Chapter 4 – PHOENIX
Chapter
Four
PHOENIX
The sushi sits between Rafael and me like a fucking peace offering to the universe.
Like maybe if we pretend hard enough that everything's normal, the world won't implode.
My chopsticks fumble with a piece of salmon sashimi, and I drop it twice before getting it to my mouth.
Rafael watches with that look he gets when he's about to make fun of me but decides I'm too pathetic to kick while I'm down.
He's been treating me with kid gloves since Nash died.
Wish he wouldn't.
"You eat like a wild animal that just grew hands," he says anyway, because Rafael's never met an impulse he didn't follow. He delicately picks up a piece of tuna like it's made of glass and his signature long tongue curls out to take it off his chopsticks.
"And you eat like someone who's trying to convince his food to let him fuck it," I shoot back.
The comment makes him snort mid-bite and he almost drops the whole piece, which serves him right. A grain of rice sticks to his bottom lip and he licks it away, laughing.
The tour bus rocks slightly as we hit a pothole, and my soy sauce threatens to spill.
I steady it with one hand while shoving another piece of sushi in my mouth with the other.
It's good, surprisingly good for takeout we grabbed at two in the morning after last night's show.
The wasabi clears my sinuses and makes my eyes water, which is perfect because now I have an excuse for looking like I have fucking tears in my eyes.
Nash loved sushi. Used to drag us to this hole-in-the-wall place where the owner knew him by name and always saved him the best cuts of yellowtail. He'd sit there for hours, picking at his food and writing lyrics on napkins while the rest of us got drunk on sake.
I push that thought down where it belongs, in the locked box with all the other Nash memories that hurt too much to revisit. The ones where he'd sneak into my bunk at three in the morning smelling like whiskey. The ones where he'd kiss me like he was drowning and I was air.
Hell, he may have been an alpha, but he served the purpose of keeping our volatile pack together almost like an omega would. Even though no one but the two of us knew what we were really doing when we'd sneak off away from the rest of the band.
We're fucking lost without him.
I'm fucking lost without him.
"So," Rafael says, unnecessarily arranging his chopsticks on the little ceramic holder. The crashing waves and tentacles of his kraken tattoo move like they're alive as he shifts. "We're just not going to talk about Rex confronting Bells last night?"
"What's there to talk about? Rex had questions. He asked them," I grumble with a mouthful of spicy tuna and the "chef's special sauce" I know is just sriracha mayo with sugar in it. Doesn't mean it isn't delicious.
"Not like that." Rafael's dark eyes find mine, and he looks uncharacteristically worried.
He leans back, his bronze skin practically glowing in the light streaming through the bus window.
Even at nine in the morning after a late night, he looks like he stepped out of a rock magazine photoshoot, the bastard.
"The way he looked at that Bells guy. That shit was intense even by Rex standards. "
That Bells guy.
That's what we're calling him, like he's some random innocent bystander instead of the singer performing Nash's private songs.
But I keep thinking about those honey-gold eyes, the genuine confusion when Rex confronted him.
Either he's the best actor I've ever seen, or he really doesn't know where the music came from.
"Maybe Rex had a point," I say carefully, testing the waters.
Rafael's eyebrows shoot up. "You think Bells knew?"
“I think someone knew. Those were Nash's melodies, Raf. Note for fucking note. And words that only ever existed in his private notebooks. But—”
The bus door opens hard enough to make the whole vehicle shudder. Rex enters in silence, energy crackling around him like electricity. He's wearing the usual mask he keeps on during the day, the smooth black one that's less theatrical but somehow more intimidating in its simplicity.
"Morning," I call out, trying to inject some lightness into the suddenly suffocating atmosphere. "Beautiful day to be alive, isn't it?"
Rex's one visible eye slides to me. "Is it?"
Rafael shifts in his seat, muscles tense beneath his fitted black t-shirt. He's ready for a fight, always is when Rex gets like this.
“You want some sushi? We got extra.” I hold up the container, knowing what the answer will be but asking anyway because that's what I do.
I offer. I try. I pretend maybe this time will be different. That maybe he'll eat with us, even though he never does.
Never.
Not once in all the years we've been a band. Not even when Nash was alive and would beg him to at least sit with us, even if he wasn't hungry.
Rex always has an excuse. Already ate, not hungry, has shit to do. Everyone else thinks it's just Rex being Rex, part of the mysterious persona like the mask itself.
But I know the truth.
Rex isn’t moody for the hell of it. He is suffering constantly in every way. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Not a moment goes by that he isn’t in absolute agony, and now that Nash is gone, I’m the only person who knows that.
So if there’s even the slightest chance I can at least take the edge off his loneliness, even if it irritates him, I’m going for it.
"No." Rex stalks to the kitchenette area, yanking open cabinets like he's looking for something to destroy. He grabs a glass and fills it with water from the filtered pitcher with sharp movements. The glass hits the counter hard when he sets it down. Not quite a slam, but close.
Rafael shakes his head. "Only Rex," he mutters under his breath. "Only Rex can pour water aggressively."
"It's really good," I persist, ignoring Rafael, because I'm either an optimist or a masochist, and at this point, I can't tell the difference. "This place does this thing with shrimp tempura that's—"
"No, Phoenix." Rex's voice carries an edge that could cut steel.
Rafael sets down his chopsticks deliberately. "You've been wound tighter than usual since last night."
I wince as Rex whirls on him, and for a second I think he might actually lunge. "Have I? Have I been wound tight? My brother's music is being whored out by some pretty boy in leather pants and I'm supposed to be, what, calm?"
"We don't know the full story—" Rafael starts.
"I know enough,” Rex grits out. "I know Stephen Hughes took Nash's notebooks. I know those songs on that stage last night were Nash's. And I know Stephen’s new pet is involved, and they’re both going to pay for it."
The temperature in the bus seems to drop. Rafael's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "So what's your plan?" He crosses his arms. "Beat the truth out of him? That'll go over well."
Rex's laugh is bitter and sharp. "No." He takes a long drink of water, and I can see his hand trembling slightly with suppressed rage even as he heads for his bunk.
"We're playing with them again in two weeks.
I'll be watching. I'll find his weakness, his pressure points.
By the time I'm done, I'll know exactly how to destroy this shitty rip-off band from the inside out. "
The door slams hard enough to rattle the dishes.
Rafael and I sit in heavy silence.
"He's getting worse," Rafael says quietly, running a hand through his dark hair.
"Yeah." I push a piece of salmon around with my chopstick, my appetite gone.
Rafael nods, accepting the non-answer. "Rex is going to do something stupid."
"The question is whether we try to stop him or just minimize the collateral damage."
"Can we even stop him?"
"No," I admit, standing to clean up. "We can't stop him. But maybe we can redirect him. Find out the truth about Bells before Rex decides to go nuclear."
Nash wouldn't want his music to be a weapon. And I have to find out if Bells is a thief or another victim before Rex burns everything to the ground in Nash's name.
Nash used to say his brother could dismantle someone psychologically before they even realized they were under attack.
That Rex hadn't been the same since the accident.
Nash let it slip one night. That the real reason Rex won't eat with anyone around is because the damage to the right side of his face makes it difficult, that the side of his mouth is fucked up—fucked up enough that Nash didn’t even want to talk about it.
And Rex is humiliated by the thought of anyone seeing him struggle to do something simple and normal like eat.
But all Nash could gather the strength to tell me about the accident was that he was driving too fast and wrapped his car around a tree.
That Rex was in the passenger's side and he was burned by flames and fuel coming in through the window.
That Rex almost died, and wishes he had.
Nash was drunk off his ass that night and distraught, so I didn't press him for more details. I figured there would be another chance to talk about it when he wasn't so fucked up. Figured there would be time to reassure him that he didn't need to let the guilt eat him alive anymore.
We didn't have time for shit.