1. Tom Cobalt #2
The stillness unsettles me. I don’t know how to sit in calm. I want everything to have sound. Even when I can’t hear, I hope noise will throttle my body.
“Tom—”
“No, Eliot, I’m not occupying your whole night with this shit.” I head to his door. “Go fuck Gertrude.”
“Say it a little less bitterly, brother, and maybe I’d believe you.”
Yeah, I would rather Eliot choose me over a girl tonight, but I’m trying to do this thing where I don’t make everything about me.
It’s hard.
I exhale a breath and say more nicely, “Go fuck Gertrude.”
“Gemma,” he corrects, pulling out his phone.
Eliot is dressed like the billion-dollar wealth of our revered family.
Pressed navy-blue slacks. Ironed white button-down.
I’m betting he has a late-night date with this girl at a high-end cocktail bar.
He’ll eventually bring her back to our million-dollar-plus Hell’s Kitchen bachelor pad for a one-night (or two-night) stand.
Eliot’s fuck-and-chuck routine is so predictable at this point, I could set the time to it.
He isn’t calling her yet. “I haven’t seen Gertrude in months.”
“Whatever. Gemma.” We stare each other down, and I can feel Eliot saying, I would rather be here for you. So I assure, “I have this handled tonight, dude.” My chest tightens. “I am desperate, but I’m not without my own willpower. Still intact.” Still making it impossible to quit.
He points his phone at me again. “You will succeed.” He says it like a law he’s passed. Cannot be overruled.
I nod. “Just kill me if I fail.”
“Si tu meurs, je meurs,” he says seriously. If you die, I die.
A smile edges against my mouth. “Nous sèmerions le chaos en enfer ensemble.” We’d wreak havoc in hell together.
Eliot grins. “L’enfer n’est pas prêt pour nous.” Hell isn’t ready for us.
Causing chaos with my older brother is one of life’s greatest joys. I think I’d go berserk within the mundane.
As soon as I reach my bedroom in the dark hall, I brake to a complete stop. Soft, feminine moans trickle out, and a black tie is hooked on the doorknob.
Fuck, I silently mouth the word and scrape a hand through my hair. Grimacing.
My little brother is fucking his girlfriend. Awesome. Awesome. The woes of sharing a bedroom.
I volunteered to room with Ben when he moved in recently. Eliot and I were already living here with our older brothers, Charlie and Beckett, so the addition of our youngest brother meant someone would need to bunk up. It’s only a four-bedroom apartment.
“You knew this would happen,” I mutter to myself, trekking to the living room.
My bedroom is now a biohazard. Last thing I want is to catch any of my brothers horizontal or being ridden—no, you know what, I’m not going there.
Tonight is already fucked enough. I don’t need a mental image of Ben with Harriet Fisher—this short, punk-rock blonde nuisance. She’s one of the banes of my existence.
But she’s fine.
She’s great (for him).
I’m not at all aggravated that Ben couldn’t have fallen in love with, I don’t know, anyone else.
I stifle my cringe as quickly as possible. Like Eliot might pop around the corner and catch me. He keeps telling me, “I’ll be Ben’s roommate. We can always switch. It’s not too late, brother.”
No.
No.
I’m the best thing for Ben right now. I want to be a good influence on my nineteen-year-old brother. To be there for him when he’s been actively pushing all of us away for…years.
It’s January 4, and I made a New Year’s resolution (the first I’ve ever made) to be the best brother I can be to Ben this year. If he decides Eliot is a better fit as a roommate, then what does that even say about me? I’m a shit sibling?
I can’t have that branded on my soul. I would actually rather die.
So I take my laptop, my headphones, and my issues to the couch. Camping out in the living room with a million-dollar, sparkling nighttime view of New York, and I’m only glued to this Blaine Thomas ad.
I’m considering reaching out.
I start typing a response when the front door swings open.
“Sitting alone in the dark?” I hear the flat, bitter tone of my oldest, wisest, and crankiest brother.
I glance up at Charlie, seeing his white button-down half untucked from his khaki slacks like he was mauled in the elevator.
Chances are, he just started pulling at his clothes in impatience to hop in the shower.
His golden-brown hair, the same color as mine, is so unruly.
“Tugging at your hair?” I quip back, then focus on my laptop. “Something you always do, Charlie Keating.”
“Sitting alone is something you never do.”
“I’m not alone.” I smile and motion a hand at him. “You’re here now. Take a seat. Relax. Help me with my dilemma.”
“No.” He throws his keys onto the marble kitchen counter.
I make a face. “What’s the point of having a certified genius as a brother if he’s not flexing his intellect for my benefit?”
Charlie appears annoyed. “Because I’m only smart so I can help you.”
“Right, yeah. Your brains were given to aid me in life. Aid me. Please.”
He arches his brows. “You want a solution to your band problem?”
“One that’s better than finding a musician off Craigslist,” I add.
Charlie lets out a sharp laugh of unsurprise, his darkened eyes narrowing on the laptop like it’s a bomb. Yeah, I definitely knew he wouldn’t approve of the Craigslist idea. The last time I considered it as a solution, Charlie straight up said I was an idiot.
Taking a risk does not equal being a dumbass, but I don’t care to defend my intelligence to anyone. I’m smart enough to know he’s a resource I could use.
I raise my hands in the air off the keyboard. “Give me your wisdom, and I’ll ditch Craigslist.”
“You’ll ditch it even if you hate my advice,” he adds, seeing I would’ve slithered out of that deal.
I exhale. “Fine.”
“Promise,” he doubles down.
“I promise.”
“In French.”
I glare.
He cocks his head. “If you weren’t so conniving, I wouldn’t have to ensure you’d be held to your word with some ridiculous childhood pact.”
“That we all made,” I remind him.
Promises in French are blood oaths engraved in the heart, we all agreed. None of us have ever broken a promise in French. We wouldn’t. Not even Charlie.
“Alors promets,” Charlie says. Then promise.
I run my tongue over my molars. “Je te le promets.” I promise you. “Heureux?” Happy?
“Rarely,” he answers in English.
Charlie is always honest. Never wears kid gloves and never tells me what I want to hear. I must really want his brutal advice.
“Lay your genius on me,” I say. “How do I fix this?”
He locks eyes with me. “Throw in the towel before it strangles you.”
My face falls.
It’s a gut kick. I blow backward, my hands lacing on top of my head. It hurts to hear Charlie tell me to quit, even if I knew it was the easy path. “I can’t do that.”
“Then go solo.”
“I can’t do that either.” I’ve never dreamed of being a solo artist. “We’ve just established I don’t like being alone, Charlie Keating.” My voice sounds softer than I like, and I might be dramatic to the hundredth degree, but it takes a lot for me to shed actual tears.
“Learn to be alone,” he says.