Chapter 11 – PHOENIX
Chapter
Eleven
PHOENIX
Seven days of watching Bells tear himself apart and rebuild himself song by song, and I can't stop fucking watching.
It's Tuesday afternoon at Foxhole Studios, and he's in the booth running through "Crimson Throne" for the fifth time because Rex keeps finding microscopic flaws that only exist in his twisted perfectionist brain.
Bells's white hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, lip curling into an irritated sneer and those gold eyes blazing every time Rex stops him mid-verse.
And fuck me, he's… hot.
This isn't supposed to happen. I like women.
Sure, I've noticed when a guy's attractive, appreciated the aesthetics like you'd admire a piece of art.
But this? This burning need to press Bells against the studio wall and find out what sounds he'd make if I bit that leather collar right off his throat?
This is different.
The only other time I've felt anything close to this was with Nash.
Nash, who moved through the world like water where other alphas stomped and demanded. Nash, whose scent was cedar and rain. Nash, who'd slip into my bunk at three in the morning and let me fuck him like he was trying to let me crawl under his skin.
We never put a label on it. Couldn't, really.
Two alphas together isn't exactly widely accepted, even in the rock world where everything's supposedly permitted.
Fucking is one thing, but love? I still don't know if I loved him that way.
And I hate that I thought we had all the time in the world to figure it out.
I haven't been with anyone serious since he died. Just random hookups with women. Safe. Forgettable. Nothing that could rip my heart out of my chest again.
But watching Bells perform is anything but safe.
"Again," Rex commands through the intercom.
Bells's jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised his teeth don't crack.
"That was perfect," I mutter, not really meaning to say it out loud.
Rafael glances at me from where he's sprawled on the couch, one eyebrow raised. "You okay there, big guy? You've been staring at our new frontman like you want to eat him alive."
"Fuck off," I say without heat, but my face burns because he's not wrong. I don't think he knows about me and Nash, but I'm not sure, either.
The thing is, Bells doesn't move like Nash did.
Where Nash was gentle, Bells is all sharp edges and simmering violence beneath the surface.
A white wolf on a leash. He performs like he's fighting for his life, like every note costs him something vital.
It shouldn't be attractive. It shouldn't make me want to protect him and wreck him in equal measure.
But here we are.
"Take five," Rex finally says, and Bells storms out of the booth, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the soundproofing.
"I need air," Bells announces to no one in particular, heading for the balcony that's really just a fire escape someone welded a platform onto.
Rex watches him go with that unreadable expression he's perfected, then turns back to the mixing board like nothing happened.
The mask today is different from any of the others—smooth black leather with a subtle geometric triangle pattern.
A different mask usually means Rex is in an even more piss-poor mood than usual, so Raf and I have both been on edge.
"Why is Bells here?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
Rex doesn't look up from the board. "We needed a singer."
"Bullshit. You hate him. You hate The Reverie. You've spent months talking about how they're everything wrong with the music industry." I stand up, needing to move, needing answers. "So why is Bells of all people suddenly in our band?"
"The label wanted fresh blood," Rex says, voice flat. "Bells's contract with The Reverie was up. It was convenient."
"Since when do you do anything because it's convenient?"
Rex finally looks at me, that single visible eye cold as ice. "Since when do you question my decisions?"
"Since you started making decisions that don't make sense."
The tension in the room ratchets up several notches. Rafael sits up straighter on the couch, muscles tensing like he's ready to intervene if this goes south. It wouldn't be the first time Rex and I have gotten into it, not by a long shot, but something about this feels different.
"Sound check in ten!" The engineer's voice crackles through the intercom, breaking the standoff.
Rex turns away, effectively ending the conversation. "Make sure Bells is ready."
I head for the balcony, needing space from Rex's suffocating presence. The aluminum steps creak as I climb up to the platform. I hate these fucking death stairs, which is why I never come up here, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.
Bells is up here, too, pacing like a caged animal, phone pressed to his ear.
"I already told you, I'm done," he's saying, voice tight with anger. "No, Stephen, you don't get to—" He pauses, his knuckles going white where he's gripping the railing. "That's not how this works anymore. My lawyer will call—yes, I know your lawyer will—you can't just fucking show up—"
He spots me and cuts himself off, ending the call without saying goodbye. "What?"
"Sound check in ten," I say, trying not to let on that I'm curious about what that was about.
Bells shoves his phone in his pocket, and for just a second, I see something crack in his expression. Not fear, exactly, but maybe exhaustion. Then the mask slams back down.
"Fantastic," he mutters, pushing past me toward the stairs.
I watch him go, then pull out my own phone and text Rafael.
[ME: Something's fucked here.]
His response is immediate.
[RAFAEL: No shit. But sometimes with Rex, it's better not to know.]
Maybe he's right. Maybe I should just keep my head down, play my role in the band, pretend everything's normal. But I keep thinking about the way Bells looked during that phone call.
Trapped.
The same way Nash looked near the end.
We make it through sound check without Rex stopping us every thirty seconds, which is a minor miracle.
Bells nails every song, pouring so much emotion into the performance that even the jaded sound engineer looks impressed.
But I can't shake the feeling that we're all standing on the edge of a cliff, and Rex is about to push us over.
"That's a wrap for today," Rex announces after the last song. "Bells, you can go."
Bells doesn't need to be told twice. He's out the door before Rex finishes the sentence, leaving his guitar propped against the amp like he can't get away fast enough.
I wait until I hear the main door slam, then look at Rafael. He nods. He's thinking the same thing I am.
Time for answers.
"Rex," I say, and something in my tone makes him pause. "We need to talk."
"About?"
"Cut the shit," Rafael says, standing up and crossing his arms. "What's really going on with Bells?"
Rex turns slowly, like a snake uncoiling. "I told you. His contract was up—"
"And that's convenient, yeah, we heard." I move to block the door, not that Rex would leave a confrontation, but I want him to know he's not getting out of this conversation. "Now tell us the truth."
Nobody moves.
The studio feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are pressing in. Rex's eye flicks between Rafael and me, calculating. Probably wondering if he can take both of us at once.
Probably deciding he can.
The silence stretches between us like a noose tightening around my throat. Rex's fingers drum against his thigh—once, twice, three times—the only sign he's feeling any pressure at all.
"You want the truth?" His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes people piss themselves. "Fine. Bells built his entire fucking career on Nash's music. On songs Nash bled for, cried over, poured his soul into during those long nights when the demons wouldn't let him sleep."
My stomach drops. "Rex—"
"I don't give a shit if Bells personally stole them or not.
" Rex's visible eye burns with the kind of rage that could level cities.
"He stood on that stage night after night, performing Nash's words like they meant nothing.
Like they were just another product to sell to screaming fans. He needs to pay for that."
"So this is about revenge." Rafael's voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.
"It's about justice." Rex turns to the mixing board, adjusting knobs that don't need adjusting. "Stephen Hughes stole those songs out of Nash's notebooks. I know he did. Probably rifled through Nash's things while his body was still warm, looking for anything he could monetize."
The cold, casual way he talks about Nash's death stings. Like he's completely detached and it's just another fact, not the thing that destroyed all of us.
"And Bells?" I ask, though I already know I won't like the answer.
"Stephen's golden boy." Rex's laugh is bitter. "So I'm taking him. Let Stephen know what it feels like to have something precious ripped away."
"Jesus Christ, Rex." Rafael runs a hand through his dark hair. "How did you even get Bells to agree to this? He walked away from The Reverie at the peak of their success."
Rex doesn't answer immediately, just keeps fucking with the board. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he won't look at either of us.
"You're blackmailing him." Rafael says it like he's stating the weather, not accusing our lead guitarist of a federal crime. "Holy shit, you're actually blackmailing him."
"Don't be dramatic—"
"Am I wrong?" Rafael pushes off from the wall, and suddenly the room feels even smaller. "Look me in the eye and tell me Bells is here of his own free will."
Rex turns slowly, that mask catching the overhead lights like a threat. "He made his choice."