33. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“This is happening too fast,” Tom’s words slingshot through me. For a second, I think he means us. Every intimate second we’ve shared since our first kiss a few weeks ago.
But that worry is squashed as soon as he waves a hand toward the set behind us, the backdrop of a frozen tundra. My drum kit is positioned on top of a fake glacier, Tom’s mic stand resting below it.
We’re currently seated at two vanities. Makeup artists huddle a few feet behind us in a sudden disagreement about the brand of metallic body paint they’re using.
I swivel in my chair to face Tom.
His hair is already styled in an artfully messy “fuckboy” way with damp-looking strands layered in fake hoarfrost, giving the illusion he’s been living in the frozen wilderness.
He is undeniably beautiful, and I resist the urge to plant my hand against the back of his skull and bring his lips to mine.
Nothing in public, we agreed.
I take a hit off my vape. I barely slept last night. My head throbs, and my fingers are doing a twitchy thing that I hate. “If it feels fast that’s a good thing,” I tell Tom. “It means Riot believes in us.”
Tom extends a hand for my vape. It wouldn’t be the first time we shared one or a cigarette, but my promise to Beckett from the elevator is an alarm blaring in my sleep-deprived brain.
But I’ve seen Beckett and Charlie smoke, so they shouldn’t fucking care if Tom does. I pass the vape over.
I watch him put it to his lips and suck deeply. He doesn’t break my gaze, and my blood warms my entire body. I glare at his rising cocky smile.
Very slowly, I lean into Tom. My lips brush past his jaw to his ear, and I whisper, “You look really smug for someone who was on their fucking knees last night.”
His eyes descend to my lips. “I could’ve sworn you were the one worshiping me, dude. You are one second from pinning my poster in your bedroom. Admit it.”
“Using your face as a dart board does sound fun. Thanks for the idea.”
His grin never dims. “I have plenty of other great ones.”
“Hmm,” I glare. Fuck. I am dying to clutch his face and kiss him, but I stop myself. Especially because Tom suddenly side-eyes the set director, who’s busy dealing with the snow machines.
I lean back, my muscles burning at the resistance.
His neck is bright red while he blows smoke upward and clears arousal out of his throat.
“You might want to hide that…” I twirl a finger toward my own neck, then grab the edge of his chair and slide him closer to me. Lifting the collar of his metallic leather jacket, I hide the pink flush. “There’s no blushing in the tundra, nepo baby.”
“Maybe we need to hide your whole face then.” He palms my face, taking the risk of smearing the metallic streaks painted down my cheeks.
“Oh my gosh!” Michelle, the makeup artist, bounds over with stressed eyes. “No, no, absolutely no touching. Please.”
Tom winces and drops his hand off me. “Sorry.”
Michelle lets out a relieved breath, seeing he didn’t mess up the makeup. She returns to her huddle.
Tom’s eyes go wide. “This whole thing feels cursed, dude. We’re doing a music video, and they put the album on presale when we haven’t finished all the songs yet.”
“We’re almost done,” I remind him. “We have eleven recorded songs and only one left to write.”
He cringes like we’re not close, but he’s obsessing over this last song like it needs to top all the others. Which isn’t true. It just needs to cohesively fit within the album.
I grip the back of his chair. “Hey,” I say. “They just want to release this single fast, and they think a long presale is a good idea. We don’t have a say in the timeline, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
He scrutinizes the set warily, then the silver makeup spread across the vanity, then me.
He takes a deeper inhale when he meets my reassurance.
“It’s dumb, right? People dream of this.
” He gestures to the professional set design.
It’s bigger-than-average but modest in comparison to mega pop stars.
I nod to him. “Riot is spending some money on us, but there’s a fuck ton of pressure that comes with that too, especially when we don’t know how we’ll sell. Okay, I feel it. You’re not alone in this, Tom.”
He nods back, and his hand falls to my leg subconsciously. I place my palm on his in comfort, only for a short second. I sort of push him off the same time he retracts his hand. It doesn’t hurt any less knowing he pulled back too.
Tom admits, “I just wish we could control the timeline of everything.”
“Ditto.” Honestly, I’m thunderstruck at just how much creative control Riot has relinquished to Tom already.
That was apparently a ginormous stipulation Tom made when he signed with the label, and he only had leverage to negotiate because three other labels were fighting to sign him, Jeremy told me.
For the music video we’re filming today, we’d been invited to the pre-production meetings. Most of the ideas they’re rolling with are ours.
It’s fucking wild.
Nothing Personal wasn’t even able to choose the wardrobe for their music videos, and I had to listen to Birdie complain for an entire year about how they wouldn’t let him go shirtless for “Tragic Hold.”
“My abs would sell records. That’s all I’m saying, man,” he whined.
I am currently shirtless, and there was a big discussion at the meeting about what I’d be wearing today. When the producer asked me how realistic it’d be to have me nearly naked in a frozen tundra, I told him, “My abs will sell records.”
I did that for Bird.
I was ready for more pushback, but none came.
Michelle returns with Caden. Body paint argument settled, they work on the finishing touches to our makeup.
Tom is completely absorbed in his AirPods and mouths the lyrics to the song.
He spent most of last night doing the same thing.
Since he’ll be lip-syncing during the music video, he’s been stressed about how natural it’ll look. He wants it to be perfect.
Overpreparing is also definitely in his DNA.
Me, on the other hand, I chug a Lightning Bolt! energy drink and try to push out the thoughts of beats, fills, and patterns. If I start running through it step-by-step in my head, I’m more likely to mess up when I’m behind the kit. I just need to stay in the pocket and I’ll be fine.
They position Tom on set first, and I hang back while they paint across my skin. The metallic sheen is almost translucent.
A blond guy named Fitz sidles next to Michelle, a walkie-talkie in his grip. “He almost ready?” he nods to me.
“Just one more coat.” Michelle flicks her makeup brush along the curve of my abs.
“Danny says we’ll need to bring in more fake snow,” Fitz tells her, then scrutinizes me one more time.
I pretend like I’m not listening, especially since I wear earbuds.
But no music is playing. So yeah, he’s not having a private conversation in front of me.
“Tom Cobalt gets what Tom Cobalt wants, right?”
My muscles flex. Fuck him. I glower ahead of me and not at him, trying to remain as professional as possible.
Michelle gives a curt smile to Fitz. “I’ll be done in five.”
Fitz leaves, and Michelle’s smile falls off her face. “Asshole.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Not everyone thinks Tom is difficult.”
Not everyone.
But people definitely do.
I saw him stick his neck out at the pre-production meeting.
I’ve heard him on phone calls. He can be argumentative.
Demanding. He has a vision that he wants to see through, and he won’t let anyone puppeteer him.
A lot of people try to treat him like a fucking doll.
They want him to have zero opinions while they take the helm.
When Tom pushes back, they act like he’s just a spoiled rich kid. Just Connor Cobalt’s arrogant son. In every conversation I’ve been a part of, he’s fighting to be heard and taken seriously as an artist.
He’s gone to bat for my vision more times than I can count.
Hell, he got me a mixer credit on every song so far, and he’ll say I fought for it too.
But I didn’t call the label daily until they relented.
I sure as hell wasn’t the reason I received a drum-engineering credit when the label wanted to bring in an engineer during our recording sessions.
I really did not want to collaborate with another drummer. Tom knew that.
He knew it so deeply that he spoke up for me multiple times, even at the risk of being seen as a fucking diva.
When the label dropped the packed tour schedule yesterday—sixty-seven cities over the course of the summer—the comments were absolutely brutal. Tom said his family chat exploded and urged him not to go online.
It only took a half-second scroll on social media for my blood to boil.
They don’t even have an album.
What a joke.
Tom Cobalt def bought his way to this.
A three-month tour. With what music? His dad must be financing it.
It’s all the things I thought about Tom before I knew him. It makes me sick to my stomach thinking I could’ve been one of those dicks. I was that dick. I was the person who thought of him as just a spoiled rich kid.
I wish the world could see what I see. His work ethic. His passion for the music. His unreal, irrefutable drive. It makes me want to release the whole album tomorrow to shut these fuckers up.
It’s the only thing we can do.
Tom brushed off the comments with a shrug like he’s received punches online his whole life. He told me, “The music will speak for itself. It’s why it needs to be perfect.”
He’s been using that word a lot lately. Perfect.
It freaks me the fuck out because I don’t know how he measures that scale.
As Michelle continues swiping metallic paint on me, I scroll through my phone and stop on a recent text thread.
MOM
A three-month tour? Will you have time for your orchestra gigs?
DAD
Your mom is only asking because, even if the album is a success, you won’t see royalties until next year. Did Jeremy send you the payment schedule?
I breathe deeply through my nose. Jere didn’t have to send the payment schedule to me.
I know how it all works from being around my brother and Nothing Personal.
We have to recoup the half-mil advance before we see royalties.
Even if we’re a runaway success, that means we might earn out in July.
Unfortunately, the label’s accounting period runs July through December, with a ninety-day lag, so any money we make then won’t be paid until April of next year.
That’s almost exactly a whole year from now.
But I knew that going into this.
My parents are only freaking out because of the time commitment the tour will put on me.
I already texted them back.
PHOENIX
Jeremy is working with our booking agent to secure guarantees and bonuses. We also have merch in production. I’ll have some cash flow during the tour. Don’t worry.
My mom’s response is what I predicted but not what I hoped.
MOM
You should still consider taking some gigs, if you can. It’s good to keep that door open. You don’t want to burn bridges.
It’s what they’ve always told Birdie during his time with Nothing Personal. Don’t burn bridges. Always have the back-up plan ready to go.
My temples throb even harder, and I down the rest of my energy drink. I remember the call I got from Birdie when the tour was announced. “Knew it,” he told me. “You’re going to wish you already started training. Remember me during your first vom session.”
“Yeah, that won’t be happening,” I replied.
“I’ve already started hitting the gym every morning.
” With Tom. He’s been singing and sprinting on the treadmill, but I avoided mentioning him so Birdie didn’t give me more shit.
“Anyway, Riot might shorten the schedule like they did for Nothing Personal unless we fund the tour ourselves. They haven’t said how presales are doing, so we’re thinking they might not be great. ”
Birdie disagreed. “As soon as the album drops and you gain momentum on tour, Riot will probably add dates. They’ll send you to Europe, South America—hell, probably Australia and New Zealand.
” I would never call my brother a hopeless optimist, but it’s hard for me to adopt the same relentless positivity.
Even if I love this album with every fiber of my fucking being, it’s hard to believe the label will back us to that degree. They can’t funnel that type of money to every band on their roster, and being chosen is like being dubbed Prom King.
There is only one out of the student body.
About a hundred factors play into being picked. Presales, marketability, trends, and maybe our music just doesn’t fit the current stasis of rock. Maybe it’s not going to be everyone’s thing. Maybe Riot knows that and would prefer a sure bet.
Maybe my parents are just in my head. Feeding me spoonfuls of realism from miles away.
Michelle finishes with my body paint, and I get behind the drums on the fake glacier. I feel better here. Worries float away as soon as I have the sticks in my hand.
Tom gives me a supportive nod from below.
I nod back.
The director says, “We’re running playback for this take. Wolfgang”—he points to me, and it’s slowly sinking in that the world will know me by my middle name—“start at the chorus. Tom, same for you.”
“Nuclear Winter” sounds loud over the speakers with Tom’s guttural vocals silencing the whole room.