5. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
What the fuck is this shit?
Tom.
Tom.
Motherfucking Tom Cobalt. If I say his name in my head enough times I’m hoping that this email can magically transform into something that makes sense.
He gave me his calendar, and full days have black boxes in them.
What is he, a part of the CIA? Did someone give him a secret clearance?
What could possibly be so important that he’s marked up four days of every week with these fucking boxes?
No explanation. Just black boxes. Surely, if he were playing golf with his dad, it wouldn’t need to be redacted.
What’s weirder—all the redactions seem to land on random dates except for Wednesdays, which are infinitely blacked out for the entire year.
What the hell is he doing on Wednesdays? Is that the day he jerks off?
Jesus.
I’m so confused.
I sling my laptop aside on my bed. The gray sheets and comforter are bunched at the end of the mattress, which, by the way, is the nicest thing I own outside of my Suzuki.
After wasting money on three different sleep studies, I thought it’d be better spent splurging on joint-cradling memory foam and luxe cooling technology.
To be fair, a seven-grand mattress feels spectacular, but it hasn’t cured my insomnia.
It’s 6 a.m.
I slept for about an hour last night, I think. That’s going to be hell later, but right now I’m wide awake and staring down the enigma that is Tom Cobalt’s schedule.
I’ve resisted the urge to Google him. I’m sure there are dozens of articles and at-length Wikipedia entries about the guy.
But I’m a firm believer of the “don’t believe everything you read” philosophy, and I’m not about to play a game of What’s Bullshit with him.
It’s easier just to treat this the same as joining any other band.
Fuck it.
I’m calling him.
We exchanged phone numbers at the end of the studio session yesterday. I scroll down to where I added him in my contacts as NEPO BABY, and I put the call on speakerphone.
He answers on the second ring, and it shocks me. I thought he’d be sleeping in way past six on a Monday.
“Phoenix?” Tom asks, no just-woke-up grogginess in his voice. “Or is this Fake Phoenix? The other bird guy. Maybe Eagle? Falcon? Do you have another brother named Turkey?”
I’m going to kill him.
My hand squeezes tight on my cell. “Why the hell are you a singer when it’s clear you’re aching to be a stand-up comedian? Scared of being booed off stage?”
“Dude, you don’t think I’ve been booed before? I’m not scared of that.”
I grind my jaw as curiosity piques. Who booed him? Why? I can’t imagine it was for his singing. The guy didn’t miss a note yesterday. He sounded immaculate.
Remembering how he sang to me has my body flexing like I’m about to be shoved backward on the bed. I tense at the feeling and reach over for a cigarette.
I can’t pry his voice out of my brain. Not any more than I can his face. Those pulsing blue eyes strangled me, challenged me, rattled me. For Tom, a guy I could probably easily throw, I felt pummeled. Then revved like a V12 engine.
“Your schedule,” I tell him, tossing the phone on the bed while I smack a pack of cigarettes on my palm. “What the hell is going on with it?”
“Are you illiterate?” Tom asks without a hint of sarcasm, dryness, or humor. He’s completely serious, I think.
I glance over at the classic dystopian novels stacked on my bedside table. 1984 and Brave New World. On top is Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel, my current library checkout.
“No,” I force.
“It’s okay if you are. Judgment free zone.”
“This is not a judgment free zone.” I slip a cigarette behind my ear, too amped from him to even smoke. “I am fully judging you. And I can fucking read, man. But why does your schedule have all these black boxes?”
“Those are my blackout days. I’m busy.”
“Busy?” I stare at the phone on my sheets. “With what? Golf?”
Tom bursts out laughing. “Yeah, no. I am banned from three different members-only golf clubs for flipping the carts.”
All right, that is unexpected. “Pickleball then?”
“Also banned for snapping the nets. And before you ask, I don’t know how to sail. Never been skeet shooting. Can’t ski for shit. But I do know how to snowboard, and my family owns a yacht.”
“Just a yacht,” I say dryly.
“It’s a big yacht. I also have a black card and can take you out for a five-course Michelin-star dinner, but I’m getting the sense that you won’t be impressed by either.”
I feel myself in a daze watching the phone, like Tom will appear out of thin air. I stop myself from asking whether he’s used to buying guys dinner.
Not important.
He’s just a big question mark, and I need some answers now. His schedule is not flying with me.
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“Hold on a sec.”
My patience is razor-thin, and as I hear him rustle around, I almost ask to go on video chat.
Don’t press.
It’s fine.
He’s probably getting dressed, not fucking off in the background with a one-night stand or a bottle of Jack. I thumb my temple in slow circles. My stomach contracts.
He’s busy.
I’ve never hung out with anyone as wealthy as Tom.
The Cobalts are like gilded-gates, Hyannis Port rich.
I have no clue if his parents have rubbed elbows at the Kennedy’s summer compound in Mass.
All I’m picturing is this high-society family roping him into snooty charity galas and elitist banquets of the ilk.
“Back,” Tom says. “Sorry, my computer was about to die.”
I can’t even relax knowing he wasn’t partying late last night. I pick up the phone and hold the speaker near my mouth. “Look, I’m not joining your band if you’re not committed to it.”
I bet this is why all the other members dropped out. Because he’s not putting in the effort.
“I am one hundred and fifty percent committed to The Carraways. It’s insulting you would think otherwise.”
“I’m so sorry I insulted you,” I say snidely.
“Apology not accepted since you are clearly not apologetic.”
Jesus Christ. I can’t remember the last time I met someone who has a rebuttal for everything. That’s usually me.
“Clearly,” I say. “But I can’t be in a band with someone who’s unavailable almost half the week.”
He sighs heavily. “I have obligations…family stuff.”
I run a tense hand through my hair. Maybe his parents have an iron fist around his schedule.
“Family stuff? Like sitting in board meetings?” I ask.
He laughs again. “If I were sitting in board meetings, I’d bail on those for you in a heartbeat.
No, it’s other stuff.” He pauses for a beat.
“I’m trying to be the best brother to my little brother this year.
It’s a goal of mine—and I don’t have many of those outside of music.
So…if you can spot me this one, that’d be great. ”
“I’d be spotting you four times a week. Can you be the best big brother without taking this much time off?”
“It’s complicated. Showing up is important, and this year in particular matters the most. The timing, I know, is shit.” He groans out into an exhale. “But I do have a solution. I don’t think you’ll love it.”
“Let’s hear it.” I grip my phone harder.
“Would you consider coming to some of these with me? We can technically work on songs anywhere and set up rehearsal time later to flesh them out.”
“You want me to come to your family events?” I ask in surprise. “I thought those would be forbidden to anyone who doesn’t have seven figures in their bank account.”
“You will be an exception.” He adds quickly, “Not because of your bank account, dude. More so because your last name isn’t Cobalt.
We are highly exclusive by design. But my family knows how much I’ve been grueling to get this band going, and they know you’re my last hope. I think they’ll respect that.”
He thinks.
Tom takes a deeper breath. “But this will mean you’ll be meeting my brothers.”
“So?” I frown. “Is that a big deal?”
“Most people would find it a massive deal.”
“Lucky for you, I don’t worship the ground your family walks on.” I slip my cigarette back in the pack and toss it into my end table drawer. “I’m in. I’ll attend whatever functions I can. Resend your schedule without the boxes on the ones you’d let me come to.”
I can already hear him typing on a keyboard. “Your schedule is interesting, by the way. What’s a TMS? You put that down on a few days.”
“The Manhattan Symphony. I’m on their sub list, so I get called to fill in when someone is out sick or on vacation.
And in full transparency, I’m also on the sub list for the New York Ballet Company Orchestra and The Manhattan Opera Orchestra, and I take some other random gigs around town.
Sometimes it’s last minute, and it’s really not what I want to be doing. But I have to pay my loans some—”
“I’m sorry,” he cuts me off. “You’re in the fucking orchestra?”
He says it like I just dropped down from outer space. “Is that a problem?”
“Why the fuck do you want to be in my band?”
I rest my skull against the headboard. “Why don’t we do this in person and not over the phone? That way you can see me glare at you.” I reach for my laptop and skim his calendar. Today, surprisingly, isn’t filled with a black box. “Meet for breakfast? There’s a good pancake spot between us.”
“Can I pick the place?” he asks.
It doesn’t bode well for “cooperating” and “collaboration” if he can’t even agree to a breakfast joint that I offer. One that I suggested for him. I don’t even love pancakes.
“And I’m the diva?” I reply.
He groans into an exasperated sigh. “Dude.”
I think I poked a nerve.
He adds, “I’m not like that. We could eat on the hood of a car. But I do have a bodyguard trailing me, and it’s easier going somewhere I’ve been before.”
“A bodyguard?” I didn’t notice his bodyguard at the studio. Maybe he waited outside?
“My whole family has private security.”
I’m shocked he’d need security for breakfast. It’s not like he’s that famous. At least not like his parents are, but the way he talks, I’m starting to feel like I’m joining a band with the president’s dickhead son.