Chapter 23 – Rafael
RAFAEL
We're all going to fucking die tonight if Bells doesn't give Rex another blowjob.
Rex showed up to the studio two hours ago like a thundercloud in a leather jacket.
Hasn't spoken to anyone. Played the same riff what had to be fifteen times and then slammed his pick hand against the strings hard enough to snap his high E.
When Phoenix tried to hand him a replacement, Rex took it without looking at him and turned his back.
We're rehearsing the unmasking stunt tonight.
In front of Carmine.
For the first time.
Which means Rex has to stand on that stage and let Bells tear his mask off while people watch. Even knowing there's a prosthetic underneath. Even knowing the audience at the real show will see a fake skull, not scars.
So Pleasant Rex has left the building and Stormy Rex is back with a fucking vengeance, and I'm stress-tuning my bass in the back room while Phoenix sits across from me picking nervously at a callus on the side of his thumb.
"He broke a string," Phoenix says.
"I heard."
"He hasn't broken a string in months."
"I know, Phoenix."
I adjust my tuning peg. The low E hums into pitch and I pluck it twice, letting the note resonate through the body of the instrument and into my ribs. It's grounding. Bass always is for me.
The frequency is too low for bullshit.
"He's scared," I mutter.
"Obviously."
"And when Rex is scared, Rex gets aggressive."
"I know how Rex works, Raf."
"Then stop looking at me like I have answers you don't."
Phoenix slumps back on the couch with a groan, his massive frame making the cushions wheeze.
My eyes linger a little too long.
Then the studio door opens and Bells slips in.
She's in her usual getup with the loose jeans, oversized hoodie with the rabbit ears, combat boots. Binder underneath, prosthetic in place, collar tight around her throat.
The full disguise.
She looks small and sharp and slightly keyed up, which makes two of us.
"Carmine just texted," she says, holding up her phone. "He'll be here in an hour."
My stomach tightens. "Great."
"Where's Rex?" Phoenix asks, sitting up.
Bells hesitates. "I'm, uh. Not sure, actually."
"You're not sure," I repeat flatly.
"He was in the live room ten minutes ago. I went to grab water, came back, and he was gone." She shrugs, but there's a crease between her eyebrows. "His guitar's still there. So's his jacket."
Phoenix is already hauling himself to his feet. "Maybe I should go find him."
"Yeah," I say, meeting his eyes. "Maybe you should."
He nods once and ducks out of the room. Bells and I watch until Phoenix's heavy footsteps echo down the corridor, then fade.
Bells drops onto the couch in the spot Phoenix just vacated and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
I pluck the E string again. Let it vibrate.
"He was fine earlier," Bells murmurs.
"He's not fine tonight."
"Yeah, I got that."
"Whatever you did at the tower—"
"I know." She rubs her face with both hands. "I know."
I watch her sideways. The white hair falling across her fingers. The tension in her shoulders that's usually hidden under swagger and sarcasm.
She's worried about Rex.
Genuinely worried, not performatively worried, and the fact that I can tell the difference means I've been paying way too much attention.
Story of my fucking life lately.
"So," I drawl, adjusting my grip on the bass neck. "Phoenix got a turn."
Bells lifts her head. "Hm?"
"Alone with you." I keep my tone light. "Phoenix got a turn. You and Rex had your tower… thing." I gesture vaguely. "When's mine?"
She stares at me.
Then that grin starts. Slow and wicked, curling up one side of her mouth, her canine peeking out over her lower lip.
"Now?" she asks.
My fingers still on the strings.
She's already uncurling from the couch, shifting toward me, those honey-gold eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse jump.
"You serious?" I manage.
"You asked."
"I was fishing."
"Then you caught something." She's close now. Close enough that I can smell the energy drink on her breath and the faint spice of her scent buried underneath the layers of cologne and blockers. "Reel it in, Raf."
I set the bass down carefully against the arm of the couch. My hands are steady. The rest of me is not.
She crawls into my lap.
Just like that. Knees on either side of my thighs, hands landing on my shoulders, her weight settling against me warm and sure. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt and she tilts her head, studying me from six inches away.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
"You're blushing."
"I am not—"
She kisses me.
Her mouth is warm and tastes like artificial strawberry and chaos. My hands find her hips automatically, pulling her closer, and she makes this soft sound against my lips—satisfied, like she's been waiting for this—that sends a jolt straight down my spine.
I kiss her back.
Really kiss her. One hand sliding up her back, the other gripping her hip, angling my head to deepen it. Her tongue traces my lower lip and I let her in, and the noise I make is embarrassing but I'm past caring. She tugs at my shirt and I tighten my grip on her waist and—
The door bangs open.
"I can't find him any—"
Phoenix freezes in the doorframe.
Bells is straddling me. My hands are on her ass. Our mouths are about an inch apart and both of us are breathing hard.
"Dude," I groan, dropping my head back against the couch. "You are a giant cockblock."
Phoenix's shock dissolves into a wide grin. "That's not what you were saying the other day."
My face goes nuclear.
Bells's eyebrows shoot up. Her gaze swings between me and Phoenix. Back to me. The grin on her face is expanding at an alarming rate.
"You guys...?" she says.
I rub the back of my head. Stare at the ceiling. At the wall. At literally anything that isn't Bells's delighted face or Phoenix's stupid satisfied smirk.
"Maybe," I mutter.
Phoenix is beaming. Full six-foot-six golden retriever, tail-wagging, sunshine-radiating beaming.
Bells looks at him. Looks at me.
"That's fucking hot," she says. "That's fucking hot and I wish I could stick around to hear more about it, but I need to make sure Rex is okay."
"Correction, you need to use your omega powers on him," I say dryly. "The ones you used at the treehouse."
"Dude," she groans. "Don't call it a fucking treehouse."
Phoenix snorts.
"And Rex still doesn't know I'm an omega," Bells reminds us both. She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then aims the spout at me. "So don't say that word too loud, yeah?"
"You're going to have to tell him eventually," Phoenix says in that sing-song voice he uses when he's saying something he isn't sure he should say and doesn't want to get in trouble for it.
Bells drags a hand through her white hair on her way to the door. "Yeah. I know. I'm planning on it tonight."
The door swings shut behind her and the room goes quiet except for the low hum of my amp.
Phoenix crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. Still grinning.
"Stop," I say.
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face is saying plenty."
He pushes off the frame and drops onto the couch beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine. The contact is deliberate. I don't move away.
"So," he says. "Tonight."
"Tonight." I pick up the bass again, more for something to do with my hands than any real desire to play. "She tells Rex he's her scent match, Rex either implodes or transcends, and we rehearse the unmasking for Carmine. In that order, apparently."
"You think Rex can handle both?"
"I think Rex can barely handle one." I run my thumb along the fretboard. "But Bells seems to think she can manage him."
"She managed you pretty quick."
I elbow him in the ribs. He barely flinches. Giant bastard.
"For what it's worth," Phoenix says, quieter now, "I think telling him is the right call. He's been circling around it for weeks. You've seen the way he watches her when he thinks nobody's looking. He knows something is off. He just can't name it."
"And when he can?"
Phoenix is quiet for a beat. His knee bounces once, twice.
"Then we're a full-fledged pack," he says simply. "For real. Not just four people living in the same apartment. Not just a band with loose pack bonds."
The word sits in the air between us.
Pack.
I think about Nash. About the way things used to be before the overdose, before Rex sealed himself inside grief and fury. Four guys who played music because music was the only language that made sense. Nash held us together with gentle hands and a crooked smile and songs that bled.
Now Bells bleeds instead.
Different key.
Same frequency.
"Carmine's going to walk in here and find absolute pandemonium," I say.
"When has he not?"
Fair point.
I lean into Phoenix's shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the solid warmth of him, the steady drumbeat of his pulse through fabric.
Or at least, I intend for it to be for just a second.
Then I kick up my feet on the arm of the couch, pick up my bass, and start tuning again.