44. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
“What in the hell was in Gunther’s drink?” I pop a couple Tylenol and keep my dark shades over my eyes. My head feels like a cement block. We’re walking away from the bus, on the way to soundcheck in Boise, Idaho.
Phoenix gives me a look. “You should have been asking that before you drank it.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time. We were bonding.”
The word bonding flares Phoenix’s nose. The guy is super territorial and fuck me for finding it way too attractive for words.
We’re exclusive, but our relationship status is tour. We’re hard at work, but the electric high after each show has fueled other things. Sex is an after-show ritual of sorts. It’s not hurting the band. It’s a release and practically a good luck charm now.
I can’t imagine sacrificing that connection with Phoenix every night. For what?
We’re putting on great shows. The best of my ability. All we can hope is to keep up this momentum. I just didn’t expect Evening Glory.
They’re like…a tiny wrench. I can handle them.
Phoenix shoves his fists in his moto jacket. “You don’t need to drink Gunther’s mystery concoction to ‘bond’ with him. In fact, you don’t need to do shit. You do realize those guys love hanging out with you. It’s why they’ve made a fucking base camp on our bus.”
I smile through the wicked headache. “I don’t blame them. I am the life of the party.”
“I’ll be sure to put that on your tombstone.” Phoenix puts on a pair of black sunglasses as the sun emerges from a cloud.
“No need. I’m not dying.”
“Cobalts never die,” he says dryly. “You think you’re immortal, got it.”
“Don’t think it. Hey, wait…” I grab his elbow and nod toward the front of the venue. Three people stand at the entrance like they’re waiting for the concert. Phoenix follows my gaze with a head tilt.
“They showed up early, right?” I ask him.
Phoenix shakes his head. “It’s three p.m. Doors don’t open for another four hours.”
“No, dude. I think they’re in line. We should say hi.”
He rubs at his neck into a deep grimace. “We should go to soundcheck.”
“Fuck soundcheck, Phoenix,” I tell him. “We don’t even sell well enough to add meet-and-greet tickets. We have this golden opportunity to make our own pseudo meet-and-greet.” I’m already walking backward away from him, arms outstretched. “I’ll go by myself if I have to.”
Phoenix doesn’t hesitate long before following me.
I’m all grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist me. I’m irresistible.”
He’s definitely shooting me a glare underneath his shades. “Keep telling yourself that, nepo baby. Maybe your ego will fill the empty spaces tonight.”
I smile. “You’re saying my confidence is a necessity.”
“Arrogance,” he corrects. “Just don’t get your hopes up. These people might be tech waiting for someone to open the doors for…” His voice trails off because the three fans start jumping up and down in excitement as soon as they notice us.
Phoenix mumbles a “shut the fuck up” before I can say anything.
This is one of the best days of my life.
The Carraways has never had anyone line up this early before a concert. We greet the two girls and one guy, and they introduce themselves as college students at Boise State University.
Phoenix signs their T-shirts with metallic permanent marker.
I pose for a selfie with the guy, and he throws up a rock-on hand gesture. “Are you going to play ‘Hellbent’?” he asks when he lowers his phone. “I love that one, man.”
“Yeah. One hundred percent. We’re playing the full album.” I lean in between the girls, and they take a pic with me and Phoenix together. He manages to do his version of a smile, where the little edges of his lips lift.
“My favorite is ‘Bruit Préféré,’” the shorter girl tells me. She totally butchers the French, and I fucking love it even more that she was willing to try to say it.
My grin hurts my face.
“It means favorite noise, right?” she asks. “What kind of noise were you referring to? Based on the lyrics it feels metaphorical. But maybe there’s a story there?”
I turn to Phoenix with raised brows. “Is there a story there?”
He looks like he could shove me into the small patch of grass next to us. “It’s metaphorical.”
Yeah, it’s not.
His favorite noise is the one I make when I’m underneath him and getting absolutely ravaged by his dick.
It’s such a dirty secret that the song lands way up in my top three. Watching Phoenix try to avoid the truth behind the title is going to be one of my greatest pleasures.
We finish up with photos and a couple more questions, but before we leave, the shorter girl asks, “Are you two…um…dating? Is that okay to ask?”
“We’re not,” Phoenix says so fast.
It’s a knee to the ribs, even if we agreed to not follow our publicist’s suggestion. She wants us to not outright deny and to just stoke the mystery. Keep suspicions alive.
Instead, I’m also announcing, “We’re just friends.”
He side-eyes me really hard. Like he’s saying, We’re just friends who fuck. That’s it, right?
No.
Not even close.
Phoenix faces forward to tell her, “We’re best friends.”
“Love the upgrade, dude.” I pat his shoulder. He’s stiff as a fucking boulder.
“Cool.” The girl nods with more flushed cheeks. I definitely don’t want her to feel embarrassed asking us anything. I want her to come away from tonight with no worries. The best time of her life. Memories that’ll last decades.
So I make sure to meet her eyes before I say, “Those were really great questions.”
She smiles softly. “Thanks.”
“Enjoy the show tonight.” I wave my hand to them as Phoenix and I step away. It hits me that they never asked about the Cobalt Empire. They didn’t want details about Charlie or Jane or the Rose Calloway and Connor Cobalt. It was all about the music.
Yeah, okay, there was one question about our personal lives, but can I hardly blame her? She’s probably seen the many recent videos circulating where Phoenix’s hand slides against my bare waist at the very end of our Spokane show.
It was an innocent touch—that, yes, I burned into my memory—but people are freaking out like it’s the most salacious thing in the world.
Phoenix flips his sunglasses to the top of his head, pushing back the longer strands of his hair. “You’re really good at that, by the way. Did you get training as a kid to deal with fans of your family?”
“No,” I say into a laugh. “I guess I just picture how I’d want an interaction with my favorite singers to go, and I do that.”
Phoenix’s sharp gaze descends, easing with tender affection.
“I think you’re in love with your best friend,” I tell him into a wider smirk.
His expression flatlines. “Wow, you really know how to fuck a moment.”
I grin. “So we were having a moment? Brought to you by me?”
“God, I love how you turn everything into a back-pat. You keep it up and you’re going to fall the fuck down.”
“You’ll catch me though.”
“No, you’re going face-first in the floor.”
“I break my nose and we ruin the whole tour,” I argue. “You have to catch me, dude.”
He almost smiles.
“You want to catch me,” I tease.
“Shut the fuck up.” He pushes my arm, but then fists my sleeve, bringing me closer.
It hitches my breath.
Phoenix slings an arm over my shoulders and pulls me into his side. “Would your best friend walk with you to soundcheck like this?”
“I think my best friend would tempt it. He likes testing limits.”
He ruffles the back of my hair, then walks ahead of me, turning around to say, “I heard he also likes keeping you off-balance, nepo baby.”
My face hurts with a crater-sized grin and laughter while I follow him to soundcheck. Nothing can bring me down. Until I’m stage right and grab my guitar off the rack—my stomach plummets.
“What the fuck,” I curse. “Seriously, what the fuck.”
All the strings on my guitar are missing. Not one. Not two. All of them. Phoenix is on stage behind the drum kit, impatiently waiting for me to take my spot at the mic. He’s tapping the cymbal like he’s antsy, not noticing the absolute conundrum occurring stage right.
Hannah Venturi, our backline tech, bounds over. She’s a petite brunette who always wears her hair in a top bun and paints fake freckles across her cheeks.
She normally goes on tour with girl bands, but she said she owed Delia Shaw a favor and made an exception.
Hannah is nice. Like too nice to get mad at.
Too nice to even blame her for a single damn thing.
She’s in charge of tuning all the instruments, checking the cables and pedalboards, and handing me my guitar before I go on stage.
It’s the job Phoenix did on crew with Nothing Personal, so he has an even softer spot for Hannah.
“What’s wrong?” she asks me.
I hold up the guitar. She shakes her head in confusion. “Uh…that wasn’t like that twenty minutes ago. I can re-string it.”
“I don’t mind doing it,” I tell her. “Can you just get me strings?”
“Of course.” She starts talking into her walkie-talkie and rushes backstage. Phoenix cranes his neck, trying to see what’s going on from his drum kit. He must get annoyed because he leaves the drums and walks over.
I explain the situation, and he says, “It’s a prank.”
“What?” My face twists.
“Evening Glory just pranked you, man.”
“As someone who has pulled many pranks in my life, this is a stupid fucking prank. I’m running out of time for soundcheck.”
“Yeah, they don’t care, Tom. Bands like Evening Glory love pulling pranks on tour. It’s just what they do.”
“Sorry, I’m still stalled out on they don’t care.” Irritation has crawled under my skin.
Phoenix tilts his head. “Still want to be best friends with them?”
Yeah, I’m rethinking that one.
Later after the show, Gunther laughs off the prank. “It was funny, right?” he asks me.
“Yeah, yeah.” I nod. “Hilarious.”
I complain all night on the phone to Eliot and Luna. Literally cannot shut up about it. I’m lying in the back lounge on the U-shaped couch, the phone pressed to my ear. The tour bus bumps along the road on our way to Salt Lake City.
“I’ll fly out to your next stop and help prank them back,” Eliot offers.