1. Tom Cobalt #3
I feel my features contort. That can’t possibly be the solution here. Out of me and my brothers, Charlie would likely flourish in total isolation, but not forever. He’d wish for Beckett, his fraternal twin, to cut through the loneliness. Just like I’d wish for Eliot.
That’s the thing about growing up so close to one brother. Your whole world feels tethered to them in a weird way. Like alongside the existence of air and water is him. Without him, life can’t go on.
“Want to teach me your hermit ways?” I ask Charlie.
Just like that, Charlie disappears to his own bedroom.
Leaving me alone.
“Funny!” I shout after him, then mutter, “Someone should give him his own late-night show.” I pound on the keyboard, my stomach in knots. “I’d watch it.”
I exit out of Craigslist.
Despite the nagging sensation of wanting to respond to the ad, I don’t break my word. Setting my laptop aside, I doom scroll on my phone since my guitar is back in my room unfortunately witnessing my brother getting laid.
“No,” I groan out as I land on a 30-second viral video the algorithm keeps showing me. At this point, the owner of this app must have it out for me. I should swipe away, but instead, I’m stuck watching a shirtless drummer.
I grind my molars while I try to ignore the beads of sweat rolling down his masculine jawline, buff arms, and washboard abs.
A red birthmark colors the side of his neck.
I kind of like that about him. This imperfection.
His white skin is a shade pinker as he puts his whole body into playing drums, exerting maximum effort.
His brown hair is buzzed, and I imagine clutching the back of his skull for one second.
One second.
I am so fucking gay, and fuck, the one guy who does not deserve to be held by my hands or by my eyes is Phoenix St. Pierre.
I force myself to stop checking him out, but my cock strains against my jeans. I palm myself just to kill the brief hard-on.
The video replays. I watch again as this drummer bangs away like his life depends on creating angst-ridden, heart-thrashing rock music.
Acid sears the back of my throat this time.
I hate that I love everything about this song.
I hate that Nothing Personal shares the same music label as The Carraways.
I hate that they’re on the trajectory to be one of the hottest rock bands in the past decade while my band is fading further into the background.
“Quit,” I tell myself. “Just. Fucking. Quit. Tom.”
I look at the band, and I feel my failure. Shouldn’t I be where they are by now? Shouldn’t that have been as easy for me as it was for them?
Why is this so fucking hard?
Am I really talentless?
No.
Nothing Personal isn’t going to kill my confidence. They don’t have that power over me. Fuck them. Fuck Phoenix. Fuck whatever lucky penny they found, and may that lucky penny never find anyone else unless it finds me.
I click out of the video, and as Eliot returns with a giggling, overly handsy Gemma, all I can think about is RJ.
I’m left alone again.
I smear a hand down my face. “Don’t do it,” I tell myself. “Don’t do it.” I’m cringing as I slide through my contacts and land on RJ.
I don’t even know his full name. I could ask our bodyguards. Security definitely ID’d him. I should ask RJ myself, but the times I tried, he just kissed me instead.
I took that to mean, I don’t want to talk. I just want to fuck. I haven’t been misreading those hints. I’m positive he wants to keep our situation extremely casual. He’s said as much, and every time I attempt to dive beneath the surface, I’ve found myself alone in the act.
I don’t want to be alone in a dark, nine-foot deep end.
Every time we fuck, it already ends with me feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the chest because he leaves. He never spends the night. Though he kisses me like he’ll come back. Like he wants to come back again and again, which means the door is open to call him.
Invite him over.
Torture myself just a little bit more. Why not? I run my fingers through my hair, literally a heartbeat away from calling RJ when my phone rings.
I frown and bolt upright. “Hey. Jeremy,” I answer my manager. “I was going to ask about an extension with the label—”
“They were firm about the deadline, Tom,” Jeremy says, sounding in a rush and slightly out of breath.
“In that case, I think I might have found a new bassist. He’s good. He’s from…Brooklyn.” I wince.
“Really?” Jeremy’s skepticism is warranted. He’s been my manager for almost seven years and bullshitting him takes actual work.
“I mean, I could have a new bassist from Brooklyn by the morning.”
Jeremy sighs. “How about you don’t do anything stupid. I found something else.”
“Wait—what?” I almost choke on air. Like seriously, what?
“You’ll need to come to the studio tonight—”
“I can do that.” I’m already on my feet.
“We don’t have time to drag this out, so I’d like you to meet him now.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“And Tom,” Jeremy says.
My gut drops.
“Try to be on your best behavior.”
Who am I meeting—the fucking pope? I don’t ask who the guy is. I don’t ask about stipulations or the catch. Even if this feels too good to be true, I want to scrape myself off the dirt.
It finally feels like I’m about to.