Chapter 14 – Phoenix
PHOENIX
Rafael passed out around four, his head tipped back against the couch cushions, snoring softly in a way he'd deny if I ever mentioned it. I should be sleeping too. Should've crashed hours ago when my body started screaming for rest and my eyes started burning from staring at screens.
But every time I close my eyes, I see that photo.
Rex's face. The real one, not the mask he's hidden behind for as long as I've known him. The extent of the damage laid bare in fluorescent lights.
I scroll past another comment and immediately regret it.
whoever pulled him out of the wreck should be sued tbh, death would have been better
My thumb hovers over the reply button. I could say something. Could defend him, could tell these anonymous assholes that Rex is more than the sum of his scars, that he's brilliant and complicated and hurting and they're making it worse.
But what's the point?
There are thousands of them. Millions, maybe. The photo has spread faster than wildfire, jumping from platform to platform, spawning memes and reaction videos and think pieces about "the real face behind the mask."
I keep scrolling anyway. Masochistic habit I can't seem to break.
Not all of it is bad. That's the thing that keeps me from throwing my phone across the room.
this changes nothing for me. still love their music. still going to the tour.
y'all are cruel as fuck. the man was in a car accident as a teenager. show some basic human decency
honestly?? this makes me respect him MORE. imagine building that career while dealing with this
And then there are the... other comments. The ones I wasn't expecting.
not me developing a new type watching a man play guitar with half a face
damaged kings deserve love too, just saying
would still let him [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]
I blink at that last one, then scroll past it quickly before my brain can fully process the explicit imagery. People are weird. The internet is weird. Everything about this situation is weird.
The timestamp on my phone ticks over to 4:17 AM.
Still no Rex.
Still no Bells.
The only thing keeping me sane is the knowledge that at least they’re here in the apartment and not out there where we have no way of reaching either of them.
I keep replaying the moment Bells climbed out of my car and disappeared into the rain. The look in her eyes. The certainty in her voice when she said I'll find him.
How did she know where to go?
I've known Rex for years. Years. And I had no idea he visited Nash's grave.
He's the king of being in denial, which is the only reason he still doesn't seem to suspect Bells is his scent match.
I'm shocked he'll go anywhere near the cemetery at all.
Sometimes it's almost like he thinks Nash will walk in through the door again, whole and alive and smiling and breathing.
But Bells knew. Or figured it out.
Or... something.
The "something" is what keeps nagging at me. This sense that there's a piece of the puzzle I'm missing, some connection between them that goes deeper than blackmail and band dynamics and whatever the hell they've been doing for the past few weeks.
Rafael shifts beside me, mumbling something in his sleep. His arm slides off the back of the couch and lands on my thigh.
I don't move it.
That's new, too. This comfort with casual contact that would've felt weird a month ago. But after everything that happened at the hotel, nothing feels weird anymore.
Or maybe everything does, and I've just gone fucking numb to it.
Raf's door creaks open.
I'm on my feet before conscious thought catches up, phone clattering to the coffee table, heart hammering against my ribs. Rafael startles awake with a snort.
"What the fuck Phoenix?"
Rex and Bells round the corner.
They're…
They're handcuffed together.
Fuzzy black handcuffs connect Rex's left wrist to Bells's right, a thin chain between them that clinks with every step.
Bells is still wearing Rex's hoodie and sweats, her white hair a tangled mess, dark circles under her eyes.
Rex's clothes are so rumpled he must have picked them up off the floor, and he's dragging his feet as he walks, pale and completely drained from exhaustion.
"I can explain," Bells says, at the same moment Rex mutters, "Don't ask."
Rafael appears at my shoulder, takes one look at the handcuffs, and makes a sound like a dying seal.
"Are those—" He squints. "Are those my fuzzy handcuffs?"
Bells looks slightly embarrassed. "Maybe."
"Why do you have fuzzy handcuffs?" Rex asks Raf, voice flat.
"Why do you want to know?" Rafael counters.
Rex's lip curls.
"They were in your nightstand," Bells interrupts before they can start fighting again. "Next to the vampire romance novels."
Rafael's face cycles through every emotion known to man.
"Can we just." I hold up both hands, trying to get a grip on the situation before it spirals further into stupidity. "Can we just focus on the fact that you're both okay? And maybe explain why you're literally attached to each other?"
The living room goes quiet.
Rex and Bells exchange a stiff glance.
"He's a flight risk," Bells says, holding up her hand and lifting Rex's automatically with it. It's completely limp and floppy, like he thinks if he doesn't try to fight her at all, it'll be less embarrassing somehow.
"You could have just... asked him to stay?" I ask.
"Have you met Rex?" she asks pointedly.
Rex rolls his eye.
Fair point.
I watch them shuffle further into the living room, moving in awkward tandem because the chain between them only stretches about two feet. Bells steers them toward the couch, and Rex follows with the resigned air of someone who's given up fighting.
He looks terrible.
Not just tired. He's hollowed out. Like someone reached into his chest and scooped out everything that made him Rex, leaving behind just the shell.
He saw the comments. He must have. Before he turned off his phone, before he disappeared to the cemetery, he saw what the world is saying about him. There's no way he didn't.
I feel like I'm going to be sick. Or punch someone. Can you punch everyone on the internet? Is there a service for that? Maybe I should check with fucking management.
"I'll make coffee," I say hoarsely, because I need to do something with this energy before I put my fist through a wall. "And breakfast. Rex, you look like death. No offense."
"I'm not hungry," Rex says automatically.
"Wasn't asking."
I head for the kitchen before he can argue. The familiar routine of measuring grounds and filling the reservoir helps settle my nerves. Water boiling. Beans grinding. The rich smell of coffee slowly filling the space.
Behind me, I hear Rafael asking something in a low voice. Bells responding. The soft clink of the handcuff chain.
I pull out eggs, bacon, bread for toast. Crack twelve eggs into a bowl and start whisking furiously.
Furiously enough I completely fucking dissociate.
The eggs are scrambled perfectly. Golden, fluffy, with just enough butter to make them rich without being greasy.
The bacon is crisp at the edges, still slightly chewy in the middle, exactly how Rafael likes it.
Toast is buttered and stacked. Coffee is poured into mismatched mugs that somehow all ended up in our cabinet over the years.
I don't remember doing any of it.
My hands moved on autopilot while my brain churned through the same loop it's been stuck on for hours. The photo. The comments. Rex's face. Bells disappearing into the rain. The fuzzy handcuffs.
The fucking fuzzy handcuffs.
Does Raf like to be tied up? Shit, I would… uh… yeah. Better put that out of my fucking head before I get hard in my sweats and everyone notices when I carry breakfast out.
Fuck. Too late.
I do my best to adjust my pants, load everything onto a tray, and carry it out to the living room.
Rafael has claimed the armchair, one leg thrown over the arm, doomscrolling through his phone with his jaw tight and his hair artfully disheveled.
Bells and Rex are on the couch. Still handcuffed. Bells has tucked her legs underneath her, curled into the corner cushion with Rex's hoodie pulled down over her knees.
Rex is sitting upright next to her, technically. But he's just... there. Occupying space. His single visible eye is half-lidded, unfocused, staring at nothing in particular.
I've never seen him like this. Not even after Nash died. Not after any of the shit that's gone down over the years. Rex Steele doesn't do defeated. He does furious. He does cold, controlled, ready to dump kerosene on the world and light the match if it looks at him wrong.
This is not fucking good.
"Food's ready," I announce, setting the tray on the coffee table.
Rafael looks up from his phone, eyebrows climbing. "Did you make enough for a small army?"
"Protein, Raf. Have some." I shove a slice of bacon in his mouth to shut him up.
Bells is already reaching for one, her free hand snagging a fork while her cuffed hand stays awkwardly in her lap. The chain clinks as she moves.
"Rex." I push a plate toward him. "Eat. Please. At least have some fucking toast."
He doesn't move.
"Rex."
Nothing.
I put the plate in his lap and he just sits there like he's completely dead inside.
He's never eaten around us, but I guess I was hoping he would change his mind now that we know why.
The side of his mouth is torn. Most of his cheek is gone.
But we know now. He doesn't need to try to hide it anymore.
The problem is, I have no idea how to say that.
And if I tried, he would be fucking furious with me.
All I can do is hope that whatever's happening between Bells and Rex is enough to get him through this. Because right now, it feels like she might be the only thing that can.