23. Phoenix St. Pierre #2
I bet Tom does not fucking shut up in bed. My throat tries to close. My eyes feel dry and raw, like I haven’t slept for four days straight. Jealousy simultaneously boils my blood and flattens me like roadkill. I feel crushed.
And angry. Because RJ doesn’t deserve to hear about Tom’s issues when he’s unwilling to meet him on the same level.
“Hey,” I call out to RJ, recapturing his gaze as I force out, “This asshole drummer is sticking the fuck around. So give me your name if you want to keep touching my singer.”
“Your singer,” he repeats.
“Yeah, mine.” I skewer him with one fatal look.
RJ swallows a stiff sip of beer, then rubs his lips with the heel of his palm.
“Full name is Nikolai Rurik Kotova Junior. But no one calls me Nikolai. That’s my dad’s name.
RJ is easier, and like I said, less of a fucking mouthful.
And before you ask, I am Russian-American.
Emphasis on American because when my family immigrated here, they took the feminine form of the name legally.
So no, I am not Kotov even though I’m a guy.
I am legally Kotova.” He hikes his brows in irritation. “Any other questions?”
“Yeah. Where do you plan to go with Tom after this?”
RJ glances down at Tom, who’s finishing off the last of his vodka. “If his two oldest brothers aren’t home, his place. If they are, then wherever he wants.”
“Your place?”
“No.”
“You have bed bugs?” I ask sharply. “Jars of toenails on your shelves?”
“I live where I work,” he admits, his voice hotter. “I don’t mix business and pleasure, so to speak.”
“Well, now I’m really confused because I thought for sure you were a cam boy.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not judging.”
“Yeah, right.” RJ huffs out a breath, then glances to Tom at the same time as me.
Tom is weirdly quiet, but his face flushes beet red as he witnesses this exchange between RJ and me.
RJ tucks him even closer to his side. I can’t tell if he’s just a touchy-feely guy, or if he’s trying to be territorial around me. Whatever the case, it seems like Tom is leaning against him only to avoid falling over. So that’s a plus…I guess.
“How much have you had to drink?” RJ asks him, to which Tom never responds. Not as he catches his balance and extends his arms like he’s walking a plank.
I think I’d be smiling if I weren’t so on edge.
RJ looks around for something. He sees my water and gestures for it. “Please.” He says it like he thinks I’m going to deny hydrating Tom when it’s exactly what I’ve been fucking doing.
I hand it over. Unable to speak with the knot in my throat.
“Here, Tom.” He pries the finished drink out of his grip, then gives him the water instead. He sniffs the cup. “Vodka?” he asks me.
“Correct.”
A deep, grumbled noise of concern comes out of RJ. The same sentiment is apparent in his gaze as he sweeps Tom. He makes small, comforting circles against Tom’s back.
If RJ had any ill intent, he would not look like he wants to give Tom an IV drip and let him sleep this off. He’s expressing genuine worry for someone he’s only in an on-and-off physical relationship with, and that’s messing me up.
“I’m cool,” Tom assures us in a larger swig. Then he tries to pass the water back to me.
“Finish it,” I say.
“You finish it,” he counters. “Phoenixxxx.” He hisses my name between his teeth.
Here I am, almost smiling again. “You need it more than I do.”
“Not true. So not true, dude.” He tsks a few times, then slams the bottle on the table. I grab it before it tips over, and I screw the cap back on while he says, “Ta-da!”
My lips twitch, then flatline when RJ pulls Tom into his bare chest. He extends an arm across him so he stays put. It’s something I would’ve definitely done—had I been right there. Had that been me.
“You buy him a bunch of shots?” RJ asks me—no, accuses me.
Tom points at himself.
“Looks like you have your fucking answer,” I snap at him.
RJ seems skeptical. The way he’s keeping Tom back, I can tell he’s protecting him from me. Like I’m the one who’d take advantage of a wasted Tom Cobalt.
I would rather die.
My back is so upright, my shoulders ache. I’m standing like a brick wall. “So where do you work and live?” I ask RJ.
“The Starlight on Park.”
My brows jump. “You live on Park Ave?” I know exactly where The Starlight on Park is located. In the fucking Upper East Side.
Tom is slowly processing this like we’re speaking quadrilaterals and hieroglyphics.
“The Starlight on Park is a hotel,” RJ emphasizes.
“Yeah, on Park Ave,” I bark like he’s not making sense. “No, I thought it was on Broadway. The fuck?”
RJ lets out a tight breath. “You asked, I clarified.”
“According to Tom, a rare event.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Tom lifts his hands and steps away from RJ, wobbling a little. We both reach out to catch him, but he grips the high-top himself. “Keep me out of this.”
“As if this isn’t about you, nepo baby,” I say dryly.
His lips tic up a little bit. He’s such a fucking…a growl rumbles in my chest. I shake my head once. Tom loves the attention, and I can’t deny, he looks really good in a spotlight.
RJ grips his own waist with both hands. Then nods up to me. “I don’t want drama when it comes to who I get with. So I keep things simple.”
“Drama,” I repeat with a slow nod, forcing myself not to bite out, Then what the fuck are you doing with Tom?
I know Tom by now. From our late nights to our early mornings.
I know he is so quick to push buttons, stoke emotion, break dumb laws like feeding squirrels, willing to stir the pot for a little fun and a good laugh at 3 a.m. when my brain refuses to shut off and sleep.
And I want to stay awake even longer just to hear him and see what happens.
All the while, he is trying to clutch fastidiously to the one thing he does not want out of his control. The band.
Our band.
I’m trying to hear RJ out. So I swallow the asshole comment. Because it’s fair for this guy to not want drama. After my ex, I wanted something simple too, but until I met Tom, I don’t think I was really living.
I was just existing. Going through the motions. Stuck beneath the rubble. I feel like I’ve finally started crawling out from under it, and now…this.
RJ and I both check on Tom as he leans his weight on the high-top.
I’m pushing against the force, holding the table in place.
And then RJ continues, “I have enough drama with my whole work-life situation. It’s like living in a rumor mill, and Tom knows this is just casual.
But I care about him, and I’m going to bring him home—”
“I’m not leaving him with you,” I interject. “I don’t even know what the fuck you do. You live in a hotel? You could be an escort. You could have a rich boyfriend who funds your room and board there—”
“It’s not like that. Oh my God,” he groans into a deep, aggravated sigh. He digs out his cellphone. “Ever heard of Aerial Ethereal?”
“That cirque troupe thing?”
“The circus. One of AE’s shows has a permanent residency at The Starlight.
I’m a professional acrobat.” He pops up a video on his phone as proof and shows it to me without handing over his phone.
He doesn’t trust me. In the clip, he’s running across these giant hamster wheels that revolve in the air.
Then he jumps to the other one with no harness, no safety net on the stage.
It looks certifiably nuts.
“I’m a fifth-generation acrobat,” he explains. “Most of my family work for Aerial Ethereal, but only the ones who are assigned to the show at The Starlight on Park live there.”
RJ passes the phone to Tom, letting him cup it himself and watch the video. So now I know that he trusts Tom and not me. Doesn’t matter.
I grab my water bottle and shove it in my pants pocket. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Tom’s thirtysomething bodyguard, Ian, hovers next to me. His eyes plunge to my ass. “I’ll hold that for you.”
He means my Aquafina.
The fuck he is.
“Holy shit,” Tom gapes at the video like RJ just climbed to some legendary status for doing handstands and backflips.
RJ shows him another video, and Tom says, “This explains a lot.” The smile RJ gives him is a subtle tell they’re talking about sex and not just his gym shorts. I’m going to fucking hurl.
“Phoenix,” Ian calls out. I flinch just hearing him use my name. Might be the first time Tom’s bodyguard has ever said it.
He points to my ass pocket.
Is this some weird Cobalt thing? “I can hold my own water bottle.”
Ian barely blinks like this is another day at the office. He bends closer to say, “You’re sharing it with Tom, and it’s in your back pocket.”
I don’t register the issue. “So?”
“Someone can spike it without you noticing.” Ian holds out his palm, waiting for me. Normally I’d argue, but I’m half-engaged in this.
Quickly, I pass him the Aquafina, and before I turn to Tom and RJ, a guy stands out in the corner of my eye. He’s descending the stairs from the second-floor VIP area.
The resemblance to Tom is startling.
Same golden-brown hair, only his is cut shorter and stylishly unkempt. Same lean build. Same picturesque, angelic jawline. He looks older, though. Maybe by a few years, at least.
His soured expression doesn’t remind me of Tom at all.
Neither do his clothes. The velvet green suit looks straight off an avant-garde runway.
I’m sure it costs thousands. Except, he wears it like he’s ready to toss it in the dumpster as soon as he gets home.
Like it doesn’t matter. Like none of it does.
I’ve never seen this person in my life—but I’d bet my entire (meager) savings that he’s one of Tom’s older brothers.
“Tom,” I call out.
He jerks his head up from RJ’s phone. He’s unconsciously bracing all his weight on him now, and RJ’s arm is back around his waist.
My nose flares, and I nod toward the staircase. “Is that one of your brothers?”
He pushes the phone into RJ’s chest while following my gaze. “Holy…fuck.” Color drains from his face. “Time to go.” He steps away from RJ, and Tom stumbles over his own feet.