Page 43 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
"You can assess them without removing it right now." My voice is steady now. Finally fucking found it, apparently. "Please."
"Is he allergic to anything?" the paramedic asks instead, apparently deciding to trust my judgment.
Phoenix rattles off information I didn't know he had. Rex's blood type, his history of refusing medical treatment, the fact that he doesn't think he's eaten in three days. The paramedic nods, making notes, calling for a stretcher.
Across the alley, they're loading Stephen onto another stretcher. He's conscious now, moaning in pain, his face a mask of blood and swelling. One of the cops who just arrived is trying to talk to him, but Stephen's words are slurred, incomprehensible.
The paramedics load Rex's stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Phoenix climbs in without hesitation, positioning himself on the small bench beside Rex's unconscious form. Rafael follows, squeezing into the cramped space.
The paramedics start to close the doors.
I don't think. I just move.
For some reason, I get in, too.
Chapter
Fourteen
RAFAEL
The white fluorescent lights in the hospital waiting room are giving me a headache, or maybe it's just the fact that my bandmate is somewhere behind those double doors fighting off sepsis while the other one rode in the ambulance looking like he'd seen a ghost.
And then there's Bells.
Sitting three seats down from me, white hair still damp from the rain, knee bouncing at a speed that suggests caffeine overdose or genuine panic. Hard to tell which. He's got his arms wrapped around himself like he's trying to hold his ribs together, and there's this look on his face I recognize from my own mirror on bad days.
Trauma.
My fingers find the rosary beads hanging under my shirt without conscious thought. The smooth wooden beads roll between my thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit I picked up from my abuela years before she died. She'd worn hers until the string broke, prayers whispered in Spanish while she cooked or cleaned or sat with me during thunderstorms when I was small enough to be scared of them.
Ave María, llena eres de gracia...
The words float through my head even though I haven't said a full rosary in years. Haven't been to Mass except for funerals. But right now, rubbing these beads makes me feel like I'm doing something. Like maybe there's someone other than Phoenix and me who gives a shit whether Rex lives or dies.
The double doors burst open and a nurse appears, clipboard in hand. "Family of Rex Steele?"
Phoenix is already on his feet before I can move. "That's us."
The nurse looks skeptical—we probably don't scream "family" with our leather and tattoos and the general aura of rock-and-roll disaster—but she doesn't challenge it. "He's stable. We've got him on IV antibiotics and fluids. The doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation, maybe longer depending on how the infection responds to treatment."
"Can we see him?" Phoenix asks, and there's something vulnerable in his voice.
"One at a time. He's unconscious right now, but—" She glances at her clipboard. "There are some questions about his injuries. The attending physician would like to speak with whoever can provide information."
Bells shifts in his seat, and I catch the movement in my peripheral vision. That universal body language of someone who knows they're about to get called on and is desperately hoping they won't be.
"I can answer questions," Bells says quietly, standing up.
The nurse nods. "This way."
Bells follows her through the doors, and Phoenix sinks back into his chair with a heavy exhale. I have to resist the urge to follow them, because for some reason, I feel protective over this beta I barely even know. We sit in silence for a while, the only sounds the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant beep ofmedical equipment. My thumb keeps working over the rosary beads.
Dios te salve, María...
"I'm staying," Phoenix announces suddenly. "At the hospital. Until he wakes up."
"Phoenix—"
