23. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
You want me to fuck RJ.
Tom’s words lay waste to my head. It wasn’t even a question, but I’m torched knowing I don’t have time to reject it. I have no time to even micromanage this situation that’s slipping through my grip.
Not when RJ fills the space on the other side of Tom.
The mysterious RJ.
I’m clenching my jaw too hard as I size him up. It’s apparent from one glance that RJ and I actually look alike.
I side-eye Tom. Yeah, he has a fucking type. Dark hair, inked body, carved biceps. And unfortunately, RJ is shirtless so I know he’s shredded. Lean but defined muscle. He looks around Tom’s age. Maybe a little older.
His T-shirt sticks out of the back pocket of his blue athletic shorts. He has on white crew socks and sneakers like he meant to hit the gym and just accidentally stumbled into The Trench.
Tom was wrong.
This guy isn’t a twelve out of ten. Because the twelve is Tom. This fucker is a solid seven in my book, dropping to a fucking five, maybe four, on the pure fact that he should not be a part of tonight. He should not be here.
RJ looks from Tom to me and my narrowed eyes. I expect him to cold-shoulder me, but he’s nodding his chin up in greeting. “Hey, man. I’m RJ.” His gray eyes are lighter than Birdie’s, and they appear very nonthreatening. To the point where I should cool off.
I just want him to fuck off. “Phoenix,” I say with the antithesis of friendliness. “Tom’s new drummer. You just come from the gym?”
“Sort of.”
I glare. “Maybe you should go back there—”
“He’s kidding. He kids,” Tom says fast to RJ.
I’m so far from making a joke right now. I feel like the least funny person on Earth.
RJ pays me less attention and gives Tom more. “If we’re going to be here for a second, I’m going to grab a drink. Want anything?”
“Yeah,” Tom says tightly, almost nervously. “Surprise me.”
RJ runs a hand along Tom’s arm in quiet comfort that nearly doubles me over. I have to bear my rigid forearms to the edge of the high-top. I should just leave them together, right?
I should go.
Fuck that.
The mere thought of letting Tom be alone, drunk, with a guy I don’t know is lighting my eyeballs on fire.
Tom forces a casual smile to RJ, and then his on-off thing heads to the bar. Tom’s smile slides right off his face as he stakes a serious look at me. “Okay, now you’ve met him. Mission. Accomplished.” He slurs the last word a little.
He can try to push me away from this situation, but I literally cannot leave him. I’ve tried already. I tried after he rejected me. I tried on the dance floor with that ugly redhead. I blacked out when I kissed him.
I’ve felt like sawdust ever since. Then I tried to encourage Tom to sleep with someone here—and that felt like a thousand bee stings inside my esophagus. In my horrible attempt to distance my hurt and myself away from Tom, I’ve made this whole thing worse.
The actual hilarious part about me—I would still try to kiss Tom again. I wouldn’t take back that moment for the mere chance he gives in. But I can’t fault him for hoisting a stop sign.
He is so, so invested in our success, and I love that about him.
I love that he’s trying to protect this beautiful fucking thing we’ve built together.
He has all the resources and the money to say fuck it and gamble his future away.
And here I am, the one with the piling debt and pennies to my name willing to make this life-altering wager.
My parents would love if I were as cautious with my future as Tom is. But I just…I can’t be careful when it comes to some things.
Some emotions.
Some feelings.
God, I’m in way too fucking deep. How did this happen? My vital organs feel attached to him. A silver-spoon nepo baby who drives me absolutely fucking bonkers. And really, right now, all I want is to get him home safely.
Especially since his sudden vodka spree was right after he saw me kissing another guy. I’m not dense. I know that’s on me.
Tom sips more liquor.
My pulse accelerates as the DJ spins a faster tempo. “I’m not leaving you,” I tell Tom. “Your hookup is sketch as fuck. Did you not hear his response to me? Sort of?”
“Yeah, he was brushing you off, dude. You looked like you were about to fold him into a ham sandwich.”
I almost laugh. “The fuck—a ham sandwich?”
His smirk appears, then disappears. “Just let him be. He could’ve even sort of went to the gym.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Maybe he was working out at home.”
“Where’s home for him?” I ask hotly.
Tom shrugs again. “An apartment, probably.”
“Probably,” I echo. “Where? Brooklyn? Chelsea? SoHo?”
He mumbles out a, “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does fucking matter. You’re about to go sleep with him, right?” Fuck, fuck. This is going to kill me.
“At least I know his initials,” Tom defends. “You just kissed a random, no-named dude after meeting him for point five seconds.”
“Yeah, a mistake,” I admit, to which Tom sways a little in drunken surprise. “But I make a fuck ton of those, especially when I’m hurt.” I run my tongue over my molars. “I don’t want to anymore. I’m trying not to.”
This can’t be Sophomore Summer part two. I’ve been at rock bottom before, due to my own destructive behavior, and it’s one thing to be there alone.
I cannot, under any circumstance, fathom dragging Tom there with me.
That hurts on a level I can’t even comprehend right now, and I’m just contemplating a scenario where I nuke his dreams. Actually experiencing the death of The Carraways by my own hands would be obliterating.
Tom sways into the high-top, knocking it hard enough that I grab the edge. My uncapped water bottle tips over, and I right it as quickly as I can. Water puddles on the table, but the bottle is still half-filled.
I hold out the Aquafina to him.
Tom squints at it.
I rattle the bottle. “Or is your master plan to be drunk when you sleep with him? That way you don’t remember a thing?”
“Fuck…you.” Tom pokes my arm and tries to be steady on his feet. He careens a little too far to the left but manages to stay upright.
I shove the water in his hand. “If he tries to fuck you while you’re wasted, he’s going to be in the hospital by the end of the night.”
“You won’t be around to see.”
I brace myself in a lunge, out of breath. I glare at Tom. “You would risk being taken advantage of, but you wouldn’t risk kissing me. Got it.”
His face breaks. “Dude, I’m messing with you. Just…breathe.” He tries to pass me the water like I’m dehydrated.
I push it back into his face. Gently. So he doesn’t fall.
Tom puts the rim to his mouth, swigs, then says, “RJ is nice. He wouldn’t take advantage of me. I believe that.”
“I don’t trust nice guys.” I sip his vodka, just so he drinks less.
Tom doesn’t even notice. “Why? Because you’re a big fucking meanie?” He almost trips over his feet, but I catch his hip.
He’s a stupid, cute drunk. This is terrible on so many levels. “Because it usually means they’re hiding something. Seeing as how you don’t know jack-shit about him—”
“I know he’s Russian-American,” Tom mimes a mic drop. “There’s that, bitch.”
“Jesus.” I grind away my smile. “How’d you uncover this if you don’t even know his last name?”
“He has a cousin in the ballet.” Right, I’ve heard Tom’s brother, Beckett, is a principal dancer at NYBC. Mutual connections, I’m guessing.
Tom places the Aquafina on the table. “If there’s a mystery that needs to be cracked, I’ll crack it.”
He wants to be the one to. Otherwise, he could’ve found more answers from his security detail or from his brother.
I nod to him. “Because you’ve done a great job at that after two years. Hey, what’s his name again?”
“You don’t think I asked?” Tom extends his arm across the table.
“I have like…five times. But he always drowns out my questions with…” His voice trails off as he sees RJ approaching with two beers in hand.
Tom straightens out of his slouch against the table.
He was one second from laying his head against his arm.
Now, he draws farther away from me, and my hand slips off his side. I smother the urge to slip my fingers into his waistband and pull him back toward me.
Tom didn’t need to finish his sentence. I can imagine RJ kissing him to avoid turning what they have into something more personal. And based on everything he’s told me, I know Tom craves an emotional connection. RJ isn’t reciprocating, but Tom still seeks him out…in what? Hopes that changes?
RJ places the two beers on the table, and as he slides a Koning Lite to Tom, I steal it.
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “You shouldn’t have.” I take a tight swig.
“That’s because I didn’t,” RJ says nonchalantly, no heat to his voice. He sees Tom swaying (and not to the music), and he up-nods to me again. “Probably a good call.” Then he rests a casual arm around Tom’s waist. His lips dip down to Tom’s ear as he whispers something.
I watch RJ’s arm ascending. He wraps it more firmly around Tom’s shoulders, bracing him from falling by tucking him to his side, and as he kisses Tom’s temple, it feels like my soul leaves my body.
I blink a few times and rip at the Koning label on the bottle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were a couple.
My heart hammers against my ribcage. “So your name is RJ?” I steal his attention, but he doesn’t drop his arm off Tom. “That short for something?”
“Yeah, a mouthful of a name.” He tips the beer to his lips, taking a small sip.
“Great, what is it?” I ask roughly.
Tom’s eyes blow wide open at me like I’m going to scare off his hookup. Now there’s an idea I can rock with.
RJ eyes the dance floor, bobbing his head to the music. “I’m getting the sense you don’t like me, man.”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to come in like a fucking feather duster.” I stare him down. “Sorry if you like being tickled.”
He lets out a long whistle. “Damn.” RJ smiles at Tom. “You picked up another asshole drummer? Did he get assigned to you?”
Tom’s lips slowly part in shock. “You know about my drummer problem?”
“Yeah,” RJ laughs. “I do listen to you.”