42. Tom Cobalt #3
Beckett presses a hand to my chest, stopping me in place.
“You can include me,” Eliot chimes in. “I was party to making the guest list.”
I nod robustly. “We’re the ones who basically did all of this, Beck.”
“There’s no need for all of that.” Beckett uses his consoling voice. “He knows this already. You don’t need to repeat it fifty times. He’s fine.” That word again. I don’t like it.
My throat swells, and I step backward. “Maybe…” I lift my shoulders. “Maybe I shouldn’t go tomorrow.”
“Tom,” Phoenix calls out to me. His confusion. His hurt is a deeper knife in my gut. I can’t even look at him.
“Your fans,” Eliot says like I can’t let them down.
“My brother,” I force out, trying not to cry. I will not fucking cry over this.
“Tom,” Beckett says deeply. “This isn’t even a consideration. You’re going on tour tomorrow.”
“But what if—”
“You can’t stay,” Beckett says in his calm, coaxing tone. “You need to go. Ben will want you to go. We all want you to go.” His gaze shifts to Phoenix. “Make sure he goes.”
“I’m already planning to drag his ass to the tour bus,” Phoenix says, drawing my eyes to his. “I will throw you over my shoulder if I have to.”
That doesn’t sound half-bad. It just feels like terrible timing now. I fall backward on my bed in a conflicted heap, and Phoenix sinks down beside me, his hand shifting against my thigh in quiet comfort.
It pulls a smile out of me.
Then I prop up on my elbows. “I’ll be back next Wednesday,” I assure Beckett.
He looks shocked for a split second but then nods and tells me he’ll be awake to say goodbye tomorrow. He slips out of the room, and Eliot follows Beckett after asking me not to let him oversleep and miss my departure.
My door shuts, and the sudden quiet rings my ears.
Phoenix and I are alone. He’s spending the night at my place for the first time, which surfaces excited nerves. It reminds me of what I planned…
Leaving the bed, I collect a plastic shopping bag from my closet and return to Phoenix watching me with curiosity.
He tilts his head, eyeing the bag. “When did you go to Target?”
I pull my legs onto the mattress and place the bag between us. “I didn’t. I had Eliot pick this up with the mixers this morning.”
Phoenix nods slowly. “You bought yourself a birthday gift, nepo baby?”
My lips lift into a smile. “Maybe I did because my drummer didn’t get me anything.” I told him I don’t do birthday gifts well in advance, so I’m just teasing him.
“I did get you something.”
My face falls in surprise before he gives me one middle finger.
I laugh hard. “Not even both fingers. Cheap.”
He forces back a smile. “We’ll save that for next year. Your twenty-third.”
The fact that he’s already visualizing a next year with me and The Carraways is the bigger present, and he doesn’t even know it.
I hoist the shopping bag. “You were right. I did buy this for myself. It’s okay to gloat.” I wave him on. “Let it sink in. We don’t know how many more times you’ll be right again.”
He narrows his eyes and sweeps his gaze over me. “I’ll gloat later when my cock is inside you. How does that sound?”
Amazing. Heat swarms my neck. “Sounds like your fantasy that I will partake in.”
“Christ.” He shakes his head, basically smiling, and focuses on the bag again. “What does a rich guy buy himself on his birthday?”
“Only something priceless.” I pull out a CD. Our CD. I would’ve bought the vinyl, but it doesn’t release for another six months.
Phoenix double blinks. “We have about twenty of those in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, free copies that the label sent us,” I say. “This one was plucked off the shelf. Like a real copy in the wild.” I remove a permanent marker from the bag and hold it out to him. “I want you to sign it for me. That’s my birthday wish.”
“It’s past midnight.” He takes the pen from me. “Your birthday is technically over. You also ran out of birthday wishes hours ago.”
That doesn’t stop him from signing my CD.
It also doesn’t stop him from cupping the back of my head and pulling me into a scorching kiss. His tongue flicks into my mouth, and I’m suddenly on his lap, deepening everything. My hands slide up his bare chest. His palms run against my muscles.
Desire pools low with my pulse, and I break away to look at his signature.
His mouth finds the hard angles of my jaw as I inspect the back of the CD.
Phoenix Wolfgang St. Pierre is scrawled on the case, right underneath the song list.
“You signed your full name,” I say in surprise.
He kisses the edge of my lips. “Only for you.”
His words are a dopamine hit. My head is in the clouds, my arousal pumping harder—and it feels like nothing can break me from this sudden hunger for more touch, more him. Not even the knowledge that we never received a single review.
Phoenix turns into me, and my back thuds to the mattress while he descends on me with deep affection that stokes confidence and murders doubts. When we’re together, we become a powerhouse. And all I think is, the critics will regret it. They’ll regret not taking notice of us.
One day, they’re going to see we’re extraordinary.