37. Phoenix St. Pierre #2
“I want you to fuck off,” Tom says through gritted teeth. I slide my hand faster along his shaft, and he clasps my shirt with a fist. His feet kick against the couch cushion. He tries tugging me down to him. I keep resisting.
“You know what happens every time I do what I fucking want to you?” I finally lower my head inches above his mouth. “You get so fucking hard, nepo baby.” He hardens even more in my hand. “Just like that.”
His nose flares again, but his lips upturn. “Go ahead,” he whispers with a choked noise that has my blood pooling south. “Take your time. You think I’m scared of being caught?”
No. I think he’s getting off on the danger.
I’m getting off seeing his smile vanish and his mouth open in a hitched breath.
Pleasure coats his face.
I crush my lips against his in a hungered kiss.
He’s fisting my shirt. I’m gripping him so hard that he comes undone underneath me in the next second. A groan strangles his throat, and when his body starts shuddering, I rip my mouth off his. Just so I can bend forward and wrap my lips around his shaft while he comes. Fuck yes.
He fills my mouth, and I swallow it down easily.
Tom is all hot, heavy breaths, and I’m rock hard beneath him.
Sitting up, I grab my shirt by the back collar and pull it off. I ball the fabric and clean him up better.
We both tense at the sound of creaking floorboards and the switch of a light down the hallway. One of his older brothers is probably using the bathroom. Tom quickly zips up his pants, and I throw the used shirt in my backpack.
“You?” He yawns into his elbow. He’s about to turn toward my zipper, but I keep him still. His eyes are too heavily lidded. I’ll most likely jerk off later. I’d rather let him sleep and not push our luck.
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to head out soon anyway.”
He’s too tired to combat me. “Dude, I think you rocked my world so hard…” His eyes flutter closed into a softer yawn. “I’m…exhausted…” He dozes off before I can reply.
Breaths leave his lips in warm whispers. His hair caresses the chiseled edges of his face. I’ve never stayed the night at his apartment, but he’s spent the night at mine in Chelsea while my roommates were gone.
I don’t know if I’m more envious of or attracted to how he always looks like an angel resting on a fluffy cloud. There is something so fucking gentle about his sleep state. So peaceful and still.
I’m the absolute opposite.
Anytime I manage to fall asleep, I’m always fighting for my life with my sheets and blankets. They twist and choke around me. It’s a big reason I never sleep with a shirt. Being strangled by my own collar is not fun.
I don’t think I slept at all when he spent the night at my place. Definitely did not hit REM.
Tom probably couldn’t tell since it’s just my natural state.
As I watch him sleep now, I wonder if I can mimic him. His breath patterns. His relaxation. Maybe I can take a nap before I go home to toss and turn in my bed. I close my eyes, trying to shut off my brain.
Two seconds. It takes two seconds for me to remember I have a gig tomorrow night. I’m subbing in at The Manhattan Symphony Orchestra. Shit, did I ask for the tempo notes yet? I pop up my email on my phone and start scrolling. Yes, I have them.
I’m running out of concealer that I need to cover my hand and neck tattoos. Hopefully I can squeeze enough out of the bottle for tomorrow’s gig.
I get sidetracked by a text from my mom.
MOM
Did you hear Stewie might be retiring soon? A salaried position at NYBC Orchestra is good, stable money with benefits if you decide touring isn’t for you.
She’s worried.
The closer I get to having a successful career as a rock musician, the more I’m leaving behind the opportunity to ever play full-time at the orchestra.
They know they can’t pull me out to galas and events like they do Birdie.
I’m not going to put up with that. If I can pay my bills and get off their health insurance by playing rock music, then I’m done with the timpani.
I just need this band to be successful.
Presale numbers “aren’t fantastic” was the news Jeremy delivered to us last week.
It’s going to be an uphill battle to gain marketing support from Riot, but I’ve been trying to assuage Tom’s panic by reminding him that the album still has a placeholder cover.
It could pick up steam once the artwork goes live or maybe better yet, once we have reviews.
Once people have listened to it.
Yeah…I feel like I’m assuaging my own panic.
I thread my fingers through my hair, pulling irritably at the strands. And I’m never going to hear the end of this job opening. Maybe my mom got bad intel. Maybe Stewie isn’t retiring.
Maybe I can convince him playing timpani is his life’s purpose.
Fuck. I hate this.
I rub at my jaw and check the time on my phone.
It’s been twenty minutes since Tom fell asleep, and he hasn’t moved a muscle. I am so jealous of his heavy, peaceful slumber, and I don’t want to move him and disrupt it.
I let him sleep a couple more hours while I watch the TV show Station Eleven muted with subtitles on my phone. Halfway through the second episode, a door creaks from one of the two halls. Footsteps pad across the floor.
I mentally file who I’d like to see in order from I-can-deal-with-it to please-fuck-no: Ben, Eliot, Charlie, and then Beckett.
Glancing behind the couch, I see none of the four options.
A short blonde with bedhead hair shuffles into the kitchen. She wears an oversized burgundy MVU Hockey tee that stops below her knees. I watch her fill a glass of water from the fruit-infused jug the Cobalts keep in their fridge.
Ben’s girlfriend. Harriet.
She’s young, nineteen, and has the meanest scowl I’ve ever seen. Literally thought she knew some deep dark secret of mine and hated me for it. Turns out, it’s just her face.
Tom vilifies her at each chance he gets. And yet, I see that he relaxes every time she’s here. When she’s around Ben. Otherwise, he worries about his brother to the point of stress.
I’m not sure why.
Something must have happened—but I still can’t figure out what.
Harriet returns the jug to the fridge, and when she spins around, she catches me staring. I’m on the receiving end of a serious death glare.
Unfortunately, I’m hardwired to glare back.
Her lips downturn, and instead of returning to Ben and Tom’s bedroom, she comes over. She must be investigating since she can’t see Tom over the back of the couch.
When she rounds the corner and has eyes on the sleeping singer on my lap, her brows hike in surprise. She looks from me (shirtless, by the way), to Tom, and back to me (still very shirtless).
My brows spring in reply like yeah and?
She chews on her lower lip in thought, her bangs frizzing around her forehead, before giving me a strong nod and shuffling off toward the bedroom.
I know Tom asked her to be his drummer last year. Apparently, she’s pretty good behind a kit.
She turned him down.
I liked her instantly after I knew that.
Ten minutes later, I’m able to shimmy Tom off my lap without stirring him. I take out a Sharpie from my backpack before I leave, and I scrawl on the top of his fist. A little skull with the title of our album underneath. Our creation we’re about to birth together.
Silver Sweet.