Chapter 8 – BELLS
Chapter
Eight
BELLS
"Bells, tilt your head back more. Yeah, like that. Now open your mouth slightly—perfect!"
Mario Lombardi's camera clicks rapid-fire as I arch against the fake gravestone, synthetic blood dripping down my throat.
The zombie extras crowd around me, their professionally grotesque makeup jobs making them look like they crawled out of a Tim Burton wet dream.
One of them has her latex-covered hand on my thigh, fingers splayed possessively over the leather.
The whole setup is for The Reverie's first platinum album cover. Some pretentious concept about resurrection and rebirth that Stephen pitched to the label. What it really is? An excuse to pose me like a sacrificial lamb while barely-dressed zombie girls paw at me.
"Can we get more blood on his chest?" Mario calls to his assistant. "I want it pooling in his collarbones."
The makeup artist approaches with a squeeze bottle of corn syrup and food coloring, but I hold up my hand. "Shirt stays on."
Mario lowers his camera, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together. "But the concept—"
"Has me fully clothed. Check the contract."
I know exactly what clause 7B says because I fought tooth and nail for it. No nudity, no shirtless shots, no "wardrobe malfunctions." My lawyer thought I was being a prude. If only he knew I'm hiding tits that would blow this whole facade to hell.
"It would look so much better if—"
"The shirt. Stays. On."
Mario's jaw tightens, but he knows better than to push it. Stephen might own my soul, but even he can't violate the contract. Not without lawyers getting involved, and that would raise questions nobody wants answered.
"Fine," Mario snaps. "Then we need something else. Something... visceral." His eyes scan the set before landing on Mike, who's been watching from the sidelines while munching on craft services. "You. Drummer boy. On the ground."
Mike blinks, a piece of cheese halfway to his mouth. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Lie down. Bells, you're going to straddle him. It's perfect!" Mario's already directing his assistants to rearrange the lighting. "The lead singer dominating his drummer, the zombies reaching for them both. It's suggestive without being explicit. The fans will eat it up."
Mike's already on his back, grinning up at me like this is the best day of his life. "Come on, Bells. Don't leave me hanging."
Fuck.
I lower myself onto Mike's chest, trying to position my hips so the six inches of medical-grade silicone stuffed in my jeans doesn't press directly against him. He'd think I'm hard over this. But Mario's not having it.
"Closer," he demands. "I need to see the tension. The desire."
Mike's hands find my hips, pulling me down until I'm fully seated on him.
The prosthetic shifts, pressing uncomfortably against my actual anatomy, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from wincing.
Mike's eyes go wide for a second—he definitely feels something—but bless his beta soul, he doesn't say anything.
"Now lean forward," Mario instructs. "Like you're about to kiss him or kill him."
I plant my hands on either side of Mike's head, my white hair falling forward to curtain our faces. This close, I can smell his cologne mixed with the latex and fake blood. His pupils are blown wide, and I realize with a sick twist in my gut that he's actually turned on by this.
"Fuck, Bells," he whispers, quiet enough that only I can hear. "You're really committed to the character, huh?"
"Just shut up and look pretty," I mutter back.
The camera clicks. The zombies paw at us.
Mario shouts directions about angles and intensity.
My chest binder digs into my ribs with each breath, and the prosthetic is definitely not sitting right anymore, but I hold the position because this is what Bells would do.
Bells wouldn't give a fuck about comfort.
Bells would own this moment, make it art, make it dangerous.
"That's it!" Mario crows. "That's the shot! We're done!"
I roll off Mike immediately, maybe a little too eagerly. He sits up, adjusting himself discretely, and I pretend not to notice the confusion mixed with gross arousal on his face.
Jake appears with water bottles anyway, rescuing me. He presses one into my hand. "You okay? You look like you're about to pass out."
I'm not about to pass out, although I might be hungry enough to.
I'm about to scream. The binder's been on for twelve hours straight, and my ribs feel like they're being slowly crushed by a python.
The prosthetic has shifted so far out of position that I'm pretty sure it's sideways now.
And somewhere out there, Rex Steele is sitting on information that could destroy everything I've built.
"I'm stellar," I lie, chugging the water. "Just need to change."
The dressing room they've given me is barely bigger than a closet, but it has a lock, and right now that's all that matters.
I strip off the blood-soaked shirt, gasping as the movement pulls at the binder.
There are angry red marks where the edges have been digging in, and when I press gently on my ribs, pain shoots through my torso.
I should take it off. Give myself a break. But the photo shoot ran over, and The Reverie has a meeting in an hour. So I adjust it as best I can, stuff the prosthetic back into position, and pull on a clean shirt.
That's when I see them.
Roses. Deep red, the petals black along the edges, arranged in a clear crystal vase on the vanity. There's a note attached, my name written in careful script.
Not Bells.
Isabel.
My blood turns to ice water. I grab the note with shaking fingers, tearing it open.
Check your email. 10 PM. Olympic Hotel, Restaurant Elysium.
Come alone. Don't fuck up.
—R
I fumble for my phone, my fingers suddenly clumsy as I open my email. There's a new message from an address I don't recognize, just a string of random numbers and letters. No subject line. Just a video attachment.
I click play.
And there I am. Fifteen years old, blonde and bright-eyed, wearing a sparkly pink dress.
I'm on stage at Madison Square Garden, hitting the high notes of "Bubble Gum Princess" even though it's not the kind of shit I'd ever listen to on my own, let alone sing if I had a choice.
The camera zooms in on my face. Young, innocent, completely unaware that in less than an hour, a stalker would force a half-formed mark on me in my own dressing room.
This footage should have been destroyed. I paid people—a lot of people—to scrub Isabel Frost from the internet. Every video, every photo, every trace of that girl was supposed to be gone.
Not even Stephen knows who I am.
But Rex fucking Steele has it.
I delete the email, but I know it doesn't matter. Rex has the original. Rex has probably made copies. Rex has me by the fucking throat, and we both know it.
Ten PM. Restaurant Elysium.
Two hours to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do.
The wig itches like I've got a family of fucking fleas setting up camp on my scalp.
Brown, shoulder-length, nothing like my actual choppy platinum hair.
Combined with the makeup and red dress, I look nothing like Bells.
Just another woman meeting someone for drinks at an overpriced restaurant. Hiding in plain sight.
Restaurant Elysium sits on the top floor of the Olympic Hotel, adorned with glass walls and ambient lighting they probably overpaid some yuppie interior designer to source. The kind of place where they don't put prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you shouldn't be here.
I catch my reflection in the elevator doors on the way up. Red lipstick, subtle makeup, expensive bag, looking like someone's mistress or trophy wife. The complete opposite of the leather-and-attitude persona I've cultivated.
Doesn't help that I feel naked as fuck without my knife.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since... fuck, when? Yesterday? Time blurs together when you're running on adrenaline and suppressants.
Rex is already there when I arrive, seated at a corner table with his back to the wall like some paranoid mob boss.
Even in the dim lighting, his mask is visible like a shadow over the right side of his face.
This one's sleek and minimalist, nothing like the theatrical one I slashed off his face.
He's wearing an actual suit—black, expensive, fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders.
Looks like we're both playing dress-up tonight.
"Isabel," he says as I approach, and hearing that name in his voice makes my skin crawl.
"Don't call me that." I slide into the seat across from him, hyperaware of how the dress rides up my thighs. "Isabel is dead."
"And yet here she sits." His visible eye tracks over me slowly, taking in the transformation. His expression doesn't change at all. Not even a flicker. He looks bored. Somehow, that irritates me more than if he were checking me out. "Blood red suits you."
"Fuck off."
A server appears immediately, all practiced smiles and professional blindness to the weird energy crackling between us. "Can I start you with something to drink?" she asks, her eyes zeroing in on Rex like she's trying to figure out if she recognizes him.
"Chateau Margaux 2010," Rex says without looking at the wine list. Of course he orders the good shit. Show-off.
"Just water," I start, but Rex cuts me off.
"She'll have the same."
The server disappears before I can argue, and I glare at Rex across the candlelit table. "I can order for myself."
"Apparently not." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You look uncomfortable."
"The wig itches."
"Not the wig."
He's right, but I'm not giving him the satisfaction. Sitting here in a dress, trying to look and act stereotypically feminine while my body's been trained to move like a guy for years… it's like wearing two different costumes at once.