuck.
I'm not worried. Definitely not worried that something happened to Bells and they're not telling me.
Or maybe she's fine, and they know her secret and that's why they fucked off together without a word. But I'm definitely not jealous about the possibility that they're somewhere right now, probably tangled up in each other while I'm stuck getting poked and prodded by medical professionals who can barely hide their horror at my face.
Nope.
Not jealous at all.
Fuck.
I'm halfway to the parking garage when I stop. Turn around. Head back into the hospital's labyrinth with purpose crystallizing in my chest like ice.
Stephen Hughes is still here. Still recovering from what I did to him.
And I havequestions.
Navigation through the hospital wings takes longer than it should. I have to ask directions twice—once from a nurse who takes one look at my mask and decides she suddenly has somewhere else to be, once from a security guard who's either braver or stupider than most.
"Stephen Hughes," I tell him. "What room?"
He checks his tablet. "366. But visiting hours?—"
"Don't care."
Fourth floor. East wing. The elevators here are slower, older, probably haven't been updated since the building was constructed. I watch the floor numbers tick upward with glacial patience that makes my teeth ache.
366 is at the end of a quiet corridor. No nurse’s station nearby. No foot traffic. Just the mechanical hum of medical equipment and that pervasive hospital smell that gets into your clothes, your skin, your lungs.
I don't knock.
Stephen's propped up in bed, face wrapped in enough bandages to make him look like a cut-rate mummy. Both eyes are swollen almost shut, purple-black bruises spreading down to his bandaged and wired jaw. His nose is splinted, taped. He looks like he got hit by a fucking freight train.
Good.
Not good enough, but good.
