21. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
Someone should give me an award. I reached March without making a move on Phoenix St. Pierre.
I should be inducted into the Strength of Will Hall of Fame.
Sure, there have been a hundred and one times I thought about his lips on my lips.
His mouth wrapped around my cock. But inner thoughts don’t count.
I’ve packed away every impulsive bone in my body to grind on this record.
We finished the final studio recording of “Hellbent”—a blood-blistering song about our will to die trying.
That one actually terrorizes my vocal cords, but it made Gage repeat “so sick” and “so dope” about a hundred times.
So I spent the entire night with my steam inhaler and this newfound hope that maybe we’re going to reach the finish line.
Conquering some doubt also made writing the next song easier.
I haven’t been able to shake the mesmeric beat to “Your Epidemic” from my head, even though it makes me want to strangle Phoenix.
Or maybe…him strangle me. We wound up writing about our frustrated, pent-up feelings that’ve been climbing to air-thinning heights.
About how we’ve been burrowing into each other’s skin, slipping into each other’s veins, infecting the bloodstream like a contagion. About the uncertainty of whether we’re killing each other and carving out a tragedy in the end.
Jeremy not so secretly admitted to loving “Your Epidemic” the best, and he said this with an obnoxiously wide, Cheshire Cat grin. He is the cause of this virus between me and Phoenix.
Without him, there would be no partnership. We wouldn’t have a reason to celebrate tonight.
We made it halfway through the album. Six songs written with music composed for each.
“Fire You Feel”
“Nuclear Winter”
“Dirty Rise”
“Territorial”
“Your Epidemic”
“Hellbent”
Once we have the final six songs arranged, we’ll go into the studio to record those. It’s the farthest I’ve ever been in the process, and it makes me want to try harder not to fuck it all up.
That doesn’t mean not celebrating milestones.
I down a Jell-O shot. The consistency makes me gag. “Dude, this thing tastes like curdled milk.”
Phoenix slowly sips his vodka cranberry, watching me double fist the shots. “What did you think it would taste like? It’s congealed Baileys.”
“Forgive me if I like to try new things.” I throw back the second shot into my mouth and crush the plastic container. Did not cringe this time. Small success. I narrow my eyes on his drink. “You are painfully predictable.”
Since we’ve been writing most songs in the back of dive bars, I know Phoenix’s order by heart.
Beer: Guinness. Liquor: vodka cran. He always orders a water bottle with his alcohol, and if we’re standing, he’ll shove it in the ass pocket of his pants.
Like right now, he has an Aquafina sticking out of his dark cargos.
He leans an elbow on the edge of the bar. “I know what I like.” His eyes never detach from mine. “Forgive me.”
Heat rises against the back of my neck. Yeah, he’s flirting. We haven’t exactly quit flirting. It’s fun. It’s harmless, according to Phoenix. And I agree—as long as I can stay strong-willed and not do something stupid.
Red lights bathe his sharp jawline, as if warning me to stop. Do not proceed any farther. I’m afraid it’s doing the inverse. It’s beckoning me to clasp his neck and bring his lips crashing into mine.
Don’t. Don’t.
I tear my gaze off him. It’s Y2K night at The Trench, a popular dance club in the Lower East Side, and the DJ is spinning remixed songs of pop hits from the early 2000s. The bartender passes me my mixed drink: a rum and Fizz.
I exchange the crumpled plastic cups for the new drink and turn to Phoenix. “If you’re asking for forgiveness, only our Lord and Savior, Richard Connor Cobalt, can do that.” My joke twists his face into a grimace, and he takes a heartier swig of his drink.
He hates when I refer to my dad as God. Not that he’s met the man, but I think any reference to my family being celestial makes Phoenix want to drag me by my wings back to planet Earth. Which is fine. I like when he looks like he’s seconds from putting his hands on me.
It urges me to dial it up to twelve. I open my mouth to make another comment, but he says, “Shut the fuck up for five seconds.” He leans over the bar to pass his credit card to the bartender.
“Keep it open,” he tells her, then rotates to me.
“I came here to dance. Not to talk about your dad, nepo baby. This way.” He seizes my wrist and pulls me toward the dance floor.
Holy shit. I hate when he does things like this. Things I’m going to have to root in my memory for later when I’m alone with my hand. Why does the guy who’s off-limits have to be so…much?
Too attractive.
Too unrelenting.
Too unapologetic.
Too much of what I want.
My pulse beats with the jackhammering tempo pumping through the club.
Phoenix trashes his vodka cran and pulls me through the sweaty throngs of bouncing and gyrating bodies.
Behind me, my bodyguard trails like a shadow, but I don’t keep track of him.
Not as my mind fixates on my drummer holding my hand… okay, my wrist. Same thing, right?
When it becomes impossible to shift farther in the pit without elbowing our way through, Phoenix lets go of me. We have just enough space that I can bring my drink to my lips without bumping into anyone.
We’re throwing our heads and bodies into the music, and it’s been clear since I first met him—Phoenix has strong, impeccable rhythm. He might be a pillar, but when the music courses through his body, he is the heady beat.
I ache to move with him on and off the dance floor. The crowd jumps and grinds, getting more animated. The remixes are flaming my lungs. From “Be My Lover” by La Bouche to “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” by Kylie Minogue. These songs—the universe is seriously fucking playing with me.
Not funny.
I should’ve invited Eliot and Luna. Less temptation tonight, but I just thought Phoenix and I are so close to the goal line. Do not need to introduce a powder keg yet. Let’s wait.
I take a bigger swig of rum to cool off. Hair sticks to the sweat building on my forehead, and I slide my fingers through the damp strands, brushing them back.
Phoenix turns to me and cups a hand around my ear. I rotate more toward him. His warm breath shoots electricity through me, and the hard muscles of his chest press against mine. “Do you feel that bass?”
I’m mostly focused on his hand against my ear, but I nod.
“It feels like it’s traveling through my body,” Phoenix says, energized. “I want that feeling for seven.”
Seven. The seventh song. His love of music fists my heart. “I want that too!” I yell over the DJ. His shadowed smile dizzies me more than the hypnotic thumping around us.
Bodies suddenly crowd closer as more people pack the dance floor, and instead of being pushed apart, Phoenix shifts behind me. I can feel him dancing with the hive-like masses, and I stay in the beat with him.
I start losing myself to the moment, to the crimson strobe lights sweeping us, to the brush of his chest against my back, and to the tantalizing closeness of his hands against my hands.
He rests an arm on my shoulder, giving me the best view of the tattoo on his bicep. Inked in an old Roman script are two words: play on.
I’d asked him one night during a writing session what it meant. We were sitting next to one another on the same side of a booth, my laptop flipped open in front of us and headphones around both our necks.
“It’s a quote,” he said. “From Shakespeare.”
“Yeah, right. You’re just saying that because—”
“Because it’s the truth,” Phoenix said, cutting me off. He knocked his knee against mine, and his eyes fastened on me. “But please tell me why I chose it, since you were there with me three years ago in Boston.”
I stifled a grin. “Fair. But you do know my family loves Shakespeare, right? It’s basically a Wiki fact.”
“I basically don’t care,” he told me, but he held out his bicep for me anyway. He let me graze my thumb against the tattoo. “You know the quote then?”
I nodded. “Twelfth Night. ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’”
His lips gradually rose into a smile. One that lingered and felt intimate in its existence near me. That smile slowly embedded itself inside my head.
Here, on the dance floor, the memory gives me a sudden idea for our album name.
Before I can even consider sharing my epiphany, people begin shoving closer to the DJ, and Phoenix’s arm on my shoulder crawls down my chest. He draws me against him, my back melding against his chest and abdomen.
Thank fuck he can’t see the flush scorch my face. My eyes are on the DJ.
I wonder if Phoenix’s eyes are on me.
I don’t twist around to see. I just feel him take bumps against his back as dancers crowd forward. He stays rooted in place, not letting me fall into the mini-skirt-clad girls in front of me.
When people settle into their spots, I try to drown in the music and not him, but he’s dancing right up against me and I’m dancing right up against him. Feeling him hold me from behind has my mind in a fucking blender.
I should stop thinking.
I should just enjoy this, right?
I’m scared. I think I’m terrified of what happens if I give myself to someone who holds the keys to my dreams.
His strong hands slide down to my waist, and I drop my gaze and distinguish the ink on his fingers that curl around my sweltering, thrumming body. Right hand: L.I.V.E …and then the left hand: H.E.R.E.
Live.
Here.
My lips try to part; a strange, aching breath jettisons out of me.
I’m so fucking grateful it’s too loud to hear whatever noise just left my body.
I am losing it, especially as I picture his hand between my shoulder blades.
As I picture him pushing me down so he can take me from behind—I need to face him.
I can’t let my imagination run away from me. Not while I’m literally with him. So I spin around while I sip my rum and Fizz. Still dancing—we’re still dancing together, only now his eyes are caressing.
Mine are roaming. I love how he’s staring at me. Like he understands exactly who I am, like he could even love me for all the parts other people would prefer to throw away. Riling, demanding, obsessive, dramatic Tom Carraway.
I’ve had what feels like a thousand crushes, and yet, I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my whole life than I do him.
His fingers find the hem of my muscle shirt, tugging me nearer. I hold the crook of his neck and shoulder. Drawing him closer—I’m drawing him too close.
His knee finds entrance between my legs, breaking them apart so we fit like a perfect puzzle piece.
His warm palm is on my back. He pushes me tighter against his muscled build.
His erection—hidden in the dark and beneath his clothes—grinds against my throbbing cock.
A shockwave shoots up my entire tortured body at the friction.
The music. The movement. The look in his eyes.
I don’t know if I’m breathing. Our foreheads nearly touch. I stare at his pink lips. My hand crawls up to the back of his skull.
Phoenix holds my jaw, his fingers slipping toward my hair, and our eyes meet in a congregation of arousal and need.
With his free hand, he pushes back his own damp hair, then his tongue wets his lips in the sexiest slow-mo moment of eternity.
Because he’s staring at my mouth. Then he dips his head to kiss me—and I flinch back.
I.
Flinch.
Back.
It’s pulverizing.