Chapter 23 – BELLS
Chapter
Twenty-Three
BELLS
The dress code said "business casual," but Rafael's interpretation of that phrase apparently means "vampiric funeral director who might seduce you before draining your blood."
He stands in front of the full-length mirror in Phoenix's room, adjusting his black silk shirt for the third time.
The fabric catches the light like oil slicks on water, fitted close enough to show off the lines of his torso without being obscene.
Black slacks, perfectly tailored. Dress shoes polished to a mirror shine.
His kraken tattoo peeks out from where he's rolled his sleeves to his elbows.
"You look fine," Phoenix says from where he's sprawled across his bed, already dressed in his own version of business casual goth—black button-up with the sleeves rolled up, charcoal slacks, and boots that somehow manage to be both formal and ready to kick someone's ass.
"I look like I'm about to officiate a wedding in hell," Rafael mutters, but he's grinning as he says it.
I hover near the doorway, tugging at my own outfit.
All white from the slacks to the button-up.
Phoenix picked up an order of clothes for me a few days ago since I still don't feel totally safe going to shopping malls.
For the most part, all I do is go back and forth to the studio for lighter rehearsals than usual since Rex's hospital stay.
I always ride with Raf and Phoenix, since the one time I rode with Rex, he was dead silent the entire time.
Rex has been even more aloof than usual lately, and that's saying something. Somehow, even though we all live together, I almost never see him outside the studio. Ever since we went to the stone tower to have my face squished and measured for a mask, Rex has been avoiding me like the plague.
If I didn't know better, I really would think he's jealous.
This is actually my first adventure out since going to the stone tower and almost getting eaten by a gigantic tiger named Cheeto. Hopefully, it isn't an adventure I end up regretting.
"You clean up nice," Phoenix says, catching my reflection in the mirror. His smile is warm, genuine, the kind that makes his whole face light up.
"Thanks." I shift my weight, awkward about the compliment. "Are we sure about this? Industry parties are just... people standing around pretending they like each other."
"Exactly," Rafael says, finally stepping away from the mirror. "Which is why we need to make an appearance. Network, schmooze, remind people Vespyr still exists despite our lead guitarist being a reclusive asshole who refuses to leave the penthouse."
Rex had declined the invitation immediately, of course. Not that anyone was surprised. The idea of Rex Steele at a crowded party full of industry vultures was laughable. He'd probably set the building on fire just to have an excuse to leave.
"Plus, free seafood," Phoenix adds, because of course that's his priority. "Fancy free seafood."
Rafael grabs his keys from the dresser. "And alcohol. Expensive alcohol we didn't have to pay for."
"Sold," I mutter, even though my stomach is already twisting itself into knots.
The venue is downtown, one of those converted warehouses that's been gentrified into a bougie "art space" but still has exposed brick and industrial lighting.
The kind of place that tries too hard to look effortless.
I hear the bass thumping from half a block away, vibrating through the rain-soaked pavement.
Rafael hands our names to the woman at the door. She scans her tablet, nods, and waves us through without a second glance.
Inside is exactly what I expected. Too many people crammed into not enough space, everyone dressed in various interpretations of "business casual" that range from actual suits to what looks like pajamas with expensive shoes.
The lighting is dim, atmospheric, hiding how dingy and…
strangely sticky the space actually is under all the Instagram filters.
And the smell.
Alphas and betas all mixed together—no omegas, we were explicitly barred from entry for "safety reasons"—their scents layered and competing, made worse by perfume and cologne and the underlying funk of too many bodies in one space.
My suppressants should handle it just fine, but I still feel my omega instincts twitch uncomfortably at the sensory overload.
I scan the crowd reflexively, looking for prematurely gray hair, for that predatory stance Stephen always carries.
But he's not here. Can't be here. Rafael checked, and I double-checked just to be sure.
Stephen's still in the hospital, face held together with pins and surgical wire, recovering from what Rex did to him.
The problem is, the alpha I'm really afraid to run into could be anyone.
He was wearing a fucking balaclava over his entire head.
Hell, his name might even not be Bryan at all.
And if my stalker sent those roses to Rex's penthouse, he knows where I live.
Knows I left The Reverie. Knows everything about my movements.
And parties like this are exactly where obsessed fans show up uninvited.
What's annoying is I'd feel marginally better if Rex were here. Would I be in a worse mood? Yes. Would I feel like he'd turn someone inside out if they fucked with me? Also yes.
Even if it's clearly coming from a place of irritating alpha chivalry.
"Bells?" Phoenix's voice cuts through my spiral. His huge warm hand lands on my shoulder. "You good?"
"Yeah." I force a smile. "Just... crowds."
"We can leave whenever you want," he says immediately, those soft blue eyes searching my face. "Just say the word."
Rafael's already disappeared into the throng, probably hunting down whoever's in charge of the bar.
Phoenix stays close to me as we navigate through clusters of industry people.
I catch snippets of conversation—label politics, tour gossip, who's fucking who and who's about to get dropped from their contract.
Standard industry bullshit.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes. Phoenix snags two, handing one to me.
"To surviving another week without Rex murdering anyone," he says, raising his glass.
I tap mine against his. "To low bars and lower expectations."
The champagne is good. Too good. The kind that goes down smooth and hits hard about ten minutes later. I sip it slowly, hyperaware of every alpha in my peripheral vision, every movement that could be someone approaching from behind.
Rafael reappears with three shot glasses balanced between his fingers. "Tequila," he announces. "Champagne is for cowards."
"I'm driving," Phoenix protests.
"More for us." Rafael offers one to me. "Bells?"
Mixing that kind of hard alcohol with suppressants is a terrible idea, and I can't exactly sip it. But Raf and Phoenix have no clue I'm an omega, so I take the shot from him anyway, deciding I'll find a way to get rid of it when he's distracted. Which is fortunately often.
Sure enough, he and Phoenix get drinking and talking, and I get the chance to get rid of my tequila without them noticing. Even if I wasn’t on suppressants, as much as I like Raf, I have rules about taking drinks from alphas at parties.
The only reason I accepted the champagne was because I saw Phoenix grab it off a tray, and he isn’t exactly a smooth sleight-of-hand magician. Common drinks at parties like these are typically safe. Safe enough that avoiding them entirely would be flat out paranoid.
And I’m trying not to let myself go that far.
We drift through the party like ghosts. Phoenix gets pulled into a conversation with some producer who wants to talk about drum techniques. Rafael schmoozes with a journalist who's writing a piece on the Seattle rock scene. I hover on the edges, nursing my champagne, watching.
Always watching.
That's when I see him.
Not Stephen. Not my stalker. But Jake from my old band, standing near the bar with a woman I don't recognize. He's laughing at something she said, oozing alpha confidence and easy charm, completely at ease in a way I've never been able to manage. I notice Mike beside him a moment later.
Our eyes meet across the room.
Jake's expression shutters immediately, that easy smile dropping into something harder. He says something to Mike, then starts making his way through the crowd toward me.
Fuck.
"Bells." Jake's voice when he reaches me is carefully neutral. Not quite hostile, but definitely not friendly. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Could say the same." I take another sip of champagne, using it as a shield.
His jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, and I catch a whiff of his scent—pine and something sharper, aggressive. Alpha through and through. "Stephen's still in the hospital, you know. Multiple surgeries. They're not sure if his face will ever look normal again."
The implied accusation hangs between us. This is your fault. You and your new psycho bandmate.
"He attacked me," I say flatly. "Rex defended me. That's what happened."
"Is it?" Jake leans in slightly, voice dropping. "Or did you orchestrate the whole thing? Get in with Vespyr, use Rex Steele's reputation for violence to get rid of Stephen and his contracts?"
I laugh. Actually laugh, because the idea is so fucking absurd. "You think I wanted any of this?"
"I don't know what to think about you anymore, Bells." His eyes scan my face like he's trying to find the person he thought he knew. "You leave without warning, join our biggest competition, and suddenly Stephen's in the hospital with his face caved in. It's suspicious as fuck."
"Suspicious or not, it's what happened." I finish my champagne in one long swallow, the alcohol warming my throat. "Now if you'll excuse me—"
Jake's hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop me from walking away. "We were friends, Bells. Or at least I thought we were. You owe me more than this bullshit non-explanation."