Chapter 11 – PHOENIX #2
"Between what? Coming here or having his life destroyed?
" The pieces click together in my head like bullets sliding into a chamber.
The way Bells looked during that phone call with Stephen.
The desperation in his performances. The way he flinches sometimes when Rex gets too close. "What do you have on him?"
"That's between me and him."
"No." The word tears out of me before I can stop it. "No, this is fucked up, Rex. You can't just—you can't force someone into a contract they don't want. That's not justice, that's—Nash wouldn't want this."
Rex goes completely still.
Not the normal stillness of someone processing, but the terrifying stillness that comes right before an explosion.
"What did you just say?" he asks, too calm.
I should back down. Every instinct screams at me to shut up, to let it go, to not poke the nuclear reactor that is Rex's grief. But I think about Bells in that recording booth, bleeding himself dry, and I can't.
"Nash. Wouldn't. Want. This."
Rex moves so fast I barely have time to register it. I catch his wrist, using his momentum to spin him into the wall. The masks makes a sick cracking sound against the concrete, and Rex snarls like a wounded animal.
"Stop it!" Rafael shouts, but neither of us is listening.
Rex drives his elbow back into my ribs, and air whooshes out of my lungs. I let go, gasping, and he whirls on me with murder in his eye. We've fought before—stupid drunken scuffles over creative differences or which venue to book—but this is different.
Rex's fist catches me in the stomach, and I double over, struggling to breathe. But as he moves in for another hit, rage floods through me. Rage for Nash, for Bells, for all of us trapped in Rex's spiral of self-destruction.
I tackle him around the waist, driving us both into the drum kit. Cymbals crash to the floor. Rex is on top of me before I even realize what the fuck just happened. Somehow, I end up on top of him instead with our hands around each other's throats. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
"Enough!" Rafael's voice cuts through the chaos, and suddenly I'm being yanked backward, onto my knees. I collapse forward, gasping and grabbing at my neck as Rafael slams Rex against the wall hard enough to rattle the soundproofing panels.
Rex shoves him back, hard. "This isn't your fucking business—"
"The fuck it isn't." Rafael's fist connects with Rex's ribs with a sound like breaking kindling. "You think you're the only one who lost Nash? You think you have a monopoly on grief?"
Rex swings at him, but Rafael ducks, driving his shoulder into Rex's midsection.
They crash into the mixing board, thousands of dollars of equipment groaning under their combined weight.
Rex gets his hands on Rafael's throat, but Rafael breaks the hold with a move that looks practiced, professional.
Sometimes I forget that before he was a bassist, Rafael was a street fighter.
They separate, both breathing hard. Rex's mask has shifted slightly, revealing a sliver of scarred skin beneath. Rafael's lip is split, blood running down his chin like war paint.
"You're out of control," Rafael says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And you're going to destroy everything Nash built."
"Nash is dead!" Rex roars, and the raw pain in his voice makes my chest ache. "He's dead, and Stephen Hughes killed him."
"Stephen didn't kill Nash. He wasn't even our manager anymore by the time Nash died." My voice comes out rough from the bruises forming on my throat. "Nash killed Nash. With the drugs, with the—"
"Shut up." Rex's voice is pure venom. "Both of you, shut the fuck up."
"Or what?" Rafael spreads his arms wide, a challenge. "You'll fire us? Go ahead. See how well your revenge plan works without a band."
Rex straightens his mask with shaking hands. When he speaks, his voice is arctic. "Get out."
"Rex—" I start.
"Get. Out." Each word is a bullet. "Come back when you remember who keeps this band alive."
"This isn't a band anymore," Rafael says quietly. "It's a fucking hostage situation."
"Then leave." Rex turns his back on us, facing the ruined mixing board. "But if you walk out that door, don't come back. I'll replace you both by tomorrow, pack bonds be damned."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke from a fired gun. Rafael and I look at each other, having one of those silent conversations that only comes from years of playing together. His dark eyes are full of anger, but underneath that, there's resignation.
We both know Rex isn't bluffing. He's insane enough to throw away the only people he has left just to maintain control of his revenge fantasy. Insane enough to risk the excruciating psychological torture of severing our fragile pack bonds.
"This isn't over," I tell Rex's back.
He doesn't respond, just starts picking up the scattered cymbal stands like we're not even there anymore.
Rafael grabs his bass case, and I follow him out of the studio. The hallway feels too bright after the dim recording space, the fluorescent lights harsh enough to make my head pound.
Or maybe that's from the fight.
We don't speak until we're outside, the Seattle rain immediately soaking through our clothes. Rafael lights a cigarette with shaking hands, offers me one. I don't smoke, but I take it anyway, needing something to do with my hands that isn't punching a wall.
"We can't let him do this to Bells," I say finally.
Rafael exhales smoke into the rain. "What are we supposed to fucking do? Rex has whatever he's using as blackmail. Without knowing what it is..."
"We find out."
"And then what? Go to the cops?" Rafael laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Hey officers! Our lead guitarist is blackmailing our new singer into joining our band! Oh, and by the way, we've been complicit in it for a week!"
Yep. We're all fucked. Rex has dragged us into something that could destroy all of us, something that could land us all in fucking prison, and we let him because we were too afraid to lose the band.
The pack.