9. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
Istiffen like death is setting in. Charlie, thankfully, is still staring at his book and is not witnessing my figurative passing.
Leo Valavanis is a twenty-four-year-old ballet dancer who should not be texting me.
There was one very drunken moment at a nightclub where I might’ve told Leo my number.
He never called or texted, so I started thinking that I hallucinated the treasonous fucking act where I gave him my personal contact info.
Clearly not. That legit happened.
This wouldn’t be a problem if Beckett wasn’t also a principal dancer with the New York Ballet Company and didn’t act as if Leo moonlights as a serial killer. Beckett despises Leo’s mere existence since NYBC pits them as rivals.
I respond fast before the temptation to accept the invitation becomes unbearable.
TOM CARRAWAY
Probably busy.
There. I denied him.
I’m not a shit brother. Loyalty intact. Eliot would be proud. My frown deepens. I like the feeling of being wanted, but it’s unusual for me to give out my number. So I’m rarely asked out for drinks.
The door blows open.
Beckett is home.
I overturn my phone on the couch cushion. Only to realize Charlie is staring at me like I’m translucent again. This time, it’s actually unsettling.
I try to focus on Beckett, Charlie’s fraternal twin.
His yellow-green eyes dash in heavy concern toward my bedroom down the hall, but he doesn’t check on Ben. Dropping his gym bag, he takes a seat in the identical chair beside Charlie.
His dark brown hair is damp. Probably from showering at the ballet studio.
He’s currently in rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet, which’ll be showing in a few weeks.
I try to keep up with his hectic schedule.
Every month, there’s a new rehearsal and a new ballet production.
Then there are the galas, mixed-rep programs, and one-acts packed into a year of full-length shows.
Most people think of ballet as The Nutcracker in December and Romeo and Juliet in February, but it’s so much more than that.
Beckett works nonstop doing what he supremely loves. He’s honestly my idol.
Which is why I’m not checking my phone. Not even when it buzzes with a response from Leo.
“How’s Ben?” Beckett asks me.
“He’s good.” I pick myself out of a slouch.
Beckett frowns, studying my stiff posture. “Are you sure?” He twists to Charlie. “Il s’est passé quelque chose?” Did something happen?
“I don’t know, did something happen, Tom?” Charlie asks in a tone that says I’m not clever enough to get away unscathed.
If Eliot were here, maybe I would. He’s such a good liar, he’s practically a national Cobalt treasure.
I lean backward to relax and avoid the burn against my neck. “From what I can tell, Ben seems all right. No strange behavior. Oh, but he is concerned whether I’m avoiding getting laid because we share a room.”
Beckett looks me over like I’m now the subject of his deep concern. “Are you?”
“I think we should circle back to Charlie and give him a standing ovation for being present this week.” I applaud.
Charlie rotates his pen—his eyes back on his book. Thank fuck. “Horrible way to change the subject.”
“By celebrating you?” I shake my head in mock shame. “You should be soaking in the adoration. I don’t give it to you that often.”
“You give it far too often. Just not more than Eliot.”
“So you’re admitting you enjoy mine more.”
Charlie lifts his gaze to mine. “You are the personification of a cicada.”
“Because I can sing? That’s not very creative of you, Charlie Keating.”
“Because you don’t shut up,” he clarifies.
Valid.
My phone vibrates in the briefest second of quiet. Beckett sees me silence my phone without checking the screen.
“Is it that one guy?” he asks.
“What guy?” I’m panicked. Internally freaking out.
Beckett has a what the fuck face, so I know this is an external shitshow. I am the shitshow. “RJ—the guy you’re sleeping with. The one you won’t bring around me or Charlie.”
“No, dude.” What is everyone’s obsession with me and RJ tonight? “And I don’t bring anyone I’ve slept with around you.”
“Isn’t he the only guy you’ve slept with?” Beckett asks.
My ears are ringing. My head spinning. I’m starting to realize I’ve told my brothers way too much about my sex life. “Anal, yeah. Okay. But I meant hookups that went far, just not that far.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes sincerely.
“It’s fine. You’re straight. You probably don’t think of oral sex as sex.”
“I do think of oral sex as sex,” Beckett says casually. “Just not sleeping with someone.” Also valid.
All of my older brothers bring girls to the apartment for casual sex. Eliot has a habit of choosing stage-five clingers who make themselves too comfortable the morning after. One girl tried to do our laundry. After he just met her.
Beckett dates the exact opposite girls. Almost all have attachment issues, which he prefers because he is anti-relationships.
Then there’s Charlie.
Most of his hookups come and go like shadows.
I’ve never really nailed down his type. My oldest brother is an enigma to more than just the public. Eliot thinks Charlie would date any girl off the street—but I don’t agree. If he wasn’t looking for something specific, I’d think Charlie would have a girlfriend by now.
“About RJ,” Beckett resurfaces, and I restrain the urge to slump down with a groan, especially as he says, “You do remember that I know him, right?”
“Uh, yeah, aware.” RJ has a cousin who’s a ballerina with NYBC.
The reminder that Beckett might know more about my casual hookup feels like being dunk-tanked, but I haven’t wanted to pick my brother’s brain about him.
I want RJ to tell me about himself—is that really too much to ask?
I sit more upright. “But you’re not friends with RJ. ”
“Right,” Beckett says. “But I am friends with his cousin.”
“Roxanne Ruiz.” I name her so he recognizes my memory isn’t hot garbage. “I know.”
Charlie is staring at me funny. It’s almost like he wants to ask me something. Oh fuck, is he searching for information from me? I’ve awaited the day when the knower of too many things comes to gorgeous, harmonic me for a nugget of wisdom.
I gesture to him. “I know her very well if you want intel.” Like the color of her hair.
Brown. Curly. She’s short, right?
I wish Pink Noir wasn’t so dark. I’ve met Roxanne a handful of times at this nightclub where all of Beckett’s friends congregate after performances and rehearsals. I always thought RJ would show up, but I never ran into him when she was there.
“Intel,” Charlie repeats. “Because I’m waiting with bated breath for what little you know about a girl who means nothing to me.”
“You have a very curious glimmer in your eye.” I lean forward to point it out. “Right there.” He swats my hand away from him.
Beckett sends Charlie one indecipherable look, and Charlie works his jaw before staring too hard at the opened pages of his novel.
Charlie made a promise to Beckett a long time ago that he wouldn’t try to get with anyone from the ballet. Which obviously includes Roxanne.
My phone buzzes on the couch. Leo. Leo is also from Beckett’s place of work, but nothing is literally happening. Nothing.
This is absolutely totally fucking nothing.
“Tom.” Beckett trains a concerned yet calm expression on me. “If you really want a relationship, RJ is not the one. He’s a fuckboy.”
My stomach knots. “Yeah, I know. I’m aware.” I drag a hand across my face. “I doubt he would’ve slept with me had he known I was a virgin.”
Charlie tilts his head too far to the left.
Beckett blinks, then raises his hands in shock. He ends up steepling his fingers beneath his nose. “You didn’t tell him you were a virgin before you had anal sex?”
“I wanted to do it,” I defend. “I’d backed out with my other hookup about ten fucking times, and it just felt right. So yeah, I didn’t tell him because it’s my body, dude, and who the fuck cares if it was my first time or not? He didn’t ask me.”
Charlie starts laughing.
I slump backward hard. “I’m glad you find my sex life so amusing.”
“You flood the rivers you drown in. I can’t feel sorry for you.”
“I’m not asking for your pity.”
Beckett holds out a hand in the air like he’s trying to subdue the tension. “Tu vas bien?” You’re okay?
“Oui, oui.” Yes, yes. Without thinking, I kick my feet back on the table, avoiding the phone in my fist and this conversation. “Why don’t we ask Charlie about the girl he brought to the apartment last weekend? She lasted like an hour here.” I turn on him. “What gives?”
Charlie looks highly annoyed. “I came on her and she tried to push my cum inside her cunt.”
Oh.
Shit.
This is one of those times where I’m ecstatic that I’m very fucking gay.
Pregnancy scares are off the table, including the fake ones that crop up.
Charlie has the most notoriety of my brothers, simply being the firstborn son of the Cobalt Empire, so he’s usually dealing with girls claiming he’s the father of their baby.
He’s been through about five different paternity tests. Some with women he’s barely said hi to.
“Well, that sucks,” I mutter, then say more loudly, “But let’s talk about it. How did it make you feel?” Because I care about him. Okay, everything doesn’t have to be about me all the time. My eyes fall to the phone in my hand.
Charlie swivels in his chair to his twin. “I think Leo is texting him.”
My jaw unhinges. “How the hell could you possibly know that?”
“Leo?” Beckett accuses, practically staking me with his eyes.
“Yeah, Leo,” I confess fast. “But this is really your fault, Beckett Joyce, for having a rival who’s supermodel-hot and texting me.”
Beckett is terrifying when he’s angry. It’s happened such few times toward me in my life that my pulse skips seeing his calm, caring demeanor be set on fire. It takes me three breaths to realize he’s not about to incinerate me, but rather the ballet dancer in my phone.
“Give it to me.” He extends his hand.
“Hold on.” I check the messages very fast.
MAYBE LEO VALAVANIS