Chapter 21 – Phoenix
PHOENIX
Something is wrong with Rex.
Not wrong-bad.
Wrong-good.
Which is so much more unsettling that I've been bracing for the other shoe to drop for the past seven days.
It started Tuesday. We were running through "Crimson Throne" for the fourth time and I fumbled a fill—nothing major, just a snare hit that landed a sixteenth note early. The kind of mistake that would normally earn me a death glare and a clipped again dripping with contempt.
Rex looked over his shoulder and said, "Close. Try leading with the left."
That's it.
No venom. No snarling. Not even a biting suggestion that I should consider a career in fast food.
Simple feedback.
Helpful feedback.
I nearly dropped a stick.
Wednesday, he asked me to pass him a cable. Said please. I checked his forehead for fever. He swatted my hand away and told me to fuck off, which was comforting, but then he almost smiled and that sent me spiraling again.
Thursday, he brought coffee. For everyone. Set it on the amp without a word and walked away like it was nothing. My cinnamon latte. Rafael's black espresso. Bells's oat milk monstrosity with multiple pumps of sugary pink and crimson syrup that makes it look like unicorn blood.
He remembered our orders.
Now it's Friday, and we're six hours into rehearsal, and Rex just told me my tempo was good.
Rex Steele said the word good about something I did and it wasn't sarcastic.
I'm sitting on the ratty couch in the back room during our break, still processing this, when Bells drops onto the cushion beside me.
"You look like someone told you Santa's real," she says.
I grin at her. "Rex said my tempo was good."
She grins right back. "I heard."
"He's never said anything positive about my drumming. Ever. In the entire time I've known him." I scrub both hands through my hair. "Is he dying? Did Carmine put him on meds? Is this a body-double situation? Should I check for a zipper?"
Bells snorts. "Maybe he's just... being less of an asshole."
"That's what scares me. Especially since he's been 'less of an asshole' since you guys got back from Jamie and Orion's, which is fucking unheard of, by the way. Mask day fucks him up for weeks."
An even wider grin tugs at Bells's lips. "Yeah, well, there might be a reason for that."
"Did you guys…?"
More grinning. "Yeah."
I almost choke. "You fucked at Jamie and Orion's house?"
"Keep it down," she hisses, looking around to see if anyone heard us even though it's just Rex and Raf at the studio right now. "Not… not all the way. Not yet."
"Does he know…?"
"That I'm an omega and his scent match? Nope. Still thinks I'm a beta."
"Are you gonna tell him?"
"Of course. The timing isn't right yet, though," she says, raking a hand through her white hair. It's getting longer, brushing against her shoulders now. She looks more androgynous like this, less boyish, but the binder and swagger make her pass for a guy still. Just… a really pretty guy.
"Fair," I sigh. "And you can still use your omega powers on him in the meantime."
She cackles. "Yeah. Guess we're pretty good at soothing alphas."
"I'm feeling stressed," I try, giving her my best puppy eyes.
"Stressed, huh?"
"Very."
Bells holds my gaze for a beat. Two. Then she swings one leg over both of mine and settles onto my lap.
Just like that.
Casual as anything.
My hands hover uselessly in the air like I've forgotten what arms are for. She's sitting on my thighs, her knees bracketing my hips, her weight warm and solid against my lap.
"Uh." Brilliant. Eloquent. Years of articulate conversation, reduced to a single syllable by a woman in leather pants. "Yeah. Yes. This is—yeah."
"Smooth."
I manage a husky laugh. It's more like a croak. "Shut up."
Her hands land on my chest. Palms flat, fingers spread, pressing into the muscle through my shirt. My breath catches. She feels that, and the thunder of my heartbeat, too. I know she does, because her grin sharpens, her canine teeth poking out over her full lower lip.
Her hands slide down.
Slowly. Over my ribs, my stomach, the soft layer over muscle that I've been mildly self-conscious about since Nash died and stress eating became my primary coping mechanism.
I squirm and start to protest. Some self-deprecating thing about stress eating, probably, the joke I've got pre-loaded for whenever someone gets too close to the parts of me I'm not thrilled about.
"You're so fucking cute," she purrs as if she can read my damn mind, kneading her nails into my extra padding like she's a giant cat. "In a hot way. Obviously."
"Ow, fuck," I grit out. "Why are your nails so sh—"
She just attacks me with a kiss, crushing her lips against mine and shutting me up.
Her mouth is warm. Tastes like energy drink. Is that crazy unicorn coffee a fucking energy drink? No wonder she's charged up all the time. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt at my sides, anchoring herself as she growls into my mouth and nips at me.
Even out of heat, she's fierce.
I kiss her back.
My hands finally remember their function and find her hips. She makes a soft sound against my mouth—approval, encouragement, more—and I pull her closer. Her weight shifts forward until her chest presses against mine and I can feel her heartbeat through both our shirts.
This is different from the hotel. During her heat, everything was desperate, frantic, new. This is just Bells choosing to climb into my lap during a rehearsal break. There's no crisis driving this. She just wants me.
Her tongue traces my lower lip and I groan. One hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her closer. The other drifts down over the curve of her ass in those tight leather pants, along her outer thigh, then back up to the front.
My fingers find the button of her pants.
She pulls back half an inch, breath ghosting across my lips. "Yeah?"
"Fuck yeah."
I pop the button. The zipper takes some convincing—leather pants are not designed for easy access, especially when the person wearing them has curves she's trying to hide—and my hand is too fucking big for the gap I've created.
I shove my fingers past the waistband anyway.
And immediately encounter the silicone cock.
My knuckles press against the smooth, body-warm prosthetic, and I pause.
Bells watches my face with those honey-gold eyes, her grin turning wicked. "Phoenix…" She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. "You obviously don't mind cock. And mine's silicone."
My face catches fire. "That's—I—"
She cackles. Full, delighted, completely evil.
I shove past the prosthetic.
It takes maneuvering. The leather pants leave zero room and my hand is approximately the size of a fucking dinner plate, but I work my fingers alongside the silicone, wedging past it until I feel the fabric of her underwear. Thin cotton, already damp.
Bells's laughter dies in her throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.
I push the underwear aside.
She's wet. Soaked, actually, slick coating my fingertips the second I make contact. Her hips twitch forward, grinding into my hand, and the sound she makes—this quiet, bitten-off whimper that she'd never let escape if she wasn't caught off guard—goes straight to the base of my spine.
"Fuck," she breathes.
"Good?"
"Don't fish for compliments. Just—" She rolls her hips. "There."
I find her clit with my thumb. She shudders. My index finger slides lower, teasing, circling her entrance until her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt.
"Phoenix, I swear to all the gods, if you don't—"
I push two fingers inside her.
Her whole body clenches. Her forehead drops against my shoulder and she exhales hard, her breath hot through the fabric of my shirt. My fingers curl inside her, pressing up, searching for the spot that made her scream at the hotel.
"Right—right there—"
Found it.
I work her slow and deep, my thumb circling her clit while my fingers press and curl. The leather pants creak with every subtle movement. Her hips rock against my hand in tight, controlled rolls. She's trying to stay quiet, trying not to alert Rex and Raf in the next room.
She's failing.
Every few seconds, a sound escapes. A gasp. A bitten-off moan. The kind of noises that would carry through the thin walls if anyone were listening.
Which they probably aren't. Rex's guitar is still going in the main room. Raf's bass rumbles underneath.
But probably isn't definitely and the risk makes everything hotter.
Bells's hand slides down my chest to my belt. Her fingers curl around the buckle.
"Nope." I catch her wrist with my free hand. "This is about you."
I add a third finger.
"Fuck—" She bites down on my shoulder to muffle the sound. Her walls clamp around my fingers and her hips stutter, losing their rhythm. I can feel her getting close. Her breathing fragments, her nails gripping my shirt like she'll fly apart if she lets go.
"That's it," I murmur against her hair. "Come on."
My thumb presses harder against her clit. My fingers curl deep.
Bells comes with a strangled sound buried in my shoulder, her teeth sinking into muscle as her entire body locks up and shakes. I feel her pulse fluttering hard around my fingers and I work her through it, easing up gradually as the aftershocks roll through her.
She goes boneless against my chest.
For a long moment, the only sounds are her ragged breathing and the distant murmur of Rex and Raf still working through the bridge in the other room.
My hand is still wedged in her pants, fingers slick, the silicone cock pressing against my wrist at an angle that's honestly kind of ridiculous and it's cramping my hand enough I might get fucked over for the rest of today's practice.
Worth it.
Bells lifts her head from my shoulder. Her eyes are glazed, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from kissing me.
She looks incredible.
"So," she manages, her voice rough. "Still worried about Rex being nice to you?"
I laugh. Can't help it. The sound rumbles through my chest and she grins against my collarbone.
"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," I say, carefully extracting my hand from the world's tightest leather pants. "Guess I forgot."