32. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“You need to ask me something or is this just intimidation?” I question Beckett.
“I need Charlie for this.”
I frown. “For what?” He isn’t answering. Fine. Except, when I’m this sleep deprived, each second is so excruciatingly slow. It drags, and my eyes hurt under the brighter elevator lights.
When we reach their floor, Charlie is already waiting outside the elevator. He hops aboard with his bodyguard—the one who drove us from The Trench. Oscar, I think. I acknowledge him with an up-nod.
He says and does nothing in return, and I can’t tell if that’s standard bodyguard protocol or if he’s as apprehensive of me as Charlie and Beckett are.
Right when the elevator shuts, Charlie hits the emergency stop.
Awesome.
“Empty your pockets,” Beckett says.
“Again?” My face twists in confusion while I set my helmet between my feet, and I turn out my pockets. “No drugs.” I motion to Oscar with hostility. “You need to pat me down? Or are we good?”
“This’ll be a lot easier on you if you don’t come in hot,” Oscar advises.
My short fuse is directly related to my lack of sleep right now. “Excuse me for feeling attacked when I’m being cornered in a fucking elevator.”
Charlie props his arm against the wall. “You think we should trust you with Tom? Beckett isn’t so sure.”
“Yeah, I think you should.” Though I understand why they wouldn’t considering I’ve been arrested. I can see Beckett clearly isn’t wavering, so I ask Charlie, “And what about you?”
“You’re as relevant to me as the fifteen-day lifespan of a housefly.”
“Glad I asked,” I snap, then I stare down Beckett. “What have I done since the club that’s put you on edge?”
“Your eyes are bloodshot.”
“I’m tired.”
He doesn’t believe me. “You look strung out.”
“I’m tired,” I emphasize. “I’m not a fucking junkie.”
“Pull up your sleeves.”
Oh my God. I press my fingers to my eyelids, then I intake a harsh breath and end up shrugging off my moto jacket. I shove up my long sleeves. Beckett checks the inside of my elbows and forearms for any track marks.
“Take off your shoes,” he asks now.
I look him over. It’s an interesting request. Because I wonder who he’s been around who’s shooting up. Quickly, because I don’t want to be here, I pry off my boots and socks. He checks the tops of my feet for bruising.
“Good?” I ask him.
He nods once.
While I stuff my feet into my boots and the elevator descends again, I tell them, “I get why you think I’d be into drugs. Cliché rockstar bullshit, and sometimes it’s not bullshit, sometimes coke is easy to find. But I promise I’m going to keep Tom away from that while we’re on tour.”
“Promise us in French,” Beckett says. “Si tu romps cette promesse, on ne te fera plus jamais confiance.” You break this promise, and we will never trust you again.
Without pause, I say, “Je vous le jure.” I swear to you. “Je vous le promets.” I promise you. “I will keep your little brother safe.”