Chapter 10 – BELLS
Chapter
Ten
BELLS
Two weeks. Fourteen days of watching my phone light up with Stephen's name while my lawyer fielded increasingly unhinged threats about breach of contract and career suicide.
Now I'm standing outside a warehouse that looks like it should be condemned, not converted into a recording studio.
The graffiti covering the brick walls has been there so long it's become part of the architecture—layers upon layers of tags and murals weathered by rain and time until they blur into abstract art.
A rusted sign reading "Foxhole Studios" hangs crooked above a door that looks like it's been kicked in more than once.
This is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. Trading The Reverie's soulless but state-of-the-art facilities for whatever the fuck this is.
My phone buzzes again. Stephen. Again. He's been calling all night.
I decline it without looking, shoving the phone deeper into my jacket pocket.
My lawyer already delivered the news three days ago—clean break, citing "irreconcilable creative differences" and mental health that apparently even Stephen can't fight without due legal process.
Amazing what a good lawyer can do when you threaten to go public with workplace harassment allegations. And between all the pressure to violate the clauses of my contract on photoshoots and Stephen's general creepiness, she's definitely got ammo.
Not that Stephen knows the real reason I'm here. Not that anyone does except Rex fucking Steele and his collection of blackmail material.
The door's unlocked, which seems like a terrible security decision in this neighborhood.
I push it open and immediately get hit with a wall of incense and patchouli so thick I can taste it.
Not the cigarettes and stale beer I expected.
The walls are covered in what I can only describe as someone's acid trip made permanent—swirling colors and melting faces and geometric patterns that make my eyes water if I stare too long.
"Bells!"
I barely have time to register the voice before I'm being lifted off my feet.
Phoenix—all six-foot-six of him—has wrapped me in a bear hug that would probably crack ribs if I wasn't wearing the reinforced binder today.
His shaggy blond hair tickles my face as every last puff of air is crushed from my lungs, and fuck, I forgot how big he is, all broad shoulders and comfortable bulk.
"Can't breathe, man," I wheeze, and he immediately steps back, hands up in apology.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm a hugger." Phoenix lets me go with a nervous laugh, dragging a hand through his mane of blond hair. "Just... shit, man, I didn't think you'd actually show."
"Yeah, well." I adjust my jacket, trying to look casual while my heart hammers against the reinforced prison of my binder. "Here I am."
"Here you are," he agrees, that golden retriever energy practically vibrating off him. Maybe Saint Bernard is more accurate, considering the sheer size of the alpha. "Rex is gonna—"
"Going to what?"
The voice cuts through the incense-thick air.
Rex emerges from a doorway I hadn't noticed, wearing tight black pants and a tank that shows off muscled arms covered in intricate black-and-gray tattoos.
The tattoos on his right arm are textured differently, the ink faded and blotchy in spots, and I find myself wondering if they're covering scars like his mask is.
Today's mask is different—matte black leather and simpler, with silver studs along the edges. Understated, but post-apocalyptic.
Fitting.
His single visible eye zeroes in on me with laser focus. "6:01. Right down to the razor wire, are we?"
The threat hangs between us, unspoken but crystal clear. He'd said the video would go live at 6:01 if I didn't show. I'd walked through that door at 6:00 precisely because fuck him and his power games.
"I'm here, aren't I?" I shoot back, matching his hostile energy with my own. "Would you prefer I showed up early and eager like a good little puppet?"
Phoenix's gaze ping-pongs between us, clearly sensing the tension but not understanding its source. "Uh, should I—"
"Go check on Rafael," Rex orders without looking at him. "Make sure he's actually setting up and not screwing around on his phone."
Phoenix hesitates for a second, those kind blue eyes searching my face like he's trying to figure out if I need rescuing. Sweet, but unnecessary. I've been handling alphaholes since I sang my first note on stage.
"Go," Rex repeats, and this time there's enough edge in his voice that Phoenix actually moves, disappearing deeper into the warehouse.
The second we're alone, Rex steps closer, and I have to fight not to step back. "Follow me."
He turns without waiting for a response, heading down a narrow hallway that smells like mold. The walls are covered in more psychedelic artwork, but here it's darker, more twisted. Screaming faces melting into abstract shapes, hands reaching out from swirling voids.
We end up in what might generously be called an office but looks more like a storage closet someone threw a desk into. Rex closes the door behind us, and suddenly the space feels even smaller.
"How much do they know?" I ask before he can start with more bullshit.
"They know what they need to know." He leans against the desk, arms crossed, that single eye studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "That you're joining the band. That you're incredibly talented. That Stephen Hughes is a piece of shit who deserves what's coming."
"But not that you're blackmailing me."
"Would you prefer I told them?" His head tilts slightly, a smirk curving his lips. "Phoenix would try to white knight you. Rafael is a wildcard, but he'd likely do the same. Would that be better? Or worse?"
"Worse," I mutter. "So we're lying to them."
"We're compartmentalizing information."
"Fine," I say, pulling out my phone and hitting record. "But if we're lying to them, we're doing it my way. I won't hurt Phoenix or Rafael. They don't become collateral damage in your war."
His eye narrows at the phone. "Don't record me."
"Hey. You have your insurance. I'm building mine. Every meeting, every threat—it all gets recorded. Mutually assured destruction works both ways, Rex."
He blows a puff of air through his nose and pushes off from the desk. "How did Steve take the news?"
The nickname drips with venom, and I remember reading during one of my nights spent feverishly Googling that Stephen was once the manager for Vespyr. Between Stephen's ego and Rex's… Rexness, it's not a surprise it went to shit. In record time, too, according to what I found.
I pointedly show him my phone screen. At least twenty missed calls from Stephen. Twelve from Jake. Three from Mike. Even Ethan had tried calling once, which for him is basically a mental breakdown.
"My lawyer handled it," I say, putting the phone back on the desk so it can keep recording the conversation.
"Cited creative differences and mental health concerns.
Apparently even Stephen can't fight that without looking like a massive dick and getting into shit with other managers, at least not without due legal process. "
"He is a massive dick."
"No argument there."
Rex stares at me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning in that frigid blue stare. "And you know what you are? Cardboard."
"Excuse me?"
"A cardboard cutout. Flat. Soulless. An industry clone manufactured in Stephen's factory, completely devoid of actual substance."
"Fuck you," I grit out.
"Save it for the music." He opens the door, gesturing for me to go first.
The main recording space is bigger than I expected, with high ceilings that make the psychedelic murals seem to breathe and pulse. Phoenix is behind a massive drum kit, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers.
And then there's Rafael.
He's leaning against his bass, and every inch of him screams rock god, just like before.
His muscular, tatted arms are on full display and his pitch black hair falls in perfect waves despite being tousled, like he just rolled out of bed.
His dark eyes find mine, and there's even more curiosity in them than the last time I saw him, like he's trying to figure out what I'm made of.
Or why I'm here.
"So you actually showed," he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Wasn't expecting that."
"That makes two of us," I say flatly.
"Enough chitchat," Rex cuts in, picking up his guitar. "Cardboard, you know the material I sent you?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Answer the question."
I clench my teeth. "Yes, I know the material."
"Then prove it." He starts tuning his guitar with aggressive precision. "We'll start with 'Flesh.'"
Of course we will. Of all the songs Rex sent me—and there were dozens—he picks the one that's basically three minutes of thinly veiled sexual aggression wrapped in power chords.
And I know he still wants me to go through The Reverie's repertoire at some point to see if any of it's stolen. But I guess that's going to have to wait, and I'm not exactly eager to remind him.
Phoenix counts us in, and I grab the mic, letting the opening notes wash over me. The lyrics are burned into my brain from two weeks of obsessive practice, not wanting to give Rex an excuse to claim I’m sabotaging shit on purpose.
"Taste of copper in my teeth—"
"Stop." Rex's voice slices through the music like a guillotine. "What the fuck was that?"
"The song you told me to learn," I grit out.
"That's not singing, that's reciting." He sets down his guitar and stalks toward me, and I have to actively fight not to back up. "Do you even understand what this song is about?"
"It's pretty fucking obvious."
"Is it?" He's in my space now, close enough that I can see my reflection in his visible eye. "This song is about want. Raw, desperate, carnal need. The kind that makes you want to tear someone apart just to get closer. And you're singing it like it's a grocery list."