Chapter 22 – Bells
BELLS
Rex is standing by the car, keys in his fist, staring at the driver's side like it's a loaded weapon he isn't sure how to pick up.
His jaw is tight beneath the mask. That single visible eye has the flat, distant quality I've learned to recognize as Rex is terrified but would rather eat glass than admit it.
Tonight we rehearse the unmasking stunt for the first time. In front of Carmine. In front of Phoenix and Rafael. In front of everyone.
Me.
But first, we have to pick up the mask.
Which means driving.
"Give me the keys," I say.
Rex's eye snaps to me. "What?"
"You look like you're about to stroke out. I'll drive."
He doesn't move. Doesn't hand them over. His fingers tighten around the keyring and his gaze drops to my outstretched palm, then back to my face, and I watch something change in his expression.
Not suspicion. Not even the usual Rex-brand hostility.
Fear.
And it clicks.
Oh.
It's not a girls can't drive thing. Rex has never once pulled that card on me. For all his many, many flaws, he's never been a misogynist.
Rex is an equal-opportunity dick.
This is because of the accident that claimed half his face, which is already on his mind constantly, and I'm sure that's dialed up to fucking eleven considering the stunt we'll be rehearsing tonight.
"I'm a good driver," I add quietly. "Never had an accident."
Rex stares at the keys in his hand. The seconds stretch.
Then he tosses them to me.
I catch them one-handed. "Thanks."
He doesn't respond, but his hand hovers near the driver's door handle. He glances at me, then at the door, then back at me. Like he's trying to figure out if he should still open it for me even though I'm driving.
I snort. "Get in the car, Rex."
He gets in the car.
The seat's pushed all the way back for his stupidly long legs, which means I can barely reach the pedals. I spend thirty seconds adjusting everything—seat, mirrors, steering column—while Rex sits rigid in the passenger seat, folded because he doesn't even think to fix his seat, or he doesn't care.
I pull out of the parking garage smooth and easy. Signal. Check mirrors. Merge.
Rex's jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.
"You can breathe," I offer. "I've been told it helps."
"I'm breathing."
"You're not."
He exhales through his nose. Long and controlled, like he's doing some kind of combat breathing exercise. His hands are pressed to his thighs. Every time I change lanes, his fingers dig into the fabric of his jeans.
I don't take it personally.
I drive exactly the speed limit. Use my signals. Leave plenty of following distance. Brake gently. It's the most boring, responsible driving I've ever done in my life, and I've driven for old ladies at charity events.
By the time we hit the foggy forest road leading to the tower, Rex's death grip has loosened. Fractionally. His fingers are still tense, but they're resting on his thighs now instead of trying to bore through them.
"I was sixteen," he says, his voice quiet and detached.
It takes every inch of my focus to not visibly react and startle him into thinking we're going to go off the road.
We've never discussed this before.
I don't say anything. I'm afraid if I do, he'll stop talking.
"It was a day like this," he continues, almost murmuring, staring straight ahead at the winding forest road. "Misty. Foggy. Typical. We were out on a joyride, Nash and me. Nash was driving."
I wait, barely daring to breathe.
"Another driver ran a red light. Nash couldn't have seen it coming.
He was speeding, and maybe that was part of it.
Maybe it wasn't." He takes a long breath to steady himself and slowly exhales through his nose.
"He veered and lost control of the car. We went off the road and into the woods.
The car wrapped around a tree. Nash… Nash was never the same. Mentally. Emotionally. And I…"
Rex never finishes the sentence.
The fog thickens around us and I drive in silence, navigating the curves carefully, giving him nothing but steady hands and a quiet car and the absence of pressure.
After a full minute, Rex exhales and his head tips back against the headrest.
"I don't know why I told you that," he mutters.
"Because I'm driving and you can't escape?"
He blows a puff of air through his nose, and for a moment, I think I've gotten through to the old Rex.
The normal Rex.
But then he goes quiet again. Long enough that I think I've lost him to whatever dark place he goes when the walls slam back down.
"You're going thirty."
His voice is flat. Stripped of everything. But he said it, which means he's here, in this car, on this road, noticing the speedometer instead of whatever terrible memories are playing behind his eyes.
"I know," I say.
"Limit's forty-five. You don't have to go thirty."
"I know that too."
He doesn't push it. Just sits there, one hand resting on his thigh instead of gripping it, watching the fog curl between the trees.
It's not much.
But his breathing has evened out, and his shoulders have come down from his ears, and when I take the next curve he doesn't brace against the door.
"I really don't know why I told you that," he mutters again, quieter this time.
Like he's still turning it over. Trying to find the angle, the trap, the reason.
Because Rex doesn't do anything without a reason, and the idea that he might have said it simply because he wanted to must be fucking terrifying for him.
"Okay," I say.
He looks at me. "That's it? Okay?"
"What do you want me to say, Rex?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw works beneath the mask and he turns back to the windshield.
"Nothing," he says. "I don't want you to say anything."
"Good. Because I wasn't going to. I'm happy we're bonding."
His visible eye narrows.
I shoot him a grin. "Best friends." I pat his arm.
"Eyes on the road," he growls.
"See? Progress."
"What do you fucking mean, progress?"
"You're letting me touch you. Like a feral cat."
He rolls his eye, but he makes the faintest huff sound. Close enough to a laugh that it gives me the freaking butterflies because I'm losing my damn mind. I'd miss it if I wasn't listening for it, and I'm always listening for it, which is a problem I'll deal with another day.
We drive the rest of the way in silence. But it's a different silence than the one we started with. Lighter, somehow. Like something that had been held too tight finally loosened its grip, just enough to let the blood flow back in.
The stone tower materializes through the fog. I park in the muddy clearing, kill the engine, and look at Rex.
He's staring straight ahead. That hollow look is creeping in around the edges again. The one that means he's already projecting forward to tonight, to the stunt, to the moment when his mask comes off in front of people and he has to trust that the prosthetic underneath will hold.
"You coming in?" I ask.
"No."
I expected that. But I didn't expect his usual flat tone to be totally devoid of even a drop of venom. It was short and brusque, but not as short and brusque as it could've been.
Definitely progress.
Yay.
"Okay. I'll grab it."
"Thanks," he says, almost under his breath.
Okay.
That makes me stare.
Because Rex just fucking thanked me.
He really isn't doing well.
I leave him in the car without commenting on it and head for the tower door.
Jamie opens it before I knock, which means he was watching from the window. His cottagecore cardigan today is cream with tiny foxes embroidered along the hem, and I almost don't notice they have chickens in their teeth.
Bloody chickens.
"Bells!" He pulls me into a tight, warm, adorably fluffy hug that makes my spine pop. "Just you today?"
"Rex is in the car," I manage. I'd hug him back if I could move my arms. "Sorry. He's… out of it today."
"Ah." Jamie's face softens. He releases me and steps back, bouncing on his toes. "Well. Come up, come up. Everything's ready. Tea?"
"Sure."
I follow him up the spiral staircase. The workshop is warm and smells like leather oil and incense and tiger, which I'm actually beginning to recognize as a kind of skunky popcorny smell.
It's pleasant, and it's a totally useless piece of knowledge considering there isn't an abundance of wild tigers sneaking up on people in Seattle.
Cheeto is in his usual spot on the chaise, his massive head resting on his paws. His ears swivel toward me as I pass, but he doesn't bother to get up.
Cats are cats.
"Where's Orion?" I ask, looking around.
Jamie glances at the hall where the beaded curtain covers the entrance, then flashes me a bright smile that's clearly supposed to be convincing. "Orion is… busy."
I blink. "Did I do something?"
"No!" Jamie says immediately. "No. Not at all. He's just… well… he can be shy."
I raise an eyebrow. "It's not like we're complete strangers."
"Neither are we, and he's avoiding me too," Jamie grumbles, opening the cupboards. I open my mouth to tell him Rex is waiting in the car and I probably shouldn't stay that long, but he's already getting teacups out, so I shut it. "He's had his cock in my ass and it isn't helping any."
A shocked laugh barks out of me before I can stop myself.
Jamie shoots me a look. "Well, it's true."
"Why is he avoiding you?" I ask, clearing my throat when I manage to compose myself.
"He's been in a dark place since the other night," Jamie says, pouring tea from a teapot with cute forest creatures painted on it. I'm relieved the forest creatures aren't eating each other, considering the cardigan. "When he… you know."
He gestures to his own face.
I know what he's talking about. When Orion removed his mask to demonstrate the stunt mask mechanism for Rex. To make him more comfortable with it, I think.
Not that knowing what he means makes it any easier to come up with something to say.
So I just stand there.
Like a dumbass.