2. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
“Two things you need to know before you go in there,” Jeremy says as we walk through the dead-quiet recording studio. It’s past midnight, and Jere, wearing his usual studded denim vest, unlocked the door when I arrived.
He’s fifty years old and Black, with a blue runway of hair, a septum piercing, and a penchant for dressing like he’s about to walk in an edgy New York fashion show.
That’s actually how I met him. At NYFW. He’d been in the audience watching my mom’s spring collection for Calloway Couture being modeled.
I recognized Jeremy Shaw as the manager for Sepsis Ink, an old emo-punk band I loved when I was a kid for their outrageous, high-energy performances.
The lead singer would swing his mic cord around his neck and vault into the crowd.
They’d stopped making music years ago, but Jere had been a legend for discovering them when he was in his twenties.
I approached him after the show. I was sixteen and wanting to kick open as many doors as possible. So I introduced myself and asked if I could send him a demo.
He laughed. “Are you brave or cocky, kid?”
“Be my manager and you’ll find out.” I paused. “Also, not a kid.” I didn’t want to be treated like one, at least. I wasn’t being handheld by my parents. They didn’t even suggest I approach him. I was actively doing this on my own. I preferred the independence of carving my own path.
I still do.
It’s not like I’ve looped in my parents tonight. They’re both business-savvy. My mom with her fashion line. My dad with Cobalt Inc., a Fortune 500 he’s helmed since his early twenties.
I just want to prove I can solve my own problems. At this day and age in my life, running to a parent feels like needing help zipping up my own pants.
Slightly humiliating. Very demoralizing.
I’d just rather turn to my brothers.
At the fashion show, Jeremy’s eyes smiled first. “Let’s see if you have the voice to back up the ego.” He passed me his business card, and the rest is history.
Jeremy Shaw gets shit done. Without him, I would’ve never signed my first record deal.
Being a hot second from losing it makes me feel like I’m letting him down too. The guy who believed in me and not just because I’m a Cobalt.
“Two things,” I repeat so Jere knows I’m listening. I almost jog to keep up with his long legs, and I’m not that short at six-one. But he’s as tall as my brother, Ben, who’s six-fucking-five.
“One.” Jeremy stops at the door to Control Room A, his hand on the brass knob. “This is your last chance. Understand that he is your only option left.”
I blink out the scratchy sensation in my eyes. “Only option left, yeah.” I swallow hard. “But I mean, I could—”
“Tom.” Jeremy clutches my shoulder, and I meet his pragmatism head-on.
“You want to stay with this label. Riot Records Music—the biggest rock label I can land you in this industry—then he is your last chance. You’ve burned their time, which is money.
This is the only realistic way to convince them The Carraways won’t be a financial loss. ”
I need Riot Records. Smaller labels don’t have the same type of power if I want to make it big. It’ll also be a crater-sized ding to my reputation if other labels hear I had a falling out with Riot. I could be branded as a liability.
“Okay,” I nod, accepting this and trusting Jere. “He’s my last chance.”
“And two.” He cranes his pierced brows at me. “Give him an hour before you walk out.”
I flinch. “What’s wrong with him? Is he ugly?” I hold up my hands fast. “Because I can deal with ugly. It won’t bother me.”
He has an amused smile. “I told him to give you an hour too.”
My mouth plummets. “Why would he walk out on me?” I side-eye the control room door. “Is he already in there?” Who the fuck is this guy? I don’t even know what instrument he plays or if he does vocals.
“He’s waiting for you.” Jeremy opens the door, and I’m starting to believe he’s purposefully evading dropping this dude’s name. Which means I must know him and already dislike him.
Except I enter the control room…and I can honestly say that I’ve never seen this guy in my life.
Near the mixing console and desktop computers, he’s seated on a long black leather couch, bent forward and cupping his cellphone between two hands. As he sits upright, he pries his eyes off the screen and fixes them on me. I try not to intake a breath.
I’ve definitely never met him before.
Because those are eyes I’d never forget. Angry, intense, unusual. Around his pupil, the brown hue bleeds into blue.
His face is also one I’d remember. Pouty pink lips and a razor-sharp jawline and unfriendly, furrowed brows. He has a dark edge that fastens my gaze, and I instantly realize he’s ten times hotter than Phoenix, who gave me a hard-on in a thirty-second 2D video tonight.
Yeah.
I’m very fucked.
Last thing I want is to have a schoolyard crush on a fucking band member. He’s probably straight anyway. No, I hope he’s straight. No distractions.
It would’ve been better if he were butt ugly.
I run my stiff fingers through my hair. Neither of us speak yet.
Sleeves to his gray Henley shirt are pushed to his elbows.
Various black tattoos scatter his fair skin.
From bat wings to roses, thorns, snakes, a spider and skull.
The etched ink resembles old woodcut engravings.
Little Roman numerals underline some of them, making all his tattoos come together like an ancient, unexplored tapestry.
I can’t read it fast enough.
A black backward baseball cap holds down his dark brown hair. Based on his muscled forearms and cut biceps alone, I assume he’s a drummer.
His eyes flit hard to Jeremy. “Him?” He’s pissed.
I glare. “Oh great, you know who I am. Don’t know who the hell you are.”
He doesn’t even offer a sharp look back. I’m offended that he’s acting like I’m unworthy of his fucking attention.
“One hour,” Jeremy reminds this dick. “I’ll give you two time alone. Call me if I need to referee. I’ll be in the upstairs lounge.” He exits before we can respond.
Mystery Guy’s brown-blue eyes shift harder onto me. “I’m guessing Jere didn’t mention who he was pairing you up with either.”
“He didn’t mention I’d be with a diva, no.”
“A diva?” He leans farther backward. “If only he warned me I’d be with a judgy nepo baby.”
I grimace.
Being called judgy stings more than the nepo comment. The latter I’m more used to hearing. I’m born into billions since my family owns a ton of companies, the most notable being Fizzle—the most popular soda dynasty in the world.
I nod a few times and suck down my oversized pride.
He’s your last chance.
I don’t cut the distance between us, but I formally introduce myself, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
“We’re doing middle names?” He doesn’t stand. He just threads his arms, his legs still spread open. A confident, incensed masculine posture. I can’t even call it a slouch. He’s sitting too upright. I hate that I find it even remotely attractive.
“Yeah, middle names. First names. Last names. Not in that order.” My tone is harsh. “Are you going to give me yours or do I need to guess? Because you look like a Patrick.”
He glowers. “Why? My hair isn’t even red.” It’s so dark brown, it’s almost black, and his skin is pale.
“You’re Irish though.”
His jaw twitches. Holy fuck, I’m actually right about his ancestry. I was prepared to be wrong. I contain my surprise and just smirk. “And I meant you look more like the pink starfish Patrick. Friend of SpongeBob.”
“How old are you? Fourteen?”
That shot almost penetrates my tough skin because he sounds seriously worried that I might be young.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Because I referenced a cartoon? Dude, adults watch SpongeBob.”
He gives me a once-over that solidifies my joints.
Heat tries to bathe my face. “You must know my age. You clearly know everything about me. I bet you did a research paper on my family. Or you have a shrine to the Cobalt Empire in your bedroom. You kneel at my poster?”
“You want me to worship you, nepo baby?” He sounds hostile. I crave to fan the flames.
“We can start there.”
“We’re not starting there. We’re not even finishing there.”
“You don’t like being on your knees. Noted,” I snap.
“You ever get on yours?” He aims and fires fast.
“Cobalts don’t kneel.”
“The fuck,” he mutters, eyeing me in a rough up-down. “We need to start with the fact that I barely know you except for your name. That’s it. Your rich family is a part of the fucking lexicon of this country. They’re famous for doing nothing—”
“For a long-ago scandal and being American royalty,” I cut in. “That’s definitely something.”
He stares at me like I come from Jupiter. “You seriously call yourself American royalty?”
“I call myself an American god.”
His brows hoist. “Tell me you’re joking.”
I put a serious hand on my chest. “My confidence isn’t a joke to me.” Then I flip him off.
He groans while pinching the bridge of his nose. His stiffened muscles don’t untense. “What the fuck am I getting into?”
I’m asking myself the same shit.
His hand shifts to his head, his arm flexing. I’d believe he were posing if he didn’t wear edged panic. “Really, are you sixteen or seventeen? Because I’m not working with a minor.”
He’s really pissing me off. “I’m twenty-one.”
He only slightly eases, dropping his arm.
“And you?” I flip my phone in my hand. “Stop taking what I’m giving and share.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
Same age as Charlie and Beckett, my oldest brothers. I can work with that. “I’m going to start calling you Don’t Dick Around if you don’t tell me your name.”
“I’m not dicking around with you,” he says coarsely, then stands…and fuck, he’s tall. I didn’t expect him to have about three inches on me. Oxygen cages in my lungs as he bridges the space between us. Tension stretches with each footfall forward, and heat blisters under my skin.
He stops.
Then he extends a hand and says, “Phoenix Wolfgang St. Pierre.”
He’s screwing with me. “And I’m Gerard Way. Come on, I need your real name.”
He doesn’t even crack a shadow of a smile. “That is my name.”