Chapter 7 – RAFAEL
Chapter
Seven
RAFAEL
Matt's voice hits that whiny little bitch pitch that makes me want to shove my bass down his throat.
He's been moaning and carrying on for the last twenty minutes, pacing around the tour bus like a caged rat who just realized the trap snapped shut.
His fake ID excuse keeps getting more elaborate with each retelling, like maybe if he adds enough details we'll forget what we all saw.
"She said she was twenty-three!" He's practically shrieking now, running his hands through his hair until it sticks up like he got electrocuted. "How was I supposed to know—"
"That the girl with braces and a fucking learner's permit in her wallet wasn't legal?" Rex cuts him off, voice deadly calm. That's when he's most dangerous—not when he's outwardly pissed off, but when he goes quiet. "You knew exactly what you were doing, you sick fuck."
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching this train wreck unfold.
Part of me wants to intervene, but honestly?
Matt dug his own grave the second he decided to feel up a high schooler at last night's afterparty.
The girl's friend had to literally drag her away from him.
How she even got in is fucking beyond me, but someone else is getting fired when we find out.
Sixteen. She was fucking sixteen.
Matt's mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. "I... she... it was dark and—"
"You're gone." Rex doesn't even raise his voice. Just states it like a fact. "Pack your shit and get off my bus."
"You can't just—"
"I can and I am." Rex steps closer, and Matt actually backs up until his ass hits the wall. "I may be a shitty human being, but I don't tolerate predators. Get. Out."
Matt looks at Phoenix, then at me, like we're going to save him. Phoenix just crosses his massive arms and stares at him with those blue eyes gone arctic cold. I shrug and casually examine my nails. Wouldn't piss on the bastard if he was on fire.
"This isn't over," Matt tries one last time at the door, attempting to salvage some dignity even though his already whiny voice has shot up a few octaves. "I'll tell everyone you're impossible to work with. I'll—"
"Tell them whatever the fuck you want," Rex says, turning his back on him.
The door slams behind Matt.
"Well," I say into the silence, "that's singer number six down. Who's taking bets on seven?"
Phoenix snorts, flopping onto the couch with enough force to make me fall against his beefy arm. I growl and untangle myself from him before it becomes another of those impromptu cuddlefests he likes so much.
"At this fucking rate," Phoenix says with a heavy sigh, "we'll run out of singers before we run out of shows."
"Speaking of which…" I pull out my phone, scrolling through our upcoming schedule. "Our wonderful management has us playing with The Reverie again next week. Same festival circuit. So we're on borrowed time to find another."
"Fantastic," Rex mutters, grabbing a beer from the fridge. It's eleven in the morning, but honestly, after the Matt situation, I don't blame him.
Something's off with him anyway, and not just because he was up all night, typing like crazy on his laptop like he was feverishly researching the secrets of the universe.
The mask sits differently today, Rex keeps adjusting it, and there's a tightness around his visible eye that suggests pain.
Phoenix catches my glance, the smallest shake of his head warning me not to mention it.
Great. Another secret Rex thing to worry about.
"Maybe we should just give up on finding a new singer," Phoenix says, and there's something in his voice that makes both Rex and me look at him.
He's got that expression that means he's about to say something that'll either be brilliant or start World War Three.
"At this rate, we'll end up merging bands. "
Rex's beer bottle freezes halfway to his mouth.
"Fuck no," I say immediately. "The Reverie is campy as hell. Bells carries that whole band on his shoulders. Without him, they're just another mediocre rock outfit with good marketing."
I've watched enough of their shows now to know that Bells is different. There's something raw under all that leather and attitude. I'm not attracted to guys, but even I find something about him weirdly enthralling.
Not that I'd admit it.
"He's something," Phoenix agrees, nodding.
"He's a thief," Rex snarls, slamming his beer down hard enough that foam erupts from the top like a mini volcano. "Or have you both forgotten that minor fucking detail?"
"We haven't forgotten," I say carefully, because Rex looks about two seconds from exploding. "But he didn't seem to know. Stephen—"
"I talked to him after the last show." Rex's visible eye is practically burning through his mask. "He can't play innocent anymore. He knows full well Stephen stole Nash's songs. He—"
He stops mid-sentence.
Just... stops.
And that's when I see it. That look. The one that means Rex's brain just made some connection the rest of us haven't caught up to yet. His head tilts slightly, like a predator who just caught a scent.
"Oh fuck," I mutter. "What are you thinking?"
Rex doesn't answer immediately. He's gone still in that way that makes my skin prickle, like the air before lightning strikes. His fingers drum against the beer bottle—once, twice, three times—and then he smiles.
It's not a nice smile.
"You know what?" Rex says slowly, like he's tasting each word. "Maybe you're onto something, Phoenix."
Phoenix and I exchange glances. This is not the reaction either of us expected.
"I am?" Phoenix sounds as confused as I feel.
"Think about it." Rex starts pacing, and the energy coming off him is different now. Not angry, but calculating. "Bells is already performing Nash's songs. The audience loves him. He's got the range, the stage presence..."
"Rex," I say slowly, "what the fuck are you actually suggesting here?"
He turns to face us, and even with the mask hiding half his face, I can see the wheels turning. "I'm suggesting we solve two problems at once. We need a singer. Stephen Hughes needs to stop profiting off my dead brother’s music.
"You want to steal their frontman?" Phoenix sits up straighter. "Rex, that's—"
"Poetic justice," Rex finishes. "Stephen stole from us. Now we steal from him."
The bus goes quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. I can feel the tension ratcheting up, that familiar sensation of Rex about to do something spectacularly destructive.
"Bells would never agree to that," I point out, trying to be the voice of reason even though part of me is intrigued by the sheer audacity of it. "He's got a contract with Starjam Records. Stephen owns his ass."
"Everyone has a price," Rex says, and there's something dark in his voice that makes me wonder what he knows that we don't. "Or a pressure point."
"Rex..." Phoenix starts, but Rex cuts him off.
"What? You were the one who suggested it. Bells is talented. He's already singing Nash's songs. Why shouldn't those songs be performed by someone in Nash's actual band?"
"You realize this would start a war with Stephen Hughes," I say, because someone needs to point out the obvious. "He could bury us."
"And I'll bury him, too. With a shovel if I have to," Rex mutters, downing the rest of his beer before stalking out of the room, leaving Phoenix and me staring at each other in stunned silence.
Fuck.
Now the shit is really gonna hit the fan.