Chapter 5 – BELLS
Chapter
Five
BELLS
"You good?" Jake asks for the third time in ten minutes, hovering like a mother hen with too much product in his hair. "You look pale."
"I'm always pale, dipshit. It's part of my aesthetic." I adjust the leather collar that hides my scar, checking for the hundredth time that it's secure. The backstage area reeks of stale beer, the walls sweating with decades of accumulated rock-and-roll sins and stains.
I’m not actually good. I’m taking enough suppressants to knock out a horse and pretending everything's fine while my body slowly rebels against the chemical straightjacket I've forced it into.
Mike's warming up on his practice pad, the rapid-fire paradiddles echoing off the concrete walls.
Ethan's in the corner doing his pre-show meditation bullshit, which mostly consists of him vaping and scrolling through Instagram.
Business as usual for The Reverie, except for the part where we're about to share a stage with the band whose dead member's music we might be stealing.
"Five minutes to sound check!" some harried stage manager calls out, and my stomach does this weird flip that has nothing to do with stage fright.
I head toward the shared green room in the Portland venue, needing water and distance from Jake's concerned alpha energy. The hallway's narrow enough that I have to turn sideways to avoid a roadie hauling equipment, and that's when I literally run into them.
Phoenix and Rafael.
Phoenix catches my arm as I stumble, and fuck, he's even bigger up close. Six-foot-six of mostly solid muscle wrapped in a Metallica t-shirt. His blue eyes are surprisingly kind for an alpha his size, nothing like his bandmate's single visible eye of pure murder.
"Shit, sorry," he says, immediately letting go like I might break. Or like I might bite. "Didn't see you there."
"Story of my life," I mutter, straightening my shirt. The movement pulls at my binder, and I have to suppress a wince at the sharp sting in my lower left rib.
Rafael's leaning against the wall, looking like he belongs in a magazine, not in this glorified basement. He's not quite as intense as Rex, at least not in the same "I want to put a stake through your heart" way, but he's studying me with dark eyes that miss nothing.
"So you're the infamous Bells," he says, but there's no hostility in it. Just curiosity and maybe a hint of amusement. "Didn't have the chance for a proper introduction the other day. You're smaller than I expected up close."
"Yeah, well, your lead guitarist's ego takes up enough space for all of us."
Phoenix actually laughs at that. It's a genuine, warm sound that makes something in my chest loosen. "Rex isn't here yet. Which is probably for the best. He's in a shitty mood, even by Rex standards."
"When isn't he?" Rafael pushes off the wall, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something expensive and spicy that makes my suppressed omega instincts twitch before I brutally shut them down. "Don't take it personally. He hasn't been the same since—"
"Since his brother died," Phoenix finishes quietly, and the temperature in the hallway seems to drop.
Nash Steele.
I remember the flurry of tributes and news articles from about a year ago, dancing around the fact that he died from an overdose in a hotel room. That explains why Rex is so unhinged. It doesn't explain why he's unhinged in my direction specifically, but still.
We stand there in awkward silence for a moment, three people dancing around a ghost. Finally, I clear my throat.
"Why was he asking where The Reverie gets our music?" I ask.
Phoenix and Rafael exchange a look. "This probably isn't the time or place to get into it," Phoenix admits, dragging a hand through his hair. "It's a long fucking story. And we don't have long before you-know-who shows up."
Rafael snorts. "You can say his name. Rex isn't a demon that gets summoned just by—"
"Phoenix! Rafael! Get your asses in here!" someone from staff shouts from the green room, making Rafael jolt like he's second guessing what he just said.
"Speak of the devil," Phoenix says, shooting me a wink over his shoulder that's probably been the death of many an omega's panties on his way out the door.
They disappear into the green room, and I'm left alone in the hallway, trying to catch my breath around the vice grip of my binder. Just a few more hours. Just have to make it through sound check and the show.
Sound check is a blur of feedback and adjustments. Vespyr goes first, but it's just Phoenix and Rafael going through the motions. No sign of Rex, which should be a relief but somehow makes everything worse. Like waiting for a storm you know is coming.
We run through our set twice, and by the end, I'm sweating through my compression shirt. The silicone cock has shifted slightly in my jeans and I have to adjust it discretely while pretending to tune my guitar. Jake keeps shooting me looks, but I ignore him.
The venue starts filling up around seven. Through the stage door, I can hear the crowd's energy building, that electric anticipation that usually feeds me but tonight just makes me feel exposed.
Still no Rex.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. We're supposed to go on at eight-thirty, with Vespyr following at nine-thirty.
Phoenix and Rafael are in the green room with us now, all nerves just like me.
Jake's doing his pre-show alpha posturing and Mike's got his headphones on, listening to whatever pumps him up. Ethan's taking one last vape hit.
And then the door slams open.
Rex stalks in and the entire room goes silent. He's in full stage gear—leather pants that look painted on, a black leather jacket, and of course, the mask. Tonight's is different from the last show, but it's still black with silver filigree that catches the light like knife edges.
His single visible eye sweeps the room and our eyes lock. I stare back readily, channeling just fucking try it into every thought just in case he can read my mind. His eye narrows slightly, but he doesn't say a word.
"You're late," Rafael says to him, breaking the tension.
"Fuck off," Rex responds automatically, but his eye's still on me. "Bells."
The way he says my name makes it sound like an accusation.
"Rex."
"Break a leg out there," he says, and it sounds like he means it literally.
Then he's gone, disappearing into the hallway, leaving everyone exhaling collectively.
"Well, that was fun," Mike says weakly.
"Showtime!" the stage manager calls, and suddenly we're moving, heading for the stage, and I don't have time to process whatever the fuck just happened.
The show is... intense.
Maybe it's knowing Rex is watching from somewhere.
Maybe it's the suppressants making my body rebel.
Maybe it's the weight of possibly performing stolen songs from a dead man.
But I channel all of it into the performance, and it comes out raw and angry and desperate in a way that has the crowd losing their minds.
Jake and I do our usual dance, but tonight there's an edge to it. When he grabs my throat during "Golden Crown," I bite his hand, making him jerk back in surprise. The crowd eats it up, thinking it's part of the show, but I see the confused bewilderment in his eyes. He thinks I'm losing my shit.
Hell, maybe I am.
By the time we hit the encore, I can barely breathe. The binder feels like it's crushing my ribs, and there's a sharp pain every time I inhale. But I push through, screaming the final notes like I'm exorcising demons.
The lights cut, and I stumble off stage, Jake catching my arm when I almost face-plant.
"Jesus, Bells—"
"I'm fine," I growl, pulling away.
But I'm not fine. The room spins as we get backstage, and I have to grab the wall to stay upright. Phoenix and Rafael are there, already changed out of their stage clothes, and fuck, I must look bad because Phoenix immediately steps forward.
"You okay?"
"Lightheaded," I manage. "Just need to get to the dressing room."
The Reverie guys are all hovering now, Jake going full alpha-protective mode, and it makes me want to scream. They don't know I'm anything but a male beta, but somehow, they can still fucking tell something's up, even on a subconscious level. Am I sweating through my cologne and suppressants? Shit.
"I'll be back," I say through gritted teeth. "Just... give me five minutes."
"Bells—"
"I said I'm fine."
I escape the green room before anyone can follow, my boots echoing against the concrete floor like a countdown to disaster.
Every shadow in the hallway could be Rex waiting to ambush me with more accusations.
My ribs scream with each breath, and I can feel sweat pooling where the binder digs into my skin.
The dressing room door appears like salvation at the end of the corridor.
Just twenty more feet.
Fifteen feet. No sign of him.
Ten feet. A door slams somewhere behind me and I nearly jump out of my fucking skin, but it's just a roadie hauling equipment.
Five feet. My hand finds the doorknob, twists, and I'm inside, slamming it shut and turning the lock with shaking fingers. The click echoes in the small space, and I lean against the door, letting my head fall back against the cheap wood.
Made it. No Rex. No confrontation. No chance of him getting close enough to notice something's off about my scent, my body, my entire fucking existence.
For now.
The dressing room's silence wraps around me like a shroud. Finally alone, finally safe—or as safe as I ever fucking am these days. My hands shake as I fumble with the lock, making sure it's secure. The adrenaline from the performance is crashing hard, leaving me hollowed out and raw.
I peel off my sweat-soaked shirt, then the binder, and fuck, the pain when I unstick it from my skin makes me bite down on a scream. There's blood where it's rubbed me raw, little spots of red blooming against the compression fabric like some fucked-up Rorschach test.
I look and smell like I've been through a war.