2. Tom Cobalt #2
“No, that’s the name of the drummer from the band Nothing Personal, and that drummer isn’t you.” I would know. I literally just watched a video clip. He’d need a face transplant to be him. He’s also, very clearly, missing the red birthmark on his neck.
“That drummer isn’t me,” he agrees. “That drummer is my little brother. Birdie St. Pierre.”
It solidifies me.
I feel mind-fucked for a frozen second.
I wince. “No. No.” I shake my head firmly, disbelieving. “Jere must be messing with me.”
“Jeremy isn’t the type to play practical jokes on his clients.”
I’d agree. “And you would know that how?”
“He’s been my manager for years.”
We share a manager. Great. I don’t want to share anything with him. It’s a gut reaction when we’re supposed to be sharing a band. “You’re not Phoenix, dude.” I’m about to call my manager, only stopping when this guy digs in the cargo pocket of his dark pants, retrieving a leather wallet.
While his angered eyes are on mine, he slips out his ID, then passes it over between two fingers.
I swipe it and stare unblinkingly at a photo of the bitter-faced dude in front of me and the accompanying name: PHOENIX WOLFGANG ST. PIERRE.
My pulse has quickened and won’t slow. It dawns on me that I’ve had the hots for his brother.
He seizes the ID back. “Proof enough?”
Yeah. “That proves you’ve always looked like someone broke your favorite toy.”
He drills a threat in me. “Keep trying to read me for filth.”
“I wasn’t planning on stopping,” I combat.
“But thanks for the warning. What are you going to do to me if I keep going? Walk out?” He’s your last chance, Tom.
I grimace. “Or, you know, you could stay.” I swallow shrapnel.
“And you could tell me why your brother is being called Phoenix all over Nothing Personal’s bio and at press junkets. ”
I don’t mention that I’ve met his brother. I don’t mention that we have slight history. I don’t mention that his brother also introduced himself to me as Phoenix St. Pierre.
“He’s using it as a stage name.”
What? “Why?” I say like it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “Phoenix is a douchey name.”
“Says you, Tom. Owner of one of the most generic names in the world.”
Oh my fuck, really? “We’re not talking about my name, Phoenix.” I shove my phone in my jeans angrily and swipe two hands through my hair. “So let me get this straight—you’re Irish with the last name St. Pierre?”
“Mom’s side is O’Toole. Dad’s side is St. Pierre.”
“And your brother is the drummer—so why are you here?”
“I’m a drummer. Birdie is a…” His face twitches as unnamed emotions cross over his features. “Can we not get into him?”
My temple pounds. “I don’t even know if you’re any good at drums, dude. Maybe you fucking suck.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “Maybe you fucking suck at guitar and singing, Tom. Maybe it’s why everyone left your band.” Damn. “The song I heard could’ve been mixed to hide your shitty vocals.”
“So you’ve listened to my music?”
“The Carraways,” he nods. “Yeah. And you named your band after yourself. Big ego. Small dick.” His gaze plunges down, then rises back up.
My face is on fire. “You would know about dicks,” I contest. “You’re an even bigger one than your little brother.”
That felt wrong calling his brother little because I’m certain that I’m around the same age as Birdie.
Phoenix suddenly pushes past me, heading into the tracking room where instruments are spread out among the soundproof walls. I wedge into the doorway to keep it open. “What are you doing?” I call out.
He picks up a pair of wooden sticks off a drum kit. “I’m showing you that I don’t suck.” He slips on chunky black headphones and straddles the stool behind the toms and snare. “You know how to play a track in the control room?”
“Uh, yeah.” I scrutinize how comfortable he is in the live studio room. Like he’s recorded in one before, but he’s not a part of Nothing Personal. I have no idea how much experience Phoenix has making music. “You’ve done this before?” I ask him.
“I’ve been in multiple bands.”
Promising, and yet… “Jere gave me another band’s leftovers.”
“And Jere gave me the reject of a mediocre, failing band.”
“Did you put the emphasis on ‘failing’ because you know calling me mediocre is a lie?”
“Play the track, nepo baby.” He looks restless.
“What track?”
“Sum 41’s ‘Motivation.’”
I head back into the control room. Door shutting behind me, I bend over the mixing console and computer keyboard. I haven’t heard this Sum 41 song in years. Looking up, I see Phoenix clearly through the glass wall.
His leg jostles while he waits impatiently for me to hurry. He spins a stick between his fingers, his chest taut against his gray Henley tee. “Any day now,” he says, his pissed-off voice booming clear through the control room.
I flick a switch so Phoenix can hear me in his headset. “You need a countdown?”
“Just play it. I’ll drop in.”
“Fine.” I turn off my mic, then tap the keyboard. The song begins with a frustration-charged drum intro, and Phoenix seamlessly slides into the blistering tempo. His buff arms move so fast, I can barely see the sticks as they bang the drums in quick, heated succession.
I go motionless when the lyrics hit, and his furious eyes lift to mine through the glass. He never stops drumming, each powerful movement embodying Sum 41’s angst-laden vocals.
My eyes grip him.
I can practically feel him screaming at me as he bangs harder, faster.
My chest collapses. I breathe rougher, and I hunch over the controls in a lunge. The song reminds me of inner restlessness but also stagnation you can’t pry yourself out of.
The situation isn’t ever what you want it to be. I know nothing about Phoenix St. Pierre. Not his motivation for being here or why he’d even consider joining my “mediocre” band when he’s…
He’s really fucking talented.
The kind of unmanufactured, raw talent that I’ve been dreaming about finding. He plays similar to his brother, but there’s more scorched earth under Phoenix. More fire, turmoil, and pain. It draws me in. Seizes. Refuses to let go. This familiar heart-fisting, fervent feeling is why I love music.
Passion unmitigated and passion unrestrained. When life is so confined to rules—don’t say that, don’t do that, don’t be that—music is releasing. It makes me feel untamed.
My pulse hasn’t calmed, and I hear my arduous breath. Until the sound of the creaking door steals my attention.