12. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
An uncaged, jubilant stark-white bird shifts excitedly on his window perch. He rocks side to side like he has to piss, radiating joy at the mere presence of people. Reminds me a lot of Ben, actually. Not the piss part, just the happiness in the company of others.
I smile a little.
“Hey, ho!” he squawks as I close the door behind my drummer.
Phoenix stalls out three feet into the room. The privacy curtains are drawn open, so Ben’s side is in full view—along with the Versailles of bird cages. It’s almost the length of Ben’s fucking bed. The number of toys would make a dog jealous.
His eyes narrow at the sulfur-crested cockatoo. “You have a bird?”
“My brother, Ben, has a bird.” I gesture to Ben’s side where his checkered quilt is tucked neatly into the wooden frame.
My bed is also nicely made. I am not a slob, for the record.
I’ve already warned Phoenix that I’m sharing a room with my little brother, but I missed giving him a memo about the bird.
In my defense, this is a very new development. As in Ben brought home the cockatoo (and his insane amount of belongings) this morning. He did “okay” it with me last night, but what was I going to say? No?
My goal of being the best brother does not include rejecting Ben’s wishes to get a pet with his demonic girlfriend.
The cockatoo hops off the wooden perch and to the floor. Phoenix moves backward, then takes deliberate steps around my bed while the bird bounces toward me. The yellow feathers on his head fan out in excitement.
I frown at Phoenix. “Are you allergic?”
He slides me a glare. “I don’t like birds.” He grimaces like he sees the trap he’s fallen into. “Don’t—”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, but the irony is too good. Your name is literally Phoenix. Please tell me your brother is scared of them too.”
“Did I say scared? Fucking hell, we’re going to need to get cotton swabs so you can unclog your ears.”
The bird is at my feet. He hops on my sock, then tries to climb my leg.
I’m betting he already loves perching on my six-five brother.
Thankfully I am well-versed in caring for birds because of Ben’s childhood pets, but this is the first cockatoo he’s ever had.
This feathery chaos-maker is larger, more vocal, and more curious than Ben’s cockatiels were (RIP).
I get the bird on my fingers and bring him over to his cage. He flies half of the way there himself, enticed by the hanging rope which he bites onto.
Perfect. I latch the cage closed with him inside. “Have a good workout. Do not hurt yourself.” Last thing Ben needs is to blame himself for this little maniac’s broken wing.
I spin around and see Phoenix has sunk down on my bed like he’s already been here five thousand times.
“Make yourself at home,” I tell him with a wave.
“Thanks. I will.” He grabs the book off my nightstand and flips through the yellowed pages.
My well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye holds his attention for half a second before he tosses it aside on my mattress.
His eyes roam my darker side of the room from the guitars displayed on my wall to the rock posters to the amps and my tall dresser.
He doesn’t glance back at Ben’s side.
I’m on edge wondering what’s coursing through his head.
“Ho!” the cockatoo squawks. “Ho! Ho!” He nibbles at his enclosure. I almost feel badly locking him back up. I’m the one who let him roam the room after Ben left. Because I, too, would not want to be caged.
Then again, he flew in there himself, so…it’s his fault.
Phoenix grimaces. “Does it have a name?”
“Not yet. Ben and Harriet are still workshopping names for him.”
“Harriet?”
“Ben’s girlfriend.”
His brows hike. “You share a room with your brother and his girlfriend?”
I cringe. “Whoa, no.” I hold up my hands. “Hell fucking no. She lives on MVU’s campus at some prestigious thing called the Honors House. She does not live here. I would not share a room with her, believe me.”
“You a big ho!” the cockatoo suddenly chirps. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
What in the fuck?
Phoenix tilts his head at me like I am the one to blame for the dirty language. As much as I would love to take credit for the obvious prank, it wasn’t me.
“I did not teach him that,” I say. “I’m almost positive Harriet must have. To taunt me. She’s not my biggest fan.”
Phoenix has the audacity to smile. “You don’t say?”
I roll my eyes. “Dude, some people hate my guts. I think that’s their character flaw. Not mine.”
And just like that—smile gone. I’m the one grinning now.
He takes out a folded journal from his pocket. “So when your brother and his girlfriend come over, do they kick you out?”
“No, I voluntarily leave when they get…you know. We have a pull-out couch.” I grab my Martin off the wall and find a guitar pick in my nightstand drawer.
“So where are they now? Ben and Harriet?” He slides a pen out from the spine of the journal.
“Does it matter?”
“It’s Friday night, and your brother is nineteen, right? Just wondering how much time we have until they get back. Unless they’re spending the night at her place.”
I shake my head. “The Honors House doesn’t allow guests past ten p.m., but you don’t have to worry. Ben said they’re planning to hang out at my cousin’s apartment after their board game club thing.”
“What cousin?” Phoenix asks.
“Xander Hale. He goes to college with Ben. They’re about the same age, and Xander lives in this high-rise too—three floors below ours. Same floor as my best friend, Luna Hale. That’s Xander’s older sister.”
I expect Phoenix to make a comment about the puzzling lineage, but he’s not expressing confusion.
“Do you know of the Hales?” I sound accusatory because what the fuck?
“I know who they are, yeah. The whole world does. I think Luna Hale is the one who wrote some kind of tentacle sci-fi smut that was getting reposted everywhere.” Now he gives me a look. “Why is that dropping your jaw?”
“Because you barely know anything about my family, but you know the fucking Hales?”
He laughs hard. “It should not be that easy to bruise your massive ego.”
“It’s not bruised. It’s confused.”
“The Hales are more popular than the Cobalts for not great reasons. There’s like always stuff online where some shitty news site claims one of them is an alcoholic or sex addict just because their parents are.
” His eyes flit over me. “That’s how all your families became famous, right?
Your aunt was a sex addict and the daughter of the guy who created Fizzle? ”
I blink a few times. “Yeah. The scandal heard ’round the world.” One I wasn’t even born for.
“Big ho!” the cockatoo chirps while looking directly at me. I don’t know how Harriet did it, but I’d put money on her training this bird in one day.
Phoenix is seated in the center of my black bedspread. One of his legs outstretched, the other tucked toward him. He rests his journal on the inside of his thigh, then flips to a blank page.
I grip the guitar and step onto the bed. Standing on the mattress. It draws his gaze up the length of my body, and my pulse skips, especially as he tears his eyes away and his cheeks redden. I think this might be the first time I’ve seen him blush.
The victory in my chest isn’t a cannon blast. It’s not boisterous or smug.
It’s red-hot and enthralled. I crave to touch the fire against his cheeks and disintegrate.
He’s avoiding my eyes now.
I sit in front of him, giving him enough space that our knees don’t touch.
“Big ho! Big ho!”
Phoenix looks at me beneath his dark lashes, then tips his head toward the bird cage. “Any truth to that?”
I adjust the guitar on my lap. “You’re asking if I’m a slut?”
His brown-blue eyes rest on me in a stronger beat. “You can hook up with whoever. I’d just like to know if it’s going to be a thing, seeing as how we’ll be spending most of our time together.”
A thing.
I understand his worry. I’ve shared it. “I’m dedicated to the band, not to getting laid.” I’m sensing that Phoenix will also prioritize The Carraways. I strum a chord on my guitar. “I have a better question. Who’s the bigger slut: you or me?”
His dark gaze is back on the journal. “If you’re asking for my body count, I don’t know. I don’t keep count.”
“That just means it’s high enough you lost count, dude. Like counting to ten isn’t that hard.”
He uncaps his pen with his mouth. Is he doing that on purpose? Using his mouth. My eyes are drawn to his pink lips when he mumbles out, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
That question fists my cock. It shouldn’t turn me on when it’s clear he’s asking because it’s relevant for the band. I’m not an idiot. I want to verify the same thing about him. For. The. Band.
“You think if I had a boyfriend, I’d let you sit on my bed?” I ask in disbelief.
He spits out the cap to the pen. It falls on my comforter. “I’m just your drummer. Not looking to hook up with you.”
“Yeah, I know that. But maybe my boyfriend wouldn’t love the idea of another gay guy as hot as you—and three years older than me—being in my bedroom alone with me.”
His brows do this weird crinkly cinch thing. I think he’s going to comment on me calling him hot before he says, “Maybe your boyfriend should trust you…unless you’re a cheater—”
“Whoa, absolutely fucking not.” My fingers dig into my guitar. “I would literally cast myself into a violent sea over causing someone I loved that type of pain. Even if they deserved it, that’s not the type of revenge I’m into.”
He pushes his hair out of his face. “Same.”
Is it possible we’re actually more alike than we are different? I loosen my grip. “Maybe my boyfriend is protective of me. He wouldn’t appreciate you asking me about my body count.”
Phoenix glares. “You asked me that.”
“Did I?” I smirk, feigning innocence. He rolls his eyes, but they land on my hands as I play a guitar riff. “Bitch” by the Rolling Stones. My fingers move along the fretboard, pressing down strings while I pick others with my right hand.
“Where’s this protective boyfriend?” Phoenix asks. “New York, Philly, Antarctica?”