Chapter 9 – RAFAEL
Chapter
Nine
RAFAEL
Kyle has been running his mouth for exactly twelve minutes and I'm already fantasizing about shoving my bass down his throat until he chokes on the strings.
"...and obviously, the omega groupies are just part of the package, right?
" He's leaning back in the folding chair like he owns the fucking studio, legs spread wide in that way guys do when they think their dick needs its own zip code.
Kyle's definitely does not. "I mean, that's half the reason to be in a rock band.
The music's great and all, but let's be real—"
Phoenix shifts uncomfortably beside me, his massive frame making the leather couch creak. His face is tight with secondhand embarrassment and growing disgust. He's too nice to tell this asshole to shut up, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping his drumsticks.
"Let's focus on the music," Phoenix suggests, voice strained but still trying for friendly. "You said you knew 'Crimson Throne'?"
Kyle waves him off like Phoenix is the help. "Yeah, yeah, I know all the hits. But seriously, what's the groupie situation like? I heard Rex Steele's got them lining up. Must be nice, having your pick of the litter every night."
Litter. Like omegas are fucking puppies in a pet store window.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and give him my best shark smile. The one that makes smart people remember they have somewhere else to be. "You know Rex doesn't really do the groupie thing, right?"
Kyle snorts. "Come on. Guy wears a mask, has that whole mysterious vibe. Omegas eat that shit up. Guys like him are drowning in pussy—"
"He's not." My voice comes out flat, final. "Trust me on this one."
The idiot doesn't take the hint. Instead, he stands up and starts wandering around the studio like he's taking inventory of his new kingdom.
His fingers trail over Phoenix's drum kit, leaving greasy prints on the chrome.
Phoenix's jaw tightens but he doesn't say anything.
Saint Phoenix, patron of lost causes and infinite patience.
"Nice setup," Kyle says, then his eyes land on something that makes my blood go cold. "What's this?"
Nash's notebook. Phoenix must have pulled it out earlier. He looks through it when Rex isn't around, runs his fingers over the soft worn leather. It's sitting on the side table, innocuous-looking unless you know what it represents. Unless you know Phoenix guards it like a holy relic.
Kyle picks it up.
Actually picks it up.
Phoenix goes rigid beside me. I hear his breathing change, that careful control he uses when he's about to lose his shit but doesn't want to show it. Because Phoenix doesn't lose his shit. Phoenix is the stable one, the grounding force, the—
"Put it down." Phoenix's voice is different. Low. Dangerous.
Kyle flips through the pages, oblivious. "These lyrics aren't too bad. Kind of emo, but I could work with—"
Phoenix is on his feet before I can blink, all six-foot-six of him looming over Kyle like the wrath of a vengeful god decided to take corporeal form. Vespyr’s gentle giant can be scary as fuck when he wants to be, I'll give him that.
"I said put. It. Down."
The temperature in the room goes frigid. Kyle finally seems to realize he's fucked up, but his pride won't let him back down. He tosses the notebook back on the table with deliberate carelessness.
"Jesus, chill out. It's just a notebook."
Wrong answer.
"It's not just a notebook," I say, standing up slowly. "That belonged to Nash Steele."
The color drains from Kyle's face as the name registers. Everyone in the rock world knows about Nash. The brilliant songwriter, the softer twin, the one who died too young and left a hole in Vespyr that we're still trying in vain to fill.
"I didn't—" Kyle starts, but I'm already done with this audition.
"You're not a good fit," I tell him point blank.
"What?" Kyle says indignantly, mouth gaping at me. "Because I touched some dead guy's notebook? That's bullshit. I've got the range, I know the songs—"
"You're a disrespectful asshole who wouldn't survive five minutes in a room with Rex Steele," Phoenix grits out with an uncharacteristic growl.
That does it. Kyle practically trips over himself grabbing his jacket, his guitar case banging against the doorframe in his rush to get out. "You guys are fucking insane," he mutters, but he's already halfway down the hall.
"Have a great day!" I call after him, injecting maximum cheer into my voice because I'm a petty asshole like that.
The door slams. Phoenix slumps back onto the couch, cradling Nash's notebook like it might disappear if he doesn't hold it tight enough.
"We're running out of options," I say, dropping back into my chair.
"Maybe we should lower our standards," Phoenix suggests half-heartedly.
"Lower them to what? Having a pulse? Not being a mouth-breathing piece of shit apparently rules out ninety percent of available singers."
Phoenix doesn't argue. We both know the real problem isn't usually the singers. And as volatile as Rex is, it isn't him, either. It's the shadow Nash left behind. It's us trying to fill a space that was never meant to be empty.
The studio door opens again, and we both tense, expecting Kyle to come back for round two. But it's Rex, moving with that striding gait that means he's either about to explode or he's planning something.
He doesn't even glance at Kyle, who's still visible through the window, practically running toward his car. That's... weird. Rex usually goes out of his way to intimidate people, especially if they're already scared shitless. Instead, he walks past us toward his equipment.
"Where the fuck have you been?" I demand, because someone has to.
"Out," Rex says, not looking at us.
"Out where? We've been auditioning singers all morning. Alone. Again."
Rex turns to face us, and there's something different about him. The usual rage that simmers just under his skin seems... not gone, but redirected. Focused. Like he's figured something out and the rest of us just haven't caught up yet. "You can stop. No more auditions."
Phoenix perks up like a golden retriever who just heard the word walk. "You found us a singer?"
"Maybe."
"Who?" I press. "Where did you find them? When are they coming?"
"Two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Phoenix croaks. "Rex, we have shows. We can't just use stand-ins for two weeks, hoping whoever you found is the one—"
"He is." He's already walking off. "Trust me."
Phoenix and I share an eye-roll.
I hope he sees it.