23. Phoenix St. Pierre #3
I jut out my hands and catch him from behind, right as he seizes the edge of the high-top table. I have him under the armpits, but the beer rattles off the table and falls to the floor, breaking on impact.
People nearby immediately jolt away from the shattered glass.
I pull Tom into my chest, away from the spill, and he searches for my hand, until he finds it over the hard, fast thump of his heart. He laces our fingers. My breath catches. He’s drunk.
I bring his hand down with mine, but his grip is tight as fuck. I don’t shake him off. Nightclub staff come around with a small flashlight, blinking it at the spot and ushering people away.
“Phoenix, go,” Tom insists. “Go.”
Before he can try to drag me, I lead him toward another corner of the club where the couches are so worn that the leather is flaking. Unfortunately, all the seating is taken—some guys have their heads between their knees. Some girls are nudging water against their friends’ lips.
I take Tom’s arm and wrap it around my shoulders so he’s holding on to me, then I support him with a strong grip around his abs.
RJ has followed us, of course.
“Shitfuckshit,” Tom curses, eyes darting every which way. “He’s gone?”
“Your brother?” RJ whirls around toward the dance floor. “No. There he is.”
What…the fuck.
This isn’t the same brother who resembled Tom. Another one barrels toward us with a lengthy stride. His angelic face is the main similarity I’m able to distinguish in the strobing nightclub.
Flashes of red lights go in and out, illuminating the sheer purpose and intensity in his features, and then he’s cast into darkness. Only to appear five feet closer bathed in red. It immediately puts me on the offense.
His dark hair, with slight wave, curls at the tops of his ears. Three buttons of his shirt are popped open. Sleeves rolled to reveal floral tattoos ascending his arm.
A stoic man in a slim-fitted suit follows close behind, tugging at his own collar, lips moving like he’s speaking into a mic. A bodyguard, I assume.
Great.
Fucking great.
Which Cobalt brother is this now? Why the fuck are there so many of them?
I’m still supporting Tom against my side. His weight must all be on me because I’m flexing hard to keep him on his feet.
RJ seems on edge, his gaze pinging from me, to Tom, to the incoming Cobalt. Is he scared of Tom’s brother?
“Fuck,” RJ mutters, then says a word or two in Russian, which might be another curse. He’s staring right at the dark-haired Cobalt like he recognizes him.
I assume this one must be the ballet dancer. The mutual connection.
RJ takes one step toward him. “Beckett. You remember me? RJ, Roxanne’s cou—”
“You can go,” Beckett says in a leveled tone. It sounds like a firm command. And I know, right now, that this is not going to end well for me.
RJ exhales a long breath, then nods. “Yeah…okay.” He folds fast. “But Beckett.” Or not? He seizes Beckett’s yellow-green eyes that shift with threat. “Don’t leave Tom with him.” He motions his head toward me.
I narrow my eyes at him. Fucking really?
Turns out, it did matter that RJ doesn’t trust me. Because with five words, he just dropped a hydrogen bomb on my first impression with Tom’s older brother. I’m so grateful I’m holding Tom right now, or else I’d try to fight this motherfucker.
“Hey,” I call out to him. “What do you think I’m going to do?” I challenge RJ. “Fucking say it.”
RJ hoists his hands like he’s leaving Beckett to handle me. Then he raises two middle fingers at me while he walks backward toward the exit.
I grind my teeth and stop myself from worsening this situation.
Tom has a palm against his face. He’s peeking—and cringing—between his fingers at Beckett. “Heeeyyyyy, so funny seeing you here. Beckyyy.” Tom doesn’t reach out to his brother. He tilts his head against my bicep.
No part of me wants to let him go. I’m not going to, and I already know it’s about to be a battle between me and his protective older brother.
Beckett’s brows furrow in deep concern at Tom. But as soon as I come under his piercing gaze, I match the intense heat.
He looks at me like he could saw off my arms just for touching Tom. “I have it from here,” he says calmly but coldly. “You can go.”
I scowl. “I’m staying. Thanks.”
Tom tries to hold tighter to me, his arm still around my shoulders. His feet lose traction on the slippery floor. I’m physically bearing all his weight.
“Hey,” Tom says to me with a bright, drunken smile.
“Hey,” I whisper, attention half on him, half on his brother who’s closing the distance.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Tom tells me, and if Beckett heard him, he doesn’t give a damn. He curves an arm underneath Tom’s waist, and I realize just how strong ballet dancers must be. Immediate weight comes off my muscles.
Beckett isn’t looking at his younger brother. He’s pinning me down with his eyes. “I’ve got him. You can seriously go.”
The entitlement agitates every nerve in my body. “Look, asshole,” I snap. “RJ doesn’t know me from a fucking toaster oven. I just met the guy. Tom is drunk, and I’m not leaving him until I get him home.”
Beckett frowns so deep, wrinkles crease between his brows. “I’m his brother.”
He thinks I don’t know that. “Okay, great. You could be Jesus fucking Christ,” I say. “I. Don’t. Care. I’m not leaving him.” He’s my singer. My responsibility. He’s this drunk because of me. I can’t leave someone who I really…who I really…
I blink away the sudden sting in my eyes.
Beckett rotates his attention to Tom. “C’est qui ce type?” Who is this guy?
My muscles are on fire hearing him speak French.
“Phoenix St. Pierre,” Tom replies. “C’est mon batteur. Tu te souviens?” He’s my drummer. Remember?
Softly, Beckett says, “Bien s?r que je me souviens.” Of course I remember.
The Cobalts can speak French? Tom can speak French?
I blink like I might be the one who’s drunk. I have zero time to process this. Other than the bewilderment of how this never cropped up between me and Tom. Assumptions. We both assumed wrong about each other. And I did not do my due diligence in stalking the Cobalt Empire.
Fuck me.
Beckett’s turning to me. “You can come,” he says as if I need his permission. “My car is waiting.”