41. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Fucking hell, I am sweating. And it’s not just because the number of bodies in Tom’s apartment has increased the noxious heat by twenty degrees. I could very well blame it on the body shot I just took off Tom, the one that will be ravaging my head for years to come. But that’s not it either.
Two hours ago, before this party even started, I fucked up.
It’s been itching at me.
Clawing.
I just need to tell someone, and that someone cannot be Tom.
I’m in Tom’s bathroom after waiting in line for what felt like twenty minutes. Phone on video call, I have it propped up against the mirror.
My brother runs a towel over his damp hair, grown out just past the awkward stage from a couple of months ago. The brown strands are at a short, workable length now.
“You look freaked.” His voice is so full of rasp, it catches me off guard.
“What the fuck happened to your voice?” I ask.
He makes a face. “Deep throated too hard.”
“No, seriously,” I say.
“Seriously,” Birdie says with a grin. “Scratched up my throat bad. Hell of a blow job though. Thank God, I’m not a singer. Hey, Tom’s going easy on the head, righ—”
“Fuck off,” I cut him off hotly. “Did you get checked for—”
“Yeah, all negative. It’s really just a sore throat. Don’t freak.” He tilts his head and narrows his gray eyes. “But you are freaked about something.” He motions a hand at his own face. “You’re all scary grimace lines.”
I run a hand through my hair, about to tell him, but my resolve drops for a second. “You coming to the party?” I ask instead.
He’d been invited personally by Tom, which wasn’t the biggest shock of the century. Tom knows how close I am to my brother, and I think he respects that relationship a lot, the same way I respect his with Eliot.
Not to mention Birdie is on the album.
I brought my brother into the studio and recorded him playing cello for “Killer Ultraviolet.” I prepared for a verbal bloodbath between my singer and my brother.
But it never happened. Birdie was so professional, you’d think he was auditioning for The Manhattan Symphony.
Tom holstered all weapons in favor of finishing the song on a strong note.
I’m not deluding myself into thinking they’ve established a permanent truce, but it was nice to see them get along for a stretch.
“Was going to, but then this happened.” He motions to his throat. “And while I’d love seeing Tom absolutely fawn over you like you’re the second coming of Jesus Christ—”
“He does not do that,” I cut in.
Birdie smirks. “You’re right, at the studio he looked like he wanted to take a guitar pick and wedge it in your eye socket, but the Cobalt Empire speaks in code, man. I think that’s code for ‘I’m obsessed with you.’”
I don’t have the energy to disagree. I’m not even sure I do. “So you’re not coming to the party?”
“Man, I’m not setting myself up for Batman jokes.
Hard pass.” His graveled voice does sound like a Bruce Wayne impersonation.
I get it. Birdie can take being the butt of a joke—but probably not in a room full of Tom’s rich friends.
His expression sobers into something more serious.
“Can we stop talking about me and go back to why you’re all freakishly freaked out?
I thought you were having fun at your boyfriend’s little birthday party. ”
There it is.
Boyfriend.
I grip the marble sink counter and expel a heavy breath. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Birdie makes another face like he doesn’t get it.
I’m having trouble explaining without recounting my humiliation. So I start out with something small. “I ran into his parents before the party.”
“You met the parents?” Birdie readjusts his phone while he sits down on the edge of his bed. “How were they? Do they bleed red or are they made of nuts and bolts?”
I roll my eyes. “You think I sliced them open and found out?”
“You’re right. Save the experiments for later.”
“For never.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“I told them Tom and I are dating.”
He looks me over. “How’d they take that?”
“The interaction was…tense. They’re protective of Tom, and they’re aware of all the charges filed after my arrest. So they brought that up, then they went into a whole diatribe about safe sex.
” I run a hand along the back of my neck and laugh dryly.
“They’re way more comfortable talking about sex than our parents at least.”
“Makes sense when Tom’s aunt is a sex addict, right? He probably had convos at a young age about it.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think about that.” I’m so wrapped up in the Cobalts that I often forget Tom’s closely related to the Hales.
“I wish Mom and Dad were more comfortable with it,” Birdie says. “You remember how Dad just left a box of condoms in front of our bedroom door? He was too nervous to even enter our room and put it on one of our beds.”
I nod slowly. “I think he was scared to stumble upon like a shrine of anal plugs and dildos.”
Birdie laughs. “Fuck. If only.”
We’d never been given any sort of safe sex talk from our parents. Not as teenagers. Definitely not recently in our twenties. We’ve always just had each other.
The interaction with Rose and Connor runs through my head in a mortifying loop. God, I have such big regrets.
“I called him my boyfriend,” I admit. “To his parents. I called him my boyfriend. I don’t even know why—it just popped in my head after they asked me if we were more than bandmates.
” I shake my head to myself. “I’d never even talked to Tom about it, and my dumbass blurted it out like a busted mental leak.
Then ten minutes later Tom told them we’re just hooking up. ”
Birdie sucks in air through his teeth. “Fuuuck.”
I grip the counter harder and explain how his parents didn’t throw me under by repeating what I said to them. They played it off like nothing happened. I appreciated it. Because obviously my deepest desires are to be with Tom to that extent, and it’s apparent he’s not there yet.
My pulse speeds thinking about what it must seem like from his parents’ vantage. They must think I’m an idiot obsessed with their son. Maybe it’s not even surprising that I fell first and hard—because he’s Tom Carraway Cobalt. Maybe they pity me. Fuck.
“This is so embarrassing for you,” Birdie tells me through a wince.
“Yeah, thank you. I needed that,” I deadpan.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” I shrug. “It doesn’t change how I feel about Tom. I mean, I just took a body shot off him.”
Birdie laughs. “But not boyfriends. Okay, Tom.”
I share a smile. “He’s just…he’s so wrapped up in the album. The band. I know how hard it is for him to change the status quo when the status quo is working in his favor.”
I’m the bigger risktaker of the two, and I need to get used to dialing it back. I don’t want to go too fast for Tom. I never have. I just thought…he’s wanted a boyfriend. He wanted a relationship with RJ.
Naturally, in my head, it makes sense we’d be at that stage. I just wish I kept it as an internal desire and didn’t say it to his fucking parents. Jesus.
Birdie’s smile flattens. “So you think if you asked him to be your boyfriend, he’d say no?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe, yeah.” I rub at the swollen parts of my aching eyes. “I don’t care to find out. I’m just going to keep things at his speed.” I give Birdie a look. “And you need to stop referring to him as my boyfriend, even as a joke.”
Birdie grimaces. “But I was having so much fun calling him your little boyfriend.”
“He’s the same age as you.”
“I meant ‘little’ like small di—”
“Fuck off. Not true.”
Birdie grins. “Now I know Tom has a big dick.”
“Bye, asshole.”
“Love you, bye.” He hangs up on me.
Before I put my phone away, I get a text from our tour manager.
DELIA
Check your email for tomorrow’s call sheet. It includes all pertinent info (travel notes, load-outs, showtime, call times, etc.)
We lucked out hard landing Delia Shaw, who’s Jeremy’s thirty-year-old niece and a seasoned vet on the road.
She’s handled all the logistics for Nothing Personal during their first two tours, and I’d grown to love Delia like a type-A, has-her-shit-together big sis.
So I was ecstatic to hear she was attached to The Carraways.
Much to Birdie’s chagrin. He said their tour manager last month had B.O.
so bad, he would clear out the green room.
I slip my phone in my pocket and return to the party—my head in a better place. I want to celebrate with Tom. His birthday. This album. I just have to push past the monumental fuck-up with his parents. Push past the idea that he is my boyfriend—he’s not.
Yeah, I can do that. I think.
I grind down on my teeth and turn into the living room too sharply. It’s a head-on collision with Charlie Cobalt. Literally—his skull slams into mine.
“Fuck,” I curse from the radiating pain.
He slow-blinks into a slight flinch like I barely dinged him.
“Is your brain made of fucking titanium?” I rub at the sore spot on my forehead. Shit that might bruise.
He levels an annoyed glare on me. “Maybe don’t take turns like you’re running away from a bank robbery.” Unlike most of the guys here, Charlie is not shirtless. His V-neck suctions to his sweaty skin.
“Have you heard of accidents?” I shoot back.
“I’ve heard plenty of things from you.” He forces a dry smile. “Thankfully I don’t share a bathroom with Tom.”
Yeah, I’ve fucked Tom in the bathroom. A lot. Maybe Charlie overheard through the walls. Maybe he’s bullshitting.
People are listening to this conversation. Eavesdropping. Charlie must not give a damn.
“Your point?” I snap.
“Watch where you’re going, Wolfgang.” He uses the German pronunciation of my middle name. Normally, I would take this as a direct hit, but his delivery is more bored than acidic.
“Where’s your brother?” I ask.
He blinks. “Let me consult my ESP. Just give me five seconds.”
“Funny,” I say flatly. “Let me guess, your Wiki page says you’re a cunt.”
There’s a collective gasp from a few of Tom’s nearby friends. A ghost of a smile lifts Charlie’s lips. “No, but by all means, please update it.”
Most people would be offended by what I just said, and I’m just relieved my mouth didn’t piss off Tom’s older brother. I don’t want to cause friction—even though I’m pretty damn good at it.
A blonde in a shimmery purple dress suddenly barrels into Charlie from behind and wraps her arms around his waist. He hoists his drink up so it doesn’t spill, and he clasps a hand against the wall to keep his balance.
“Keating, baby.” She giggles.
Charlie glances over his shoulder to look at the girl latched onto him. “You are?”
Damn. My brows rise, realizing she doesn’t even know him.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip. “Alicia. My friends just dared me to come over here. How’d I do?”
Charlie ignores her question and looks to me. “Tom usually hangs by the perimeter after a while.”
“Thanks,” I say into a nod, but I’m now more zeroed in on the girl that hugs him even tighter. Charlie sips his drink casually, as if he has just walked past a bush and come away with a burr stuck to his clothes.
Alicia runs her hands down his chest, her fingers dipping below the waistband of his pants. She’s laughing playfully.
Charlie doesn’t even pay attention to her. His eyes stay on mine, challengingly.
I really just want to tell this girl to fuck off and go fondle someone she knows. But I can’t tell if Charlie is enjoying the attention or despising it. He seems so…indifferent.
He does not care.
It bothers me more than it should.
“You good?” I finally ask him.
Charlie smiles dryly. He says something in a language I don’t know before he says, “Go find Tom.” He spins around to face Alicia, and the move gives her permission to stand on her toes and start kissing the base of his neck.
Yeah, okay.
I slip away and enter the throngs of people. My destination is the other side of the room. Someone already stops me. “Hey, you’re…” I don’t hear the rest as the song switches to the heavy beat of “Your Epidemic.”
I eye the floor-length windows at the perimeter of the party.
Yeah, it’s going to take me a hot second to get over there.