Page 29 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
He blows a puff of air through his nose and pushes off from the desk. "How did Steve take the news?"
The nickname drips with venom, and I remember reading during one of my nights spent feverishly Googling that Stephen was once the manager for Vespyr. Between Stephen's ego and Rex's… Rexness, it's not a surprise it went to shit. In record time, too, according to what I found.
I pointedly show him my phone screen. At least twenty missed calls from Stephen. Twelve from Jake. Three from Mike. Even Ethan had tried calling once, which for him is basically a mental breakdown.
"My lawyer handled it," I say, putting the phone back on the desk so it can keep recording the conversation. "Cited creative differences and mental health concerns. Apparently even Stephen can't fight that without looking like a massive dick and getting into shit with other managers, at least not without due legal process."
"Heisa massive dick."
"No argument there."
Rex stares at me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning in that frigid blue stare. "And you know what you are? Cardboard."
"Excuse me?"
"A cardboard cutout. Flat. Soulless. An industry clone manufactured in Stephen's factory, completely devoid of actual substance."
"Fuck you," I grit out.
"Save it for the music." He opens the door, gesturing for me to go first.
The main recording space is bigger than I expected, with high ceilings that make the psychedelic murals seem to breathe and pulse. Phoenix is behind a massive drum kit, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers.
And then there's Rafael.
He's leaning against his bass, and every inch of him screams rock god, just like before. His muscular, tatted arms are on full display and his pitch black hair falls in perfect waves despite being tousled, like he just rolled out of bed. His dark eyes find mine, and there's even more curiosity in them than the last time I saw him, like he's trying to figure out what I'm made of.
Or why I'm here.
"So you actually showed," he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Wasn't expecting that."
"That makes two of us," I say flatly.
"Enough chitchat," Rex cuts in, picking up his guitar. "Cardboard, you know the material I sent you?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Answer the question."
I clench my teeth. "Yes, I know the material."
"Then prove it." He starts tuning his guitar with aggressive precision. "We'll start with 'Flesh.'"
Of course we will. Of all the songs Rex sent me—and there were dozens—he picks the one that's basically three minutes of thinly veiled sexual aggression wrapped in power chords.
And I know he still wants me to go through The Reverie's repertoire at some point to see if any of it's stolen. But I guess that's going to have to wait, and I'm not exactly eager to remind him.
Phoenix counts us in, and I grab the mic, letting the opening notes wash over me. The lyrics are burned into my brain from two weeks of obsessive practice, not wanting to give Rex an excuse to claim I’m sabotaging shit on purpose.
"Taste of copper in my teeth?—"
"Stop." Rex's voice slices through the music like a guillotine. "What the fuck was that?"
"The song you told me to learn," I grit out.
"That's not singing, that's reciting." He sets down his guitar and stalks toward me, and I have to actively fight not to back up. "Do you even understand what this song is about?"
"It's pretty fucking obvious."
