Page 40 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
BELLS
I'm annoyed with myself for caring.
That's the thought rattling around my skull as I push through Foxhole's main door into the parking lot, guitar case banging against my thigh. Rex Steele is a manipulative asshole who's blackmailing me into destroying my career. He deserves whatever fever-induced misery he's wallowing in.
And yet…
My feet slow as I spot his sedan across the lot. The black paint gleams under the gray Seattle sky, raindrops beading on the hood like scattered diamonds. Through the driver's side window, I can make out his silhouette—slumped forward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel in a posture that screamsdefeatin a way I didn't think Rex was capable of.
I should keep walking. Get in my Uber, go back to my shitty motel room, take off this fucking binder that's been crushing my ribs for twelve hours straight, and pretend I don't give a shit whether Rex lives or dies, let alone suffers.
But my traitorous feet have other ideas.
I'm halfway across the parking lot before I consciously decide to move. I'm not even sure why I'm checking on him, only that I am.
Then I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A figure in a suit, cutting across the parking lot from the street side. Hands in his pockets, stride confident and purposeful. Even from this distance, I recognize that prematurely gray hair, that expensive tailored jacket.
No. Fucking. Way.
"Stephen?" The name explodes out of me like a curse. "Are you fuckingserious? I told you, you can't just show up here."
He doesn't break stride, just angles toward me with that smile that's supposed to be reassuring but makes my skin crawl. "Bells. We need to talk."
"No, we really don't." I adjust my grip on the guitar case, using it as a barrier between us. My other hand slides into my pocket, fingers wrapping around the bone handle of my knife. Just in case. "My lawyer already told you everything you need to know."
"Walk with me." It's not a request. It never is with Stephen.
"I'm good right here, thanks."
His smile tightens at the edges. "Please. Just five minutes. For old times' sake."
Old times' sake.Like he's some benevolent mentor instead of the man who owns my identity on paper, who's made a fortune off my voice while treating me like a particularly lucrative investment.
I glance back toward Rex's sedan. He's still in the same position, forehead against the steering wheel. He hasn't moved. Shit, is he?—
Then Rex shifts. His hand comes up, rubbing sluggishly at the masked side of his face with jerky, uncoordinatedmovements like it's hurting him. I'm relieved in spite of everything. He's alive. Conscious. He'll be okay for a moment.
"Fine," I mutter to Stephen. "But make it quick, yeah?"
Stephen leads me around to the side of the building, out of sight of the parking lot. The alley here smells like rain and rust and something organic that's gone to rot. Perfect atmosphere for whatever fresh hell Stephen's about to unleash.
"You're making a mistake," Stephen says, turning to face me. "Walking away from The Reverie at the peak of your success. Do you have any idea what you're throwing away?"
"My sanity?" I shoot back. "My artistic integrity? Oh wait, that's right! I never had any of that with you."
His jaw tightens. "I made you, Bells. Everything you are, everything you have?—"
"You didn't make shit." The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with venom I've been swallowing for years. "I made myself. You just took credit for it and cashed the checks."
"Is that what you really think?" He steps closer, invading my space in that way both alphas and betas do when they want to remind you they're bigger, stronger, more dangerous. "You think you'd be anyone without me? And yet, here I am, ready to give you a second chance."
"A second chance at what? Being your puppet?" I force myself not to back up, to hold my ground even though every instinct screams at me to run. "I'm done being anyone's anything. I don't owe you explanations. I don't owe you shit."
"You owe me everything." His voice drops to that dangerous register, the one that makes my omega instincts cringe despite the suppressants. "Your contract?—"
"Expired. My lawyer made that very clear."
"Yourloyalty?—"
