25. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Common trend tonight.
I tap the screen and look up just as the door opens. Beckett strides through, a dark blue Yankees ballcap somewhat obscuring his features. He’s shrugged on a leather jacket over his white button-down and keeps his hands in the pockets.
What makes my finger freeze over the kiosk—he’s alone. No brothers. No bodyguard trailing after his expensive-looking loafers. Shock is an undercurrent to my confusion.
Beckett stops at my side, but his focus trains to the kiosk. “What do you want? I think Tom will be good with nuggets.”
I turn my head to the door, then to Beckett. “I thought you said you were waiting in the car?”
“I was. For my bodyguard. He’s three blocks away in a different SUV.
” Beckett’s eyes pierce me, and in the bright lighting, they look more yellow than green.
“But you got out of the car. Charlie made a comment about leaving you, and Tom flipped out. So I’m here to show my little brother that we’re not going to ditch you. ”
“Charlie was about to though.”
“He wasn’t serious. And if Tom weren’t drunk, he’d know that.” Beckett side-eyes a loud cluster of college-aged girls. The one slurping on a soft drink is squinting at him. He shifts so his back is to her, then he surveys the kiosk. His brows knit. “Let’s order at the counter.”
“This is faster.” I swipe through the menu, quickly adding a bunch of random food to the order. Nuggets, Big Macs, a Filet-O-Fish. Lots of fries.
“Any of you vegetarian?” I wonder.
“No,” Beckett says. “Youngest brother is vegan. I assume you haven’t met Ben.”
“Nope.”
“Swipe over.” His hand comes out of his pocket as he points. I notice his black leather glove. “Get the Peanut Butter Crunch McFlurry.”
It’s on the limited-time menu. “For Tom,” I say, knowing.
Beckett slips me a subtle look of surprise.
“Guy brings 18-ounce jars of SKIPPY and organic nut butter to the studio. With baggies of pretzels, apples, celery. Every time. All the time.” I tap the McFlurry. “I thought it was a superstitious thing at first. A lot of musicians have their rituals, but he’s just obsessed with peanut butter.”
Beckett listens intently but says nothing.
I remember now. One of my earliest conversations with Tom. He said his brother, Beckett, was extremely private. Trust must be the hardest earned with him. I don’t know how much he values RJ’s opinion and whether the “don’t leave Tom with him” is a red flag still flapping in his face.
Once the order is filled, I click on the payment screen.
“I’ve got it.” He’s so quick, I have no time to even reach for my wallet. He uses his phone for contactless payment. The screen beeps with Order Complete! and displays an order number.
We find a spot by the drink machine while we wait—farther away from the shrieking laughter and guys double-fisting quarter pounders—but the soda drinker cranes her neck, scanning for Beckett, I think.
“We need to move somewhere else?” I ask him.
“This is fine.” He’s tenser and more rigid than the typical ballet dancer I’ve seen from the orchestra pit.
In the light now, I realize he is familiar to me. I’ve seen his face on posters inside Whitney Theater for different productions like Swan Lake and The Sleeping Beauty. He’s one of NYBC’s star male dancers.
Despite being so stiff, his posture is still very NYBC. Shoulders slightly drawn back, core engaged, the length of his body seeming to stretch taller. Hell, he appears taller than me right now because I’m bent slightly against the wall, and he’s not slouching even an inch.
His eyes dart around before he dips the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.
Tom told me that his siblings need personal security for more than just crowd control and some super fans who don’t respect boundaries.
Their parents are worried about extortion and kidnapping.
Something like that happened to one of their cousins.
Luna Hale, I think. It was all over the news last year.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have made that comment in the car. I knead at the tired corners of my eyes.
“You’re twenty-four?” he asks me.
“Yep. You?” I already know the answer from Tom.
“I’ll turn twenty-five in September.”
“Older than me by four months. Point taken.” I nod. “You like having your bodyguard around?” I ask.
“Security isn’t a preference so much as a necessity.” He lifts the brim of his ball cap to meet my gaze. “My bodyguard saved me from being assaulted a couple years ago. Three guys with a baseball bat.” He checks the window and entrance again. “It put him in the hospital for a month.”
“Jesus,” I exhale.
I’m surprised he’s sharing this with me, until he says, “It’s important Tom keeps his bodyguard around him. There are people who will fuck with my family for money, for clickbait, for revenge, for all sorts of things. And it might sound ridiculous to you.”
“It sounds a little exaggerated,” I admit.
Beckett nods. “Tom said you aren’t chronically online, but there are enough people who do know us that a single video clip or photo of us can make a person go viral or make a media conglomerate richer. You understand that, at least?”
“Yeah.” I can see how that could happen.
I feel even worse thinking Charlie and Beckett were being prima donnas who didn’t want to enter a fucking Micky D’s. They’re just trying to keep each other safe.
“You can head back to the car,” I tell Beckett. “I’m sure the food will be out in a second.”
“It’s fine,” he says stiffly. “There’s something I needed to ask you anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“Your arrest—”
“I thought you didn’t read my background check,” I cut in.
“I didn’t,” he says. “I was told you’ve been arrested.”
I run a hand against the side of my neck. I’m not going back there. I cannot even begin thinking about that night right now. “I’m not going to talk about that. What else do you want to know?” I ask him, frustration seeping into my voice. “Anything else?”
“Are you sleeping with my brother?”
My chest inflames. Did not expect that. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
Yes.
“He’s my bandmate.”
Beckett gives me a firm come the fuck on look. “That’s not an answer.”
“So why don’t you ask him these questions. See what he says, huh?”
He grips my gaze. “How many guys have you slept with?”
Damn. “You ask all his bandmates that or just me?”
“Just you.”
“I see.” I don’t hate Beckett’s directness. At least I know what he’s thinking. “Look, Tom already asked my body count, and I don’t know it.”
“That high.” It’s a statement.
I eye him. “What’s yours?”
“That high.”
“Fuck,” I say.
“Tom isn’t as experienced as you. If I hear you hurt him at all, you’ll wish you never met my family. Understood?”
He’s a good big brother. “Understood.”
“Three four three!” Our order is called. I leave Beckett to grab the two bags off the counter. We’re silent on our way back to the SUV.
Tom is lying across the seat, his hands laced on his forehead like he’s trying not to vomit.
“Hey, sit up.” I pick his legs up, sit underneath them, then I lift him back upright.
“Whoa.” He rests his weight against my side, then blows out a long, measured breath.
“You’ll stop spinning when you eat something.”
Charlie passes a Big Mac up to the bodyguard behind the wheel. “Oscar, we’re going back home. Hell’s Kitchen.”
Beckett frowns. “On devrait le déposer en premier.” We should drop him off first. He’s talking about me. They’re probably avoiding my name on purpose.
Charlie digs through the bag, looking for something in particular. “Non. Il vit avec son frère. On n’a pas besoin de plus d’embrouilles ce soir.” No. He lives with his brother. We don’t need more drama tonight.
Beckett takes off his gloves. “Des embrouilles?” Drama?
Charlie hands him a medium fry, then pulls out the fish sandwich. “Son frère est le batteur. Celui que Tom n’a pas embauché parce qu’il le trouvait trop canon.” His brother is the drummer. The one that Tom didn’t hire because he thought he was too hot.
The fuck? I bite down, my jaw tensing. Birdie. They’re talking about Birdie. Tom told me he didn’t hire my younger brother because of timing. That little fucking liar. I want to stake a glare at him, but he’s nibbling on a nugget and muttering something about chicken kingdoms.
And I don’t have time to think about Tom finding Birdie hot. Beckett’s confused tone catches my ear. “Ils pourraient se croiser?” Would they run into each other?
“Tu veux prendre le risque?” Do you want to take the chance?
“Non.” No.
While I unwrap my Big Mac, the car starts moving again. I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Do you two always talk in French in front of other people?”
“You’re in our car,” Beckett reminds me as he tosses a couple fries in his mouth.
“We could switch back to English for you,” Charlie says. “Mais je ne pense pas qu’on en ait besoin.” But I don’t think we need to.
Fuck.
I grind my jaw again.
Beckett’s lips part. “What the fuck?” He looks from me to Charlie and back to me. “How long were you going to let us keep talking?”
I shrug. “I had all night.”
Tom lets out a breathy sigh. He’s starting to pass out.
The half-bitten nugget is in the footwell, and I’m holding him upright against my chest. His head is practically nuzzled in the crook of my shoulder and neck.
I make sure he’s okay, brushing my fingers through his hair to see his eyes as they shut.
“Why did RJ warn me not to leave Tom with you?” Beckett asks.
“Probably because I was a dick to him,” I say flat-out. “Was it warranted? Maybe not. But I wasn’t in a place where I could be nice to your brother’s on-off thing. I will probably never be in that fucking place unless you want to shove Valium down my throat.”
Charlie makes a face like he’s considering. “You have some on you?” It sounds like he wants some for himself.
“No.”
“Coke?”
I frown. “No drugs, sorry.”
“On pourrait te mettre à poil. Voir si tu mens,” Charlie says. We could strip you naked. See if you’re lying. He spins in his chair to Beckett. “Qu’en penses-tu?” What do you think?
Beckett dusts salt off his fingers. “Overturn your pockets.”
I don’t make excuses. I remind myself, What would you do to protect Birdie?
The answer: Everything.
If I had their money and their threats.
More.
So I shift Tom off my lap. Very carefully, I place his head against the door and take a beat to make sure he’s still breathing fine.
He’s okay. Then I buck up in the seat to stick my hands in my cargos, and I turn the big pockets inside-out.
The other ones are zippered, so that’s harder. But I manage.
All that comes out is my leather wallet.
Charlie reaches for it before I can even offer.
“Take it, please, be my guest,” I snap.
He’s abandoned his fish sandwich like I did my burger. “Credit cards, credit cards, a lot of credit cards,” Charlie says in a mocking tone.
“You want my credit score too?”
“No,” Charlie says. “I can already tell it’s not good.”
“We all can’t live off Mommy and Daddy.”
He forces a dry smile. “And what’s this?” He pinches the square foil of a condom like it’s a cigarette. “Magnum. Impressive.” He bows forward. “Hey, you do know that Tom is basically a virgin, right?”
“Charlie,” Beckett says.
I’m confused. “He’s slept with what’s his face.” I’m sick of saying his name.
“Only him.” Charlie flips the condom between his fingers. “And I’m not talking about blow jobs. I mean taking a dick in the ass.”
“Fuck, man,” I say out of surprise.
“Charlie,” Beckett repeats with the same shut the fuck up force.
I thread my rigid arms and lean back against the seat. Beckett said Tom wasn’t as experienced as me, and it’s clear he didn’t care to share specifics about Tom’s sex life out of respect for him. Charlie obviously doesn’t give a fuck.
To the hundredth degree.
I nod to him. “Is this your way of rattling me or something?” I ask.
He cocks his head, mocking. “Is it working?”
“No.” If anything, I feel more protective over Tom. I glance hard at him, then stare back at his brothers. “He could’ve told me this himself, you know.”
“You really think he would?” Charlie arches a brow, then points the pinched condom at Tom. “I only have two siblings who’d put pride above their own well-being. He wants to be on your level. He doesn’t want to seem weak or inexperienced.” He flicks the condom at my chest.
I let it fall to my boots. “So he’d…what then? Pretend he’s not?”
“He did it with RJ,” Charlie states. “Why not you?”
I can’t even muster a “because I’m not fucking him” response.
I tilt even farther backward, my hand on my head. He acted like he’d already had sex. “For his first time?” I let out a sharp noise. “There is no way that guy didn’t know Tom was…” I trail off at Charlie’s light shrug.
He kicks his feet up on the bench seat near Tom. “You think if Tom were to stumble upon a guy who fucks like a wild animal, he’d try to convince himself he can handle it? He wouldn’t stop him even if it hurt—”
“Stop,” I sneer, unable to even picture it without sitting in rage.
“Personally, I think he would. What about you, Beckett?” He whirls in his chair to his brother, his feet dropping to the floor.
Beckett shuts his eyes tight, then opens them in a glare at the window. “Charlie, I swear—”
“Tom will never tell him,” Charlie forces.
“You could give him the tools to try,” Beckett says, tugging his gloves back on his hands. Then Beckett’s eyes hit mine, and all I see is the threat of someone who loves their brother deeply. He is scared for him.
I’m now scared for him if he doesn’t end up with me.
I skate a hand through my hair while Charlie starts talking in another language. Sounds like Portuguese. It takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to his bodyguard.
As a tense beat passes, I look between Tom’s brothers. “Which of you is older?”
“Charlie is my twin,” Beckett answers. “He’s older than me by minutes.” That makes sense. They seem closer than most brothers.
My mind rotates over everything Charlie said tonight. I scrape my hair back again, and I release a tight breath as I ask, “You have two prideful siblings. Tom isn’t the only one, you said. Who’s the other?”
Beckett isn’t going to answer. That is clear as he stares out the window.
Charlie leans back nonchalantly. “You think you’ll be around long enough for it to matter?”
My pulse pounds. “If I’m not, then that means The Carraways failed. Tom failed, and I failed him.” The burn in my eyes returns, but it’s blistered with more self-assurance. “I think we’re going to do everything to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
He studies me. “Tu ferais tout pour le groupe? Ou tout pour Tom?” You would do everything for the band? Or everything for Tom?
“Tom is the band,” I say, and for the first time tonight, I speak French. “Sans lui, il n’y a pas de musique.”
Without him, there is no music.