22. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
Phoenix has gone deathly still among an oblivious, raucous, dancing crowd. I’m stationary with him, but at least he keeps a hand on my ribs.
He bows close just so I can hear him. “No?” he asks, and it’s this moment that I realize he is willing to risk our goals.
I swallow an ascending boulder in my throat. “The album.”
His nose flares like he’s restraining a surge of crashing emotion. “The album will be fine—”
“You really want to gamble that?” I choke out.
“Some feelings are worth the gamble!” he shouts as he leans back from me, as his hands drop off me. “Don’t you think?!”
I know I hate the feeling of him leaving me. I hate the absence of his hands on my body. I’m beginning to hate the part of me that won’t allow myself to break free from this constraint.
My eyes burn. “I can’t fail!” I yell, my heart pounding viciously in my chest. “Some feelings I can’t gamble with!” I don’t ever want to feel failure that devastating.
Phoenix sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. He blinks too many times. He can’t even look at me. His hurt is eviscerating me inside-out. Then, he just closes off, walls off. There is nothing legible on his face.
“Phoenix!”
“It’s fine, man.” He turns toward me. “I’m just really pent-up! This”—he draws the air around me with two fingers—“hasn’t helped!”
“Same,” I mention.
“Yeah.” It’s a harsh yeah.
Then he tries to reinvest himself in the music, the rhythm, but I watch him catch the eager gaze of a pale, redheaded dude, a smattering of freckles across his thick biceps and angular face.
The redhead bobs his head and stalks over to the dark-haired drummer of my dreams.
They’re the same height, and Red moves scarily quick—he’s slipping behind my drummer, grinding against him, and his hands fall to Phoenix’s hips.
Phoenix barely bats an eye like this has happened a thousand times before.
He digs out a vape, takes a hit, and blows smoke up at the ceiling, and for a second, I think about saving him from this dude’s gropey fucking hands.
But then Phoenix reaches an arm backward and cups his skull.
He brings the guy’s head down, and…they’re kissing.
My insides form an intricate knot.
I try to play it off. I keep bouncing on my feet, downing the remainder of my drink with fake enthusiasm.
The rum scalds the back of my throat. I barely taste the Fizz.
I avoid lingering looks from other guys who check me out.
My bodyguard takes the hint that I do not want to be grinded on or approached by a stranger.
So he subtly cuts off advances. It isn’t until the track changes to a remixed NSYNC song that I bail off the dance floor, not giving Phoenix a single glance back.
I’m at the bar. My breathing shaken.
It’s fine.
He’s not your boyfriend, Tom Carraway. This is what you want. No. This is what you need. This is the best thing for the band.
It’s just confusing. Everything. I don’t want it to be.
But I’ve never spent this much time with someone outside family.
Not a friend. Not even a bandmate. Warner and my other old band members dragged their feet at the late nights and early mornings.
Phoenix is different. He replies to my voice memos at four in the morning and will keep working well into the night with me, even after my head throbs and my fingers ache.
We’ve been together nonstop for over two months, and maybe that was good for the album, but it’s obviously been a mistake for my brain. All the wires are mixed up. Because holy shit, I should not be this crushed seeing him kiss another guy.
I should not wish that guy were me. Not when I rejected him first. My pulse is on a NASCAR track, speeding away from me.
I order two vodka shots.
They’re in my stomach in seconds, so I ask the bartender, “Do you pour Belvedere 10 by the glass?”
She nods. “But it’s ninety bucks.”
“That’s fine. Double neat,” I tell her and open my own tab so that it’s not charged to Phoenix’s card.
When I put the glass to my lips, I see Phoenix weaving between bodies, making his way toward the bar. Fuck. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him.
I take a giant gulp of alcohol and notice the redhead loitering near the outskirts of the dance floor. He’s waiting…for Phoenix.
Like, this is what Phoenix wants, right? It’s what he said he was looking for—a release. If I can’t give it to him, then who am I to say no?
My muscles strain. Movement hurts. When Phoenix lands beside me at the bar, I don’t give him a chance to explain. I just ask, “You heading out, dude?” I’m proud of myself for sounding ultra casual.
His brows knit together. “Not yet.” He nods to the drink in my hand. “I thought you were drinking rum?”
“I like rum in mixed drinks. Vodka neat.”
He slides his fingers across the back of his neck. “Is that smart? Mixing that many drinks?” He’s probably recalling the Jell-O shots I had earlier. And I do recognize the fact that he ditched his vodka cranberry before he was even halfway through. He drinks slow.
I am a machine.
“Stomach made of steel,” I tell him. I raise my glass toward the redhead who is now eagle-eyeing the fuck out of us right now.
“Your friend is waiting for you. You can go celebrate being halfway through the album with him.” The comment is an immediate regret.
I didn’t mean it so petulantly. Definitely didn’t mean it like a territorial brat. I’m in a full-on grimace.
“I want to celebrate with you,” Phoenix says, his brown-blue eyes drifting around me with an airy softness he typically doesn’t exert.
He’s usually all rough, enflamed edges. “Man, I shouldn’t have…
” He cuts himself off, and I can’t tell if he’s about to say, kissed him or tried to kiss you. Maybe it’s both.
Maybe he regrets one more than the other.
Maybe he regrets me.
Holy fuck, I need to get out of my head. It’s not a good place to be right now. I take a bigger swig of vodka.
He twists toward me, encroaches my space to whisper-hiss, “This has been our first big break from working. I haven’t had sex in months. I can’t even remember the last time I haven’t fucked for this long. It’s not personal, Tom.”
“Nothing personal. Right.” I down another burning gulp.
“I said not personal,” he snaps.
“Same thing, dude.”
Phoenix watches me finish off the drink, and I motion to the bartender. “Another round,” I tell her.
“Hey.” Phoenix grabs my arm, capturing my attention.
“You probably need to let off steam, too. Right? You won’t be with me.
I get it.” Does he? His voice is hollow.
“So you’ve got to be feeling too tightly wound…
right?” He’s searching my eyes for confirmation, and my dumbass nods. “Let’s find you someone.”
“It’s all good. I already have someone.” I take out my phone and scroll through my contacts.
“No. Fuck.” Phoenix leans closer to me, putting a hand on my chest. I normally love how much he likes to casually touch me, but tonight, it’s having a weird effect. “Tom, stop. I meant a one-night stand. Not PJ.”
A smile ghosts my lips. He fucked up his name on purpose. I’m sure of it. “It’s RJ.”
“You don’t need to text him.” He jabs a thumb to the dance floor. “This place is packed, man. Okay? What’s your type?”
The bartender passes me my drink, and I take a smaller sip. “Complicated,” I tell him.
His jaw tics. “Well, I’m off the table, so let’s pick someone else.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you, dude. I can’t have you,” I tell him, my nerves liquifying. I feel like human sludge. “You’re my drummer. I’m telling you, it’s okay.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Go get your world fucking rocked. You have my blessing.”
I turn back to my phone. The alcohol is starting to hit me. I just want an escape. I want to feel good. I want RJ.
Phoenix drags a hard hand over his mouth.
I think he mutters a fuck before detaching from me.
He goes to speak to the redhead, and with my new drink in hand, I find a quieter area at the back of the nightclub.
A row of high-top tables hug a psychedelic-muraled wall, and I set my drink on the sticky granite to free my hands to text.
TOM CARRAWAY
Hang tonight? I’m at The Trench.
His response is lightning fast.
RJ (MIDDLE NAME?)
Hey. Yeah, I’m down. Actually only a couple blocks away. See you in 5.
Five minutes? The universe must be telling me this is what I need. Why would it grant me RJ so quickly otherwise? He’s everything that’s good for me right now: Available. Not in my band. Talented in bed. Who cares if he doesn’t want to get deep? And so what if he doesn’t want to be my boyfriend?
I don’t have time for one of those anyway.
While I take heartier sips from my drink, I scroll through Beckett’s Instagram—my favorite pastime since he doesn’t run the account. Audrey does. And seeing our sister’s captions, like “slay the day away,” underneath a photo of Beckett shirtless at the gym gives me a much-needed laugh.
“Hey,” Phoenix slides over to the high-top table. I look around for the redhead, but he’s nowhere to be found. And okay, I might have had a lot to drink, but I was not seeing things. This guy existed.
“Is the redhead using the bathroom or something?” I ask.
Phoenix rests his Aquafina on the table. “I think he left after I told him I’m staying here.”
My heart pounds in my ears. On second thought, I might be too wasted for this convo because all I heard was he’s staying. He’s staying. And RJ will be here any fucking minute!
I run two hands through my hair. “I thought you needed to get laid,” I tell him. “Like a need, not even a want. A physical necessi—”
“What’s your point?” he asks, cutting me off.
“I think if it’s that dire, you should go.”
Phoenix narrows his eyes at me like he can see through my obvious change of heart. “You texted him, didn’t you? RJ is coming here?”
My vision spins for a second. “Yep.” My mouth pops on the p of the word. Didn’t mean to say it like that. Fuck, I’m drunk.
Phoenix wipes a sheen of sweat off the side of his jaw. “Then I guess I’m meeting him.”
I brace the table. No. This is not happening.
Did I just single handedly manufacture this clusterfuck?
My pulse thumps harder. “Or you could go? I’m sure the redhead hasn’t made it far.
” Why do I keep suggesting this shit? I don’t want him to go—not really.
But the inverse is he stays and meets RJ. How is that any better?
Phoenix untwists the cap to his water bottle. “Yeah. No. I’m not leaving you after you just drank straight vodka. Especially when I don’t know PJ—”
“RJ.”
“Whatever. You want to fuck an on-off hookup and be messy, fine. That’s your bed. But I don’t know him well enough to trust him with you.”
My head feels like mush, and I can only process half of what he’s saying. “You want me to fuck RJ.”
He squeezes his water bottle too hard and water splashes against his shirt. “Shit,” he curses and sets it on the high-top quickly. His eyes return to me in a stronger beat. “Tom—”
“Tom?” The other voice comes from our left.