23. Chapter Twenty-Three #2
He reaches for the sugar and tears open a packet with his teeth. The gesture is so familiar it catches me off guard. We used to sit in diners after school and do exactly this, sharing fries, stealing bites, and arguing over songs while he stirred sugar into his milkshake.
Once our food arrives, the conversation starts to loosen.
Phoenix tells me about the recent tour in pieces, most of which sound more like grievances than actual updates.
“Damon went to the label because I kept leaving the after-parties early,” he says, cutting into his pancakes.
That catches my attention. “Wait, you left early?”
He doesn’t answer right away; he just shoves a piece of pancake into his mouth. “Cruz had two women get into a fight over him in a greenroom.”
“What, like a real fight?”
“Yeah. One threw a drink. The other threw a shoe. Cruz stood there, looking proud of himself, until a heel nearly took his eye out.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Please tell me someone filmed it.”
“Jax did. Said it was the best after-party we have ever had on tour.”
“That sounds like Jax.”
“He also got into an argument with a reporter two nights later.”
“What did he say?”
“He called a reporter a talentless parasite with a podcast, so now we have a small public relations problem.”
“How small?”
“Front-page small.”
I laugh into my coffee.
I tell him a little about rehab. About the days I hated everyone in the room and the days I hated myself even more. Then I tell him I think I have written another song.
His fork stills. “Yeah?”
“Maybe.” I glance down at my plate. “It might be shit though.”
“It won’t be.”
The certainty in his voice makes me look up.
A group of women near the front counter keeps looking over.
There are three of them, all gorgeous in that glossy, effortless way.
One has long, dark hair and wears a red dress under a denim jacket.
Another is blonde, all legs and confidence, the kind of woman who looks as though she belongs stretched across a billboard selling something expensive.
The third has a phone in her hand and wears the bright little smile women get when they realize a famous man is close enough to touch, photograph, and turn into content before lunch.
They whisper. Glance over. Whisper again.
I notice them before Phoenix does.
I sit there with my second cup of coffee, waiting. I know this part. This is usually where Phoenix notices. Where the smirk appears. Where the attention hits him and his whole body answers as if being wanted were the same as being alive.
The three women approach our table.
“Sorry,” the blonde says, with a bright smile and perfect teeth. “Are you Phoenix Stone?”
Phoenix leans back, and there he is. The frontman with the lazy confidence, crooked smirk, and an ego stretching its legs after being forced to behave during breakfast.
“Depends who’s asking,” he says.
They laugh. Of course they fucking laugh. The line isn’t even funny, but Phoenix could read the terms and conditions of a credit card application in that voice, and half the room would start unhooking bras before he reached the interest rate.
“Could we get a photo?” the brunette asks. “We loved the show last week.”
The blonde in the middle holds her phone out to me. “Would you mind taking a photo of us, please?”
“Sure.”
I stand and take her phone.
Phoenix gets to his feet and the women arrange themselves around him. Two press against either side of him. The third settles slightly in front, close enough that her back nearly touches his chest.
They aren’t subtle. They don’t need to be. Women like this have followed Phoenix backstage, into elevators, hotel rooms, and bathrooms. They know the invitation does not have to be spoken if the answer is obvious enough.
I know how this usually ends. Soon enough, I’ll be sitting in this booth alone while Phoenix decides whether he wants one of them, two of them, or all three to fuck.
It normally depends on his mood and on how much trouble he thinks he can get away with before lunch.
They pose for the photo and the woman in front places her hand on Phoenix’s chest. Her fingers are splayed across his black shirt as if she has just claimed the prize.
Phoenix looks down at it.
For a second, I wait for the usual smirk. The one that says he has already pictured her naked and is deciding how much effort she will take.
But it never comes.
He lightly takes her wrist and lifts her hand away, letting her fingers slide off him without making a scene, and smiles for the photo, all sharp cheekbones and bad reputation, giving them enough rockstar flair to make the moment worth posting.
I take two shots because the first one is probably shit. I have never taken a decent photo in my life.
I hand the phone back to the brunette.
She opens the images and gasps. “Oh my God, thank you. You look amazing.”
“I usually do.”
They laugh again.
“You were so good onstage,” the blonde says. “Your voice is insane.”
Phoenix’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, it gets that reaction a lot. Usually with less clothing.”
Cocky fucker. I knew he would get there eventually.
The blonde bites her lip. “We’re staying in town tonight, actually.”
An opening wide enough for Phoenix to drive through shirtless, hard cock ready, letting his ego handle navigation.
He smirks at her, arrogance settling on his face. Then he turns away and slides back into his seat as if three beautiful women had not just offered themselves to him before he finished his coffee.
“Thanks, ladies,” he says easily. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
That’s it. No filthy promise hidden in his smile. No old fuckboy routine that leaves me feeling as if I were a chair he forgot he was sitting beside.
The women hesitate, just slightly, then smile and thank him before leaving our table.
I stare at Phoenix as he reaches for his mug, drains the last of his coffee, and notices I am still standing.
“What?”
“Who are you and what did you do with Phoenix Stone?” I ask, sliding back into the booth.
His eyes settle on mine and something in his expression shifts enough to make the joke die in my throat.
“Maybe watching you almost die fucked up my appetite for bullshit.”
I want to ask what he means by that, but Phoenix is already moving. He stands, grabs his phone and sunglasses from the table, and heads to the counter before I can get my mouth to work.
Typical Phoenix. He drops something heavy enough to crack open my chest and walks away before I can ask what the fuck I’m supposed to do with it.
I get up and wait for him outside.
A minute later, he steps through the café door, sliding his phone into his pocket. We walk back toward the car side by side.
He unlocks the car and we climb in.
The engine comes alive and a second later he pulls back onto the road that will take me home.
I stare out the window, but my mind stays in that café.
Maybe watching you almost die fucked up my appetite for bullshit.
I’m not asking him here, in this car, what he meant. Not trapped in a moving vehicle where he can hide behind the road, his sunglasses, and that talent for turning serious things into jokes before they can touch him.
When we reach my apartment, I’m going to ask him what he meant by that. And this time, I’m not letting Phoenix charm, deflect, or fuck his way around the answer.