Page 85 of Claimed By the Rockstars: Part One
The word sits on my tongue, ready to launch. What's under my mask is the kind of thing that made Nash—who loved me more than anyone in the world—unable to look directly at me without horror flashing across his face.
Even after years, that instinctive recoil never quite went away.
But Bells just sits there, completely unbothered, waiting for me to argue with her.
I don't.
Can't.
Because if I start down that road, I'll end up revealing exactly how much her casual acceptance is fucking with my head. How the fact that she looked at Orion and saw a person first, scars second, makes me want things I have no business wanting. How the only reason she jumped was because he's an alpha, and I actually fucking believe that.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of wipers and the drum of rain against metal and glass.
"If I didn't know better," Bells says, and I can hear the grin in her voice without looking at her, "I'd think you were jealous."
My foot presses harder on the accelerator than necessary. The sedan surges forward, and I have to consciously ease back before we hydroplane.
"I'm not jealous," I grit out. "Do whatever the fuck you want. I don't give a shit."
"Uh huh." That fucking amused tone again. Like she can see right through me, past all the walls and armor and carefully constructed defenses. "Sure you don't."
"I don't. Why the hell would I care what you do with your free time?"
"Okay."
"I'm serious, Bells."
"I believe you." She's laughing at me. Not out loud, but I can hear it underneath the words. Feel it in the way she's settled back in her seat with that relaxed posture that says she knows exactly how much she's getting under my skin.
And it's pissing me off.
So does the fact she just told me point blank it's the inside that counts, like a fucking fortune cookie, and I'm irritated that I believe she means it. And I'm irritated that there was a pointed edge to her words, likemyinside counts againstme, and she wants to remind me of that.
She doesn't say she means me. Doesn't have to. It's written in every word, every careful emphasis. She's reminding me that I'm the asshole who blackmailed her into this band, who threatened to destroy her entire life if she didn't comply.
Not exactly prime boyfriend material.
Not that I'm trying to be her fucking boyfriend.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
BELLS
The dress code said "business casual," but Rafael's interpretation of that phrase apparently means "vampiric funeral director who might seduce you before draining your blood."
He stands in front of the full-length mirror in Phoenix's room, adjusting his black silk shirt for the third time. The fabric catches the light like oil slicks on water, fitted close enough to show off the lines of his torso without being obscene. Black slacks, perfectly tailored. Dress shoes polished to a mirror shine. His kraken tattoo peeks out from where he's rolled his sleeves to his elbows.
"You look fine," Phoenix says from where he's sprawled across his bed, already dressed in his own version of business casual goth—black button-up with the sleeves rolled up, charcoal slacks, and boots that somehow manage to be both formal and ready to kick someone's ass.
"I look like I'm about to officiate a wedding in hell," Rafael mutters, but he's grinning as he says it.
I hover near the doorway, tugging at my own outfit. All white from the slacks to the button-up. Phoenix picked up an order ofclothes for me a few days ago since I still don't feel totally safe going to shopping malls. For the most part, all I do is go back and forth to the studio for lighter rehearsals than usual since Rex's hospital stay. I always ride with Raf and Phoenix, since the one time I rode with Rex, he was dead silent the entire time.
Rex has been even more aloof than usual lately, and that's saying something. Somehow, even though we all live together, I almost never see him outside the studio. Ever since we went to the stone tower to have my face squished and measured for a mask, Rex has been avoiding me like the plague.
If I didn't know better, I really would think he's jealous.
