6. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
I’ve never struggled so hard with this part of my life. Asking a friend to sign an NDA, no issue. Asking RJ to sign one kind of sucked, but I wasn’t dreading it like I’m about to be stranded alone on a leech-infested island.
I hate how much Phoenix’s answer to this stupid question will make or break my dreams. I’ve never had to rely so hard on one guy.
He has all my hopes nestled in his hands—and granted, they look like strong, capable fucking hands—but I’m still holding my breath as soon as I ask, “Can you sign an NDA?”
He frowns like it doesn’t compute. Awesome.
“A non-disclosure agreement,” I clarify.
He glares. “I know what an NDA is, nepo baby. I’m trying to figure out why you would need one.” His intense eyes shift around the diner, then return to me. “It’s not like you’ve got adoring fans clamoring for your autograph.”
Okay, ouch.
But he’s not wrong. Duke’s on 10th is at half-capacity.
The closest occupied booth is taken by my thirty-four-year-old bodyguard, Ian Wreath, who pretends to ignore us while sipping a drip coffee.
The mic in his ear and cord clipped to the collar of his pressed button-down are a dead giveaway he’s private security, but Phoenix has paid zero attention to him.
I’ve gathered Phoenix hasn’t realized that guy is actually with me and he’s not just a random New Yorker ingesting his morning cup of Joe.
I’m not pointing him out.
When Phoenix first sat down, the mint and eucalyptus scent wafting off him nearly sent me over an edge. He looks so clean, like he spent half his morning raking his hands through his hair in the shower and scrubbing a washcloth down his body. I’m trying not to imagine him naked, but fail. Big fail.
It’s almost annoying that he didn’t show up here with halitosis and B.O.
Good hygiene is a baseline standard of mine, and I should be very fucking happy my new bandmate isn’t a walking garbage can.
Instead, I’m trying to thwart apprehension.
It doesn’t help I’m face-to-face with someone who looks willing to chainsaw me in half. He has this brooding intensity that pulls me out of a slouch. I keep feeling off-kilter around him. Like the ground beneath me is about to quake.
He’s not wearing a black baseball cap today.
His dark hair is long enough to hang in his eyes, but it’s cut short around his neck.
Mostly, I’m caught on his arms. How he’s threaded them over his hard chest. His biceps bulge against a long-sleeved, tight gray tee, and despite sitting upright, his knees are spread open again.
I can tell. Even seated in a booth.
I’ve been trying not to knock knees with him.
As I drag out the silence, I feel his leg jostling under the table. I like how it rattles the saltshaker.
“Unless I’m wrong,” Phoenix cuts into the quiet. “Your fans are waiting outside. Ready to maul you to death.” His brown-blue eyes are fixed on mine.
He knows he’s not wrong.
I don’t humor that scenario.
“The NDA really isn’t about me,” I explain.
“Some people in my family have the type of fame that follows and stalks. I want to feel comfortable talking to you about everything, including them. I can’t do that unless you sign an NDA.
” I ball up the paper wrapper from my straw.
“Also, if you want any chance of being in the same room as my brothers, you’re going to have to sign it.
My brother, Beckett, is about ten hundred times more private than I am. ”
Phoenix will find this out himself. It’s almost dizzying bringing him in this fast. I can’t even imagine what a Beckett and Phoenix run-in will look like. I’ve barely conceptualized a Charlie and Phoenix combination.
I don’t typically bring guys around my two oldest brothers.
Not that it wouldn’t be entertaining to see their reactions. I just like support when it comes to decisions I make regarding guys I like, and Eliot delivers unwaveringly. In spades. I don’t need the naysayer brothers to pipe in.
Not that I’m hooking up with Phoenix. He is not that. I need to start thinking of him like Warner. My old bandmate was straight, and he knew all my brothers decently well. No big conflict. No issues.
This’ll just be like round two of Warner. Especially since Phoenix is also straight, I’m pretty sure.
He considers the NDA for way too long. Like more than a half-second. It’s driving me bananas.
I add, “All my past bandmates had no issue signing one.”
“Great, so we can start by reaffirming that I’m not your past bandmates.” Well, there goes that.
“Obviously. You are much…” Hotter.
His brows rise like he’s waiting for the insult.
I think about complimenting him to throw him off, but I’m lost for a second by truly how good looking this dude is and his earlier threat to duct-tape my mouth.
To hold me down. My body is still blazing.
I never wanted to have someone so goddamn distracting in my band.
Maybe this is my easy out. Maybe I should take this as a heavenly sign to call it quits like Charlie suggested.
The word “quit” actually gives me acid reflux. I reach for my water again.
He frowns. “You really aren’t going to finish your sentence?”
“Nope.” I take a large swig. “I’m trying to get along with you too.”
We both go quiet when a server comes over. I don’t say anything when Phoenix orders the eggs benedict. I’m on pins and needles waiting for his reply. After she leaves and I stack our menus behind the ketchup and mustard bottles, Phoenix turns back to me.
“I’ll sign the NDA on one condition,” he says.
“Anything.”
He blinks. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. I would literally lick your boots right here, right now, if you asked me to.” It just came out. Fuck.
His brows catapult. “For real?”
“No.” Maybe. I waver. He can see me wavering. It’s boiling me in under a second. I’m not a seesaw. I make plans. I execute to the highest of my ability. “I’d get over being humbled on a Monday, but if I go down on your boots, you’re going down on mine.”
“I’m not licking your Vans.”
“Fine. Offer is rescinded.”
Phoenix examines me. “Now two conditions.”
I drum the table, trying to release the tension spooling in my body. For once, I’m glad there’s no audience. Charlie will never know I sucked this hard at bargaining.
“Sure.” I nod.
“First—you involve me in making the music. I’m not your hired drummer who just follows your directions. I want creative input.”
I didn’t expect that, but maybe I should’ve. “We can divvy the songs,” I suggest. “I’ll work on the first half. You take the second.”
“The album should feel cohesive. We need to work on them together.”
Together?
You don’t work well with others, Tom Carraway.
Just go solo.
What are you doing?
We could kill each other before we ever finish an album. Phoenix could run out on me just like Warner did.
The day he quit…I’d never felt that low in my life.
Fear tries to rust my bones. “You really think that’s a good idea?” I ask, tearing apart the straw wrapper into tiny pieces. He’s bouncing his legs so much, the pepper tips over. Neither of us rights it.
“I don’t see a better one.” Phoenix dusts the pepper granules off the table. “Look, it’s not like I’ve ever been in the creative trenches with another guy either. But Jeremy didn’t put us together thinking this would fail.”
We’re going to be spending every waking minute with each other, aren’t we?
It’s terrifying yet…alluring, and it’s impossible for me to run away from a challenge, even one that might test my limits. I don’t just want to succeed.
I want to exceed.
“Okay,” I say. “You’ll have creative input. And the second condition?”
“I’ll sign the NDA if you sign one from me.”
I frown. “Why? You don’t need one.”
“Not yet. But four or five years down the line if our band is famous, maybe I will. And I’d like this partnership to be equal. If I sign one, then you sign one.”
Our band.
Partnership.
Four or five years down the line.
Equal.
His words make this feel real. I like that he’s thinking about the future. I’ve had drummers come into The Carraways just to leave like it was a stepping stone to a bigger band. One with more potential.
“Deal.” I nod. “We’re 50-50. Equal partnership. I’ll sign an NDA.”
Phoenix relaxes backward, then our server appears with our breakfast. I cut into my strawberry waffle with a fork and knife, sensing him observing me the same way I’m scrutinizing him.
He seems like an ordinary dude. He likes ketchup on his breakfast potatoes.
He isn’t dumping half a gallon of salt on his eggs.
I don’t need to worry about my drummer keeling over from high cholesterol.
So far, the most unusual thing about him is that he ordered black iced coffee when it’s freezing outside.
The prolonged quiet unsettles me, and as I shift into a slouch, my leg bumps against his leg. I’m about to apologize until he nudges mine backward with his foot.
“You were in my space,” I point out, though I sit more upright so my traitorous face will stop flaming.
“You want a warning next time I touch you, prima donna?”
“You could start with an apology.”
“Sorry I didn’t kick you harder.” He stabs a potato.
Yep, he’s still an ass. “I could be averse to touch. You could’ve just irreparably traumatized me.”
“Oh sorry.” He lets go of his fork, the silverware clattering loudly in the diner. I try not to smile. “Do you need me to wear a hazmat suit too? Should I fuck off to Australia with the kangaroos? Will that be enough space for you?”
I give him a middle finger. “I appreciate your willingness to comply with my boundaries.”
He picks up his fork. “If you have real boundaries, Tom, say them now.”
“None that should concern you.” I finish slicing up my waffle. “I tend to push boundaries, not create them.”
“Ditto.” That casual admittance has my curiosity on fire, but before I can press him, he asks, “How dead set are you on the name?”
“The name?” It takes me a full revolution around the sun to realize he’s talking about my band name. “Wait…The Carraways? That name? The name of my fucking band?”