Chapter 3 – BELLS
Chapter
Three
BELLS
The backstage area at this shithole venue is even worse than the one in Seattle. Fluorescent lights flicker like they're having a seizure, casting everyone in that special shade of corpse-pale that makes even Jake's perfect bone structure look like he crawled out of a morgue.
"That was fucking electric," Mike's saying, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he mainlined Red Bull instead of beer. "Did you see that crowd? They were ready to eat us alive."
"Pretty sure that one chick in the front was literally trying to," Jake adds, pulling his shirt back on finally. Thank fuck. The alpha pheromones rolling off his sweaty skin are making my suppressants work overtime. "She had my name written on her tits. Both of them. In what looked like blood."
"It was lipstick," Ethan corrects quietly from his corner, methodically wiping down his bass. "I saw her doing it before we went on."
"Way to ruin the mystique, man."
I lean against the wall, trying to look casual while my body screams at me.
The binding's been on too long—I can feel where it's rubbed my skin raw under my arms. The silicone prosthetic has definitely shifted during that last song, pressing into my thigh at an angle that's going to leave a bruise. Doesn’t help that I keep my treasured knife strapped to my thigh, either.
But I keep the mask on, keep playing Bells, keep pretending this is all just another Tuesday night.
"You were on fire tonight," Jake says, turning those green eyes on me. "That thing during 'Golden Crown' where you basically deep-throated the mic? I thought security was going to have to perform CPR on half the audience."
"It's called showmanship," I say, forcing a smirk. "You should try it sometime instead of just standing there looking pretty."
"I'll have you know my standing there looking pretty is an art form—"
The door slams open hard enough to bounce off the wall.
Rex Steele fills the doorway like something out of a horror movie.
The green overhead light illuminates the silver details on the mask covering the right side of his face, and his one visible eye—that piercing ice blue—locks onto me with an intensity that makes my fight-or-flight instinct kick into overdrive.
Too bad I'm all fight.
Behind him, I spot Phoenix and Rafael hovering like they're ready to tackle him if necessary.
Phoenix's massive frame takes up most of the hallway, his mane of blond hair making him look like he should be holding a battle axe, and even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders.
Rafael looks exactly like his pictures—all bronze skin and tattoos with an inked kraken devouring a ship covering most of his left arm.
Even in crisis mode, he looks like a rock god.
"You," Rex snarls, pointing at me like he's casting a curse. "We need to talk."
Jake immediately steps forward, all alpha posturing. "Hey, man, you can't just—"
"Shut the fuck up, pretty boy. This doesn't concern you." Rex doesn't even look at him, that single visible eye still boring into me. "Where did you get your music?"
I blink, genuinely confused. "What? Dude, I don't even know—"
"Don't." His voice drops to something dangerous, and suddenly the room feels too small. "Answer me. I'm not going to ask you again. Where did you get that music?"
There's something about the way he's looking at me that makes my skin crawl. Not just anger. Something else. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle and I'm a piece that doesn't fit right.
My band exchanges confused looks. Mike actually laughs, nervous. "Okay, this is getting weird. Maybe we should—"
"Look," I say to Rex, keeping my voice steady even though my heart's hammering. "I don't know what you think is happening here, but Stephen gives us the music. We perform it. That's it. If there's some kind of problem—"
"Some kind of problem?" Rex gives a laugh that’s more like a rough growl. "Your entire existence is built on grave robbing, and you want to talk about problems?"
My literal ass brain goes straight to shovels and graveyards and rotting corpses before I can even start trying to process what the fuck he's talking about. And I'm still coming up empty. What the fuck does he mean, grave robbing?
"Hey!" Jake steps between us, chest puffed out like he's ready to throw down. "Back the fuck off, man."
Rex actually takes another step forward, and now Phoenix physically intervenes, his huge hand landing on Rex's shoulder.
"Rex. Not here. Not like this."
"He needs to know," Rex says quietly, dangerously. "If he knows, he can't play fucking innocent."
"What I need," I say, finding my spine because fuck this guy, "is for you to get the fuck out of my dressing room before I call security."
"Security." Rex laughs again. "Right. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Hide behind other people. Like your shitty ass manager. Pretty good cover for a thief."
"That's enough." Rafael's dark eyes are serious. "Rex, we're leaving. Now."
Rex turns on Rafael with a snarl.
"SECURITY!" Mike bellows, and suddenly there's chaos.
Two beefy guys in black shirts appear, moving toward Rex.
Phoenix gets between them and his bandmate, hands up in a peaceful gesture.
Rafael's still trying to pull Rex back as Rex threatens to punch his lights out if he doesn’t back off.
Jake's still in alpha protection mode. Ethan's pressed against the wall like he wants to disappear, even when Rex finally storms off.
Phoenix pauses at the door, looking back at us apologetically. “I'm really sorry about this. He's... going off the rails lately.”
"Lately?" Rafael scoffs on his way out the door, giving a dismissive wave of his tattooed hand without turning around. "Rex was born off the rails."
"It's fine," I hear myself say, even though it's not. "Not the first time someone's flipped their shit on me backstage. Comes with the territory."
Phoenix gives me a long look, like he's not sure if he should say anything else. Then he nods and disappears after his bandmates.
The room stays quiet for a full minute after they leave.
"What the fuck was that?" Jake finally asks.
They're all staring at me, waiting for some explanation I can't give. Because I’m just as fucking lost as they are.
"Jealous egomaniac," Mike suggests to break the silence, but his usual humor sounds forced. "Jealous and probably drunk."
"I need to go," I say, already moving toward the door. "Long fucking day."
"Bells—" Jake starts.
"I said I need to go."
I manage to make it out of the venue and into an Uber without anyone following. The driver tries to make conversation, recognizes me maybe, but I just stare out the window and give one-word replies as I let the city blur past.
The hotel room is a blessed relief. Mid-tier place, nothing fancy but at least it's private. I triple-lock the door, check the windows even though we're on the fourteenth floor, then finally, finally let myself breathe.
The binder comes off first, and I actually groan at the relief. My ribs expand properly for the first time in hours, and there are angry red marks where the fabric has been cutting into my skin. My tits—on the smaller side, thank fuck—are killing me.
The silicone cock gets peeled off next, taking some skin with it where the adhesive got too warm. I've got a raw patch by my groin that's definitely going to scar. Add it to the collection.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in just my boxers, looking at this body that doesn't fit anywhere.
Not masculine enough to really pass without the costume.
Not feminine enough to be what people expect from an omega.
Just this awkward in-between that requires constant maintenance to sell the lie.
What the fuck just happened? And why was Rex Steele going off about where we got our music? It came from Stephen. Most of it, anyway. I have no clue what he's talking about, even if I gave a shit.
My phone buzzes.
Speak of the devil.
[STEPHEN: Heard there was some drama tonight. You okay?]
How does he already know? Of course he knows. He probably has people at every venue, watching, reporting. The thought makes my skin crawl.
[BELLS: All good. Just some drunk asshole.]
[STEPHEN: Rex Steele isn't just some drunk asshole. Stay away from him. The show was a hit and you’ve got another gig with Vespyr in two weeks. Labels love a good feud. Don't fuck it up.]
The response is immediate, and the tone makes my blood run cold. This isn't a suggestion. It's an order.
[BELLS: Will do.]
[STEPHEN: Good boy. See you tomorrow for rehearsal.]
Good boy. That makes me want to puke, throw my phone across the room, or both. He may be a beta, but he's just as scummy as any alphahole in the industry. Instead, I set it aside and go to my bag, digging through the false bottom where I keep my medical supplies.
The suppressants are running low. I've been taking more than prescribed, paranoid about my scent breaking through. The doctor said they're becoming less effective, that my body's building resistance. Said I need to have at least one heat every year or risk serious complications.
But I can't. Not now.
Not when everything's so precarious.