Chapter 2 – REX
Chapter
Two
REX
Iadjust the black and silver mask covering the right side of my face for the hundredth fucking time, ignoring the sting of the velvet lining against my raw flesh. Through the thin mesh covering my right eye, the world looks like it's drowning in shadows.
Good. Matches tonight's mood.
"Sound check in five," some greasy stagehand who's all arms and legs calls out. Kid was probably still in school when Vespyr was still selling out arenas. Before Nash died and it all went to shit.
And Nash would've hated this place.
The thought slips in before I can stop it, and suddenly it's like he's here, leaning against the amp, humming melodies only he could hear.
My twin, my other half, the better half.
Identical in nearly every way from our height and blue eyes to the light hair I dye inky black.
Identical all except for his pleasant temperament and my face.
Very different fucking face.
"Rex? You good?" Phoenix's voice cuts through my spiral.
The giant blond drummer hovers nearby. His mane of blond hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back with those massive hands that could crush skulls if he didn't have the temperament of an overgrown golden retriever trapped in a Viking's body.
"Peachy," I say in a flat tone, turning away from his worried blue eyes.
Rafael lounges against his bass case, looking like a bored vampire with his near-black wavy hair and all-leather getup, his mask—the upper half skull-like and jet black, the lower half a crimson veil—dangling from one finger.
"Matt sounds good tonight," Rafael says, dark eyes tracking me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
"Where the fuck is he anyway?"
"Bathroom," Phoenix supplies helpfully. "Nerves."
"Great. Our new singer shits himself before every show. That'll really help our reputation."
"Least he still shows up," Rafael mutters, and I whirl on him.
"You got something to say?"
He meets my glare without flinching. "Just that maybe if you didn't terrorize every singer we get, we wouldn't be on our fifth one in two years."
"Maybe if they weren't all useless—"
"Rex." Phoenix steps between us, hands raised. "Save it for the stage, yeah? We need this show to go well."
He's right, and I hate him for it. This venue might be a shithole, but there's supposed to be label scouts here. Our chance to claw our way back to relevance, to finish what Nash started.
I turn back to the stage, adjusting my mask again. The metal edges dig into what remains of my cheek, a constant reminder of what I am underneath. A monster. A freak.
The mask is salvation and prison both. It lets me exist in the world, lets me pretend I'm just wearing a costume like the rest of the band.
It was Nash's idea originally. Said it would be a good look.
He was right. Right enough that we've had countless bands rip us off, like that shitty new glorified boy band our fans won't stop talking about.
They're obsessed with the frontman and keep drawing weird fanart of us fucking his brains out backstage.
What was his name again?
Balls?
The only reason I know his band is called The Reverie, other than that it's the most pretentious band name I've ever heard, is because it's the pet project of Stephen Hughes, our snake of an ex-manager.
And I know for a fact Stephen borrowed plenty of "inspiration" from Vespyr’s sound and aesthetics, although his versions are campy as fuck. There's no way the band is clueless about the connection, however much of a notorious dipshit their lead guitarist is.
"Yo, Hendrix!" The same all-legs-and-grease stagehand from earlier jogs over, clipboard clutched like a shield. A shield he's going to need if he keeps calling me that. "Change of plans. You guys got bumped up ten minutes."
"What?" I round on him, and he actually takes a step back. Smart kid. "Why?"
"Another band showed up last minute. Manager pulled some strings, so they're taking your original slot."
My blood turns to ice, then immediately to lava. "What band?"
The kid checks his clipboard like the answer might've changed in the last five seconds. "Uh, The Reverie? They're—"
I don't hear the rest. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the rage building in my chest.
No. Fucking. Way.
"Rex—" Phoenix starts, but I'm already moving.
"Those motherfuckers," I snarl, stalking toward the wings where I can see movement. "Those thieving, backstabbing pieces of shit—"
"Rex, don't." Rafael grabs my arm, and I nearly deck him for it. "Not here. Not now."
I shake off Rafael's grip, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel my teeth grinding.
The Reverie.
Here.
Taking our fucking slot.
"I'm fine," I lie through my teeth. "I'm fucking fine."
Phoenix and Rafael exchange a look that says they don't believe me for a second. But I force myself to take a breath, then another. Can't lose it here. Not when we need this performance to be perfect. Not when there are scouts in the audience who might give us another shot at relevance.
Nash wouldn't want me to blow this.
The thought is like ice water on my rage, cooling it just enough to function. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension crack and pop along my spine.
"Let's just get through sound check," I mutter, stalking back toward our gear. "Then we can deal with those thieving fucks."
Matt finally emerges from the bathroom, looking pale but determined. Kid's got potential if he can get over his stage fright. Twenty-two, beta, decent range. Not Nash's range—nobody has Nash's range—but good enough for now.
"Sorry," he starts, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"Save your voice. We're on in ten."
I go through the motions, adjusting amp settings, testing the levels, but my mind keeps drifting to the other side of the venue where I can hear movement. Setting up. Preparing to perform our time slot with music they stole.
Then I hear it.
That voice.
It cuts through the ambient noise like a blade, sharp and clear even from across the venue. The frontman—Bells, that's his fucking name—warming up.
"You think you know me..."
My fingers freeze on the guitar strings. No. No fucking way.
That's Nash's melody. Note for fucking note.
"Think you own me..."
And those are Nash's words.
"Rex." Phoenix's massive hand lands on my shoulder, grounding me before I can spiral completely. "Breathe, man."
I don't remember moving, but somehow I'm halfway across the venue, my guitar abandoned on its stand. The rage is back, hotter than before, and this time there's no cooling it. But I force it down, compress it into something useful. Something that will fuel the performance instead of destroying it.
"We're going to blow them off this fucking stage," I tell my bandmates. "We're going to make everyone see they're the cheap knock-offs they are."
Ten minutes. But it's enough. More than enough when you're running on pure spite and rage. Every single person here is about to witness something they'll never forget.
“Are you ready to wake the fucking dead?” I growl into the mic, not bothering with pleasantries.
I hit the opening chord of "Resurrection" and Phoenix comes in with drums that sound like thunder in a cemetery.
Rafael's bass slides underneath like shifting earth, and Matt actually fucking nails it.
All that nervous energy transforms into something raw and powerful, his voice carrying Nash's words with a conviction that makes my chest tight.
We're three songs in when I see him.
Bells.
Standing in the wings, watching us with those honey-gold eyes that look too pretty for his sharp face.
He's dressed like every other indie rockstar.
Tight black jeans, vintage band tee, that leather collar around his throat like he's someone's pet.
But there's something about the way he watches us—watches me—that makes my skin crawl.
I turn my back on him, focusing on the performance. But I can feel his gaze like a physical weight, pressing between my shoulder blades. What the fuck is his problem? Come to gloat? Come to see what real music sounds like before he goes back out there and butchers Nash's legacy?
The last note hangs in the air like a funeral bell, and the crowd erupts. Real. They feel it, the pain and rage and loss bleeding through every note.
We exit stage left, passing within feet of where Bells stands with his bandmates. Up close, he's smaller than I expected. Maybe five-eight tops. Thin, almost delicate-looking despite the tough-guy costume. Those honey-gold eyes track me as I pass, and there's something in them I can't read.
Guilt?
"Nice set," he says, voice lower than when he sings, raspy like he's been smoking. Or screaming. "You guys are legends."
The audacity of this motherfucker.
"Save it," I snap, not slowing down. "We both know what you are."
His brow furrows, genuinely confused. "Excuse me?"
But Phoenix is already herding me away, probably sensing I'm about two seconds from introducing this pretty boy's face to my fist. We make it to what passes for a green room in this shithole, a storage closet with a broken couch and a mini-fridge that hums like it's going to take off into outer space.
"Don't," Phoenix says before I can speak. "Just don't. We did good out there. Don't ruin it by starting shit."
"Starting shit?" I snarl. "They're performing Nash's music! His private fucking music from his journals!"
It's one thing to steal our aesthetic. To make The Reverie a plastic copy of what we were, skirting the line between "homage" and infringement, which Stephen Hughes has turned into an art form. But this? This is fucking violation. They might as well have dug up Nash's corpse and robbed his grave.
Matt shifts uncomfortably in the corner, clearly not sure if he should be here for this family drama. Poor kid. Should have read the fine print before joining this dysfunctional disaster.
Then we hear it. The crowd cheering as The Reverie takes the stage. And that voice again, clear even through the walls.
"Seattle! You beautiful fucking degenerates ready to sin with me tonight?"
"I'm watching them," I announce, already heading for the door.
"Rex—" Phoenix starts.
"I'm not going to do anything. I just want to see. I want to watch him perform Nash's songs and remember every fucking second so when we destroy them, it'll be complete."
Nobody tries to stop me. They know better.
I find a spot in the wings where I can see without being seen. The Reverie is in full swing now, Bells working the crowd like he was born to it.
He's got stage presence, I'll give the fucker that. Knows how to move, how to use every inch of his body to sell the performance. The way he wraps himself around the mic stand is almost obscene.
The band's lead guitarist moves in close to Bells for a choreographed almost-kiss move that has the crowd screaming. It's so fucking manufactured, so obviously fake, but they eat it up.
And Bells plays the part perfectly.
But there's something else. Something in the way he moves, the way he holds himself. Like he's hiding something. Like the swagger is a cover for something else, something fragile underneath all that leather and attitude.
What the fuck is this guy's deal?