4. Phoenix St. Pierre #2
I almost smile back. Almost. My stomach cramps at the uncertainty of how the rest of this news will go. “Yeah, you’re not wrong,” I say lightly.
My brother’s talent outpaced mine when he was three and I was just five.
Young, but our parents are professional musicians.
They first met in the Boston Symphony Orchestra.
Miriam O’Toole on the viola and Philippe St. Pierre on the cello.
Naturally, they threw me and Birdie—their only two kids—into music as fast as possible.
One of my first memories is playing a toy xylophone and rocking out with my little brother.
Birdie wound up being their musical prodigy. He could play any instrument and sight-read most pieces. He was the one who landed a full ride to Berklee College of Music, whereas I’m still taking as many extra gigs I can to pay off my loans.
But despite his hard work and high aptitude, there’s one instrument I’m better at than him—and that’s the drums.
I pick some of the onions off my hot dog. Not feeling them tonight. “With my history, Jeremy said it wasn’t going to be easy to find someone who’d take me.”
“You mean your history blowing up Sophomore Summer.”
The name of our first band together sends acid up my throat. I slide him a glare.
Birdie shrugs. “Call it like it is, Phoenix. You lost it. You detonated. You—”
“I remember, man. I was there,” I cut him off. “It was the worst night of my fucking life.” Resentment, bitterness, rage accumulates like I’m one volatile step away from combustion, and I hate this feeling. I hate being brought back to that night where I just want to punch something.
“You also remember the stupid ass vow you made that night?” he asks.
Yeah.
I promised my brother and myself that I’d never play in another band again. “At the time, it wasn’t fucking stupid.”
“It was stupid,” Birdie argues. He shoves the hot dog in his mouth, chomping half of it before licking more mustard off his fingers.
No way to sugarcoat it, he eats like a barbarian.
“I’m not shocked you’re breaking that vow, seeing as how it was idiotic to even make. But why now? What the hell changed?”
I wrap my remaining hot dog back in aluminum foil. My stomach in knots. I can’t tell Birdie the actual reason without descending into a deeper, darker rabbit hole from my birthday on New Year’s Day.
He has no idea what happened.
It’s not what I want to get into. It’s not what I even need to tell him tonight anyway.
“Look, it’s not the reason, but maybe I need to play again,” I tell him something. “Like actually play in a band and not tune equipment for someone else.” I swallow harder. “It’s been three years since Sophomore Summer, Bird, and it still…”
The pain of that night still gnaws from the inside.
Music helps seep all these toxic emotions into something that won’t harm, and I haven’t really had that in years. Writing songs for Nothing Personal just isn’t the same as pouring out everything on stage.
Birdie bobs his head in understanding, but he says, “You aren’t going to tell me the real reason?”
“Not tonight. Maybe not ever.” I glare out at the ice-skating rink.
“If someone fucked with you—”
“You are my little brother,” I remind him sharply. “If someone fucked with me, I will fuck with them back.”
Birdie tries to relax. “I think you’re right, though. You need to be playing in a band again.”
“Jeremy found me one,” I tell him.
“Obviously. That’s why you were MIA tonight—you were fucking around with a new band and lost track of time, right?”
“Not fucking around. Just…brain consumed, I guess.”
Joining The Carraways was not on my radar. I thought maybe Jeremy found me a cover band. Hell, I was gearing up to play yacht rock with how much Jere kept the whole meet-up covert like he knew I’d hate the plan.
I did not anticipate he was pairing me up with…Tom Carra-fucking Cobalt. For Christ’s sake, he introduced himself with his middle name. Who does that?
I steal my brother’s water since I didn’t buy a drink, and I wash down the ball in my throat.
“Brain consumed,” Birdie repeats after he finishes his hot dog and crumples the foil in his hand. “So what band has got you this riled up? Is it new or an established one?”
“It’s The Carraways.”
His eyes flame in a hot beat. “Say that again.”
I cap his water bottle. “I’m not repeating it. Saying it once already boils my blood.”
“And yet you’re still going through with this?” He rises to his feet just to tower over me. Maybe forgetting I’m two years older than him. Two inches taller. I stand up and have the height advantage easily. But my brother carries himself like he’s seven feet tall scoring dunk after dunk in the NBA.
I push my hair out of my face. Tension grips my muscles. “I know what you’re going to say,” I tell him. “Tom is—”
“An egomaniac,” Birdie cuts me off hotly. “And an actual certified bonehead. Because there is no way he doesn’t have dick for brains. I have been rejected once in my entire life at an audition, and it was by that fucker.”
Birdie auditioned for The Carraways right after Sophomore Summer imploded. He’d been in a bad place, just like me, and the drumming position seemed like a real light at the end of a dark tunnel.
So I know it hit him extra hard when Tom told him he didn’t get the spot—and that was three years ago.
And even though Birdie ended up with Nothing Personal a month later, he never moved past the anger.
He still flips off the television screen anytime a Cobalt appears on entertainment news.
I’ve been equally annoyed by Tom and, by association, his family.
It truly makes no fucking sense why he’d reject my brother other than elitism.
I honestly wonder if I’m setting myself up to be kicked out of the band for some silly reason. Like maybe Tom has a thousand-and-one pet peeves or is a true diva that needs his M&Ms color-sorted by an assistant.
“He’s all those things,” I agree with Birdie. “Believe me, he’s not my first or second choice.”
“So call him. Tell him to fuck off.”
I waver. Only because I heard Tom’s song. The one that’s fusing itself to my brain stem.
Birdie groans off my hesitation. “Tom Cobalt—”
“Tom Carraway Cobalt. He likes to be referred to by his full name.” I force a tight smile.
Birdie’s brows hike. “Wow.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“Just so you know, Tom Carraway Cobalt called me a year ago to ask if I’d reconsider joining his band.”
I step back like I’ve been pushed. “What?” I didn’t know that. I just thought the sum of their interactions began and ended at that audition.
Birdie nods. “Oh yeah. Your new little bandmate changed his mind about rejecting me. Realized the error of his ways. Apparently, The Carraways has had a drummer problem for years. Can’t land a good one. Kept cycling through shitty ones.” He grins triumphantly. “What I call karmic justice.”
My brain is buzzing. “So he called you? And you told him, what?”
“To beg me.”
Yeah, that sounds like my brother. I let out a short, dry laugh. This is great. So fucking great. How am I supposed to work with Tom when my brother and him have this kind of animosity. Is it already marked for ruin?
“You said it just like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, I honestly should have told him to grovel. Get on his knees. Kiss the ring.” Birdie wears a St. Pierre family heirloom on his index finger.
A silver fede ring, what our grandfather calls a bague de foi (faith ring).
“I feel like I went too nice on him.” He evaluates me like maybe he should go harder now.
“Bird—”
“I want to cash in my Future Favor. You call him. Tell him that you won’t be his drummer unless he grovels.”
I release a constricted laugh. “That guy is never going to grovel. If I could get him on his knees, don’t you think I’d try?”
“Not as hard as me.” Birdie rests a foot on the bench, just to retie his shined black loafer. “Positions swapped, I’d literally tell him to drop to the floor and blow me.”
I seriously doubt that, and not because Birdie wouldn’t receive head from a man. His sexuality has been undefined since he went down on his TA in college.
I pick up my mallet bag. “Yeah, well, I’m not looking to get sucked off, Bird.
I’m just looking for a fucking bandmate.
” Tom isn’t someone I’m interested in dating or even sleeping with—not because he’s not my type.
I’ve destroyed one band already, and fucking a band member is like throwing dynamite into any formula for success.
Birdie sets his foot on the ground. “The Carraways. You need to say the name out loud for it to really sink in what you’re about to do.”
I take a deep breath through my nose. “Nepo baby isn’t who I want to work with.
But I do want to play drums, and Jeremy set us up, so I’m not going to let Jere down at least.” I slide a rough hand through my hair.
“Tom is who I have right now, and maybe it doesn’t work out.
He might not have any time for a band. I have no idea what his schedule looks like. ”
“Probably eating steak dinners at the Metropolitan Club. Sitting at board meetings for his family’s companies. Tee time at nine a.m. with Daddy.” Birdie looks me over. “You know all the things we hate. You’re getting into bed with that.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.