Chapter 8 – Bells
BELLS
Exactly on the hour.
Like Carmine Caruso has been standing in the lobby with his finger hovering over the button, waiting for the second hand to hit twelve.
A man after Rex's heart, I think, watching Rex cross to the intercom with something that might be grudging approval in the set of his shoulders.
"Caruso," Rex says flatly into the speaker.
"Steele. Punctual as promised."
Rex buzzes him up without another word.
The four of us have arranged ourselves in the living room with varying degrees of casual professionalism.
Phoenix is on the sectional, freshly showered with his blond hair still damp, wearing a black button-up that makes him look almost tame.
Rafael is wearing dark jeans and a burgundy henley, his kraken tattoo visible where he's rolled the sleeves to his elbows.
He's positioned himself on the opposite end of the couch from Phoenix, the space between them feeling strangely deliberate.
Have they still not addressed what happened between them during my heat?
I've claimed my floor pillow again because old habits die hard and sitting lower than everyone else gives me a weird sense of control. Like I'm watching the room from a strategic vantage point instead of just being too small for furniture built for giant alphas.
Rex stands by the window, arms crossed, mask firmly in place. He hasn't said more than ten words since the email discussion this morning, but his presence fills the room like smoke.
The elevator dings. Footsteps in the hallway.
Then Carmine Caruso walks through our door, and I immediately understand why Meridian picked him.
He's in his late thirties, maybe early forties, with silver threading through dark hair cut in the most quintessentially corporate style I’ve ever seen. He moves like someone who's spent decades walking into rooms full of difficult artists and walking out with exactly what he came for.
"Mr. Steele." He extends a hand toward Rex first. Rex stares at the hand for a long moment before shaking it once, firmly, and dropping it like it burned him.
"Phoenix. Rafael." Carmine moves through the room, shaking hands, making eye contact, projecting the kind of easy confidence that comes from knowing exactly what he's doing. "And Bells. I've heard a lot about you."
"Good things, I hope," I say, shaking his hand.
"Interesting things." His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary. "Your transition from The Reverie has generated quite a bit of industry chatter. People are curious about the mysterious new voice of Vespyr."
"Just keeping them on their toes."
"A valuable skill in this business."
He settles into the armchair across from the sectional, declining Phoenix's offer of coffee with a brief headshake. His briefcase opens with a soft click, revealing a tablet and several folders organized with color-coded tabs.
This guy doesn't fuck around.
"I'll be direct," Carmine says, pulling out the tablet and setting it on the coffee table. "You don't want me here. I understand that. No band wants a label-appointed overseer breathing down their neck during what should be a creative process."
Rex blows a puff of air through his nose.
"But here's the reality." Carmine leans back, hands folded over one knee.
"Meridian is investing significant resources into this comeback tour.
They need assurance that investment will pay off.
My job isn't to control your artistic vision or tell you what to sing.
My job is to make sure the tour actually happens, that it runs smoothly, and that everyone makes money. Including you."
"How reassuring," Rex says flatly.
"It should be." Carmine doesn't rise to the bait.
"I've been doing this for twenty-three years.
I've worked with artists who make you look like the picture of mental stability, Mr. Steele.
I've talked musicians off ledges, literal and metaphorical.
I've rebuilt careers after public meltdowns that would've destroyed anyone else.
I'm not here to be your friend or your therapist. I'm here to do a job, and I'm very good at it. "
The room goes quiet.
I watch Rex process this, watch his jaw work beneath the mask. He doesn't like being managed. Doesn't like anyone having authority over him or his band. But there's something about Carmine's directness—the complete absence of bullshit or pretense—that seems to hit differently than I expected.
"So," Carmine continues, pulling up something on his tablet. "Let's talk logistics."
What follows is the most organized band meeting I've ever witnessed.
Carmine has done his homework. And by homework, I mean he's essentially written a dissertation on Vespyr's entire history. All the way from the early days of Rex and Nash building the band from nothing, through the rotating lineup of vocalists, the tragedy of Nash's death, the hiatus that followed.
He knows about Stephen Hughes and the falling out, though he's careful not to dig into specifics. He knows about The Reverie and my departure, framing it neutrally as "creative differences" without pressing for details.
He even knows about the rumors surrounding Nash's songwriting and how some industry insiders have whispered that certain Reverie tracks sound suspiciously similar to unreleased Vespyr material.
"That's being looked into," is all Rex says when Carmine mentions it.
Carmine moves on smoothly.
"Venue sizes first," he says, swiping through his tablet. "Meridian wants to start with regular bookings at mid-sized venues and scale up based on ticket demand. Conservative approach, but it protects against the embarrassment of half-empty arenas while building momentum."
"We'll fill arenas," Rex says in a flat tone.
Carmine meets his eye without flinching.
"The last time Vespyr went on a real tour, Nash was alive and you had a different vocalist. The fanbase has been dormant for over a year.
Bells is an unknown quantity to most of your audience.
Starting smaller and scaling up looks like organic growth.
Starting big and scaling down looks like failure. "
I hate that he's right.
"The tour arc," Carmine continues, pulling up a map on his tablet.
"West Coast first. Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, LA.
Then across the southern states to build momentum before hitting the major markets.
Chicago, New York, Boston. Eighteen cities total, with options to add dates if demand warrants. "
Rafael whistles low. "That's a brutal pace."
"It's an efficient pace," Carmine corrects. "Momentum matters in comeback tours. You want to hit fast and hard before the initial buzz fades. Drag it out too long and people lose interest."
He swipes to another screen. "Setlist structure.
Meridian wants a mix of catalog favorites and new material.
The ratio's up to you, but I'd recommend front-loading with songs people already know—build trust, prove you still have it—before introducing the newer tracks.
I need to see what works, what the chemistry looks like, how the songs translate live with your current lineup. "
He says your current lineup like it's a neutral observation, but I catch the implication.
Bells is new.
Bells is untested.
Bells could be a liability.
I resist the urge to bristle.
"Merch strategy," Carmine continues, flipping to another folder. "Standard tour packages. Shirts, hoodies, posters, limited-edition vinyl. But I want to talk about masks."
That gets everyone's attention.
My eyes flick to Rex. Oh fucking boy.
"Vespyr's mask aesthetic is a significant part of the brand identity," Carmine says, pulling out what looks like mockup designs.
"There's an opportunity here for exclusive tour merchandise.
Replica masks, maybe even customizable options where fans can design their own.
The engagement potential is substantial. "
"The masks aren't merchandise," Rex says, and his voice has gone cold enough to freeze oxygen. "They're not a brand identity. They're—"
He stops. Jaw tight. Eye burning with something that goes deeper than anger.
"They're personal," I finish, and Rex's gaze snaps to me. "Not a gimmick. If you're going to sell replica masks, they need to be clearly differentiated from what the band wears on stage. Inspired by our masks, not imitations of them."
Carmine studies me for a long moment. Then he nods.
"Fair point. We'll workshop the designs with that in mind." He makes a note on his tablet. "Moving on. Media training."
"No," Rex says immediately.
"This isn't optional."
"I don't do interviews."
"You will for this tour." Carmine's voice stays level, but there's steel underneath. "Meridian has already booked preliminary press. The whole band participates. That's non-negotiable."
The silence that follows is fucking thick.
I watch the tension coil through Rex's shoulders, his spine, every line of his body screaming that he wants to tell Carmine exactly where he can shove half these plans.
But he doesn't.
He just breathes. Once. Twice.
"Fine," he grits out.
Phoenix's eyebrows climb toward his hairline and Rafael looks like someone just told him pigs have learned to fly. I'm pretty sure my own expression mirrors theirs, but I keep it together somehow.
Rex just agreed to do press. Rex—who hasn't given an interview in years, who treats journalists like disease vectors, who would rather chew broken glass than answer questions about his personal life—just said fine.
What the fuck.
Carmine either doesn't notice the seismic shift or is too professional to acknowledge it.
"Good. I'll send over some standard interview prep materials.
Common questions, suggested talking points, topics to avoid.
The goal is to seem accessible without actually revealing anything you don't want public. "
Sounds like my entire existence.
Business as fucking usual.