5. Phoenix St. Pierre #3
“I also have standards. Maybe you don’t reach mine, Tom.”
He winces like that was a stab at his chest. “No.”
“No?” I laugh. “That’s it.”
“Yeah, dude. Just no. I would be absolutely shocked if I don’t meet your expectatio—”
“Because you’re that goo—”
“I am that good,” he cuts me off like I did him. “And there’s no way your standards come even close to mine.”
I cross my arms, blood simmering. “You must miss being back on a playground. How were those private school sandboxes?”
“Diabolical. We buried hundred-dollar bills in our sandcastles. Can you believe that?” He looks as agitated as I feel.
My biceps tense. “You want to tell me you think your shoes are cooler than mine too?”
“You want to look and see?” he slings back.
Fuck it. I take the bait and slide a little out of the booth just to look at his sneakers. Vans. But he’s marked them up with Sharpie. Skulls, crossbones, and lightning bolts. They look like they belong to an angsty teenager, and yet I can picture plenty of college students copying his style.
No fucking way am I calling him a trendsetter.
“And?” Tom asks when I slide back in the booth.
I refuse to comment on his shoes. “And isn’t there something you wanted to ask me? That’s why I’m here.”
He smirks like he knows he’s working his way under my skin. His eyes roam over me, studying me, and I exhale a long breath through my nose to cool off.
“The orchestra?” Tom asks. “How’d you get into that?”
“I went to Berklee College of Music for orchestral percussion.” I sit stiffer. “I spent most of my childhood thinking I was going to be in the orchestra like my parents, but I fell in love with rock music along the way, and my dreams changed.”
“But you are in the orchestra?” Tom narrows his eyes in confusion.
“Not full-time. Like I was trying to tell you on the phone, it’s just something I have to do to pay my bills while Nothing Personal isn’t on tour.
” He looks more confused, and I realize I never told him my connection to the band.
“I’ve been on stage crew with Nothing Personal for three years.
I also wrote songs for them, but it was all work-for-hire. I don’t get royalties.”
He runs a tense hand through his hair. He looks nervous that I’m in his band, which is expected if he knew my history with Sophomore Summer, not my involvement with Nothing Personal. Now I honestly don’t want to bring up the topic of my first band, the one I obliterated.
Tom shifts backward in the booth. “So you’re the reason my ears bleed every time Nothing Personal comes on the radio.”
“Unless you hate the lyrics, that’s not me. I’m not involved in arranging the songs. Believe me, I was kicked out of many studio sessions.”
Tom relaxes a fraction. “So you have some taste.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“If you want it to be, you can take it as one. I’ll allow it.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I’ve never met anyone as infuriatingly cocky as him. “I’ll allow you being a raging egomaniac for five seconds.”
“What happens after five seconds?” Tom asks with a rising smile.
“Then the duct tape comes out.” I bow forward toward him, and his smile falters for half a second. “I’ll hold you down and cover your arrogant fucking mouth.”
He clears something deep in his throat, and my pulse races seeing Tom become flustered for even a millisecond.
I size him up, trying not to picture my hands on him now. Trying not to wonder what experience he’s even had in bed. Don’t go there with him.
Tom finds his voice. “That’s it?”
I choke on a dry sound. “What do you want me to do to you?”
Tom drums the table. “Poison. Death.”
“Sure, next time, I’ll go all medieval on you and shove a sword in your chest. Then I can play on stage with a bleeding corpse.”
“Poetic.” Tom tries to smile but can’t. He reaches for his water but doesn’t take a sip as he clutches the glass.
He taps his finger against it a couple times.
Tension mounts, and I can’t tell what type.
“I want this to work out more than you know,” he suddenly says.
“This isn’t a hobby to me. This is my life. ”
I nod, starting to feel like maybe I’ve pegged Tom wrong. He might be an egotistical dick, but he’s not a bored trust fund kid who’s expecting to be carried to a platinum record.
His abrupt honesty pushes me to reciprocate. “I want to play in a band, write rock music, perform live—more than anything else. The idea that it might never work out, that this is as far as I go, makes me want to puke.”
“Same.” Tom eases slightly. We stare at each other with this acknowledgment. We might’ve found some common ground.
The urge to die trying.
Then his forearms stiffen, his hand gripping the glass too tightly. He swallows a big gulp of water and sets it back on the table. One readying breath later, he tells me, “Before we go any further, there’s something I need to ask you to do. I’ve been avoiding it. But it’s kind of…unavoidable.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him so nervous that he can’t look me in the eyes. I have no guesses what it could be, but my gut drops when he says, “It might be a dealbreaker.”