45. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The heavy bass of Evening Glory’s final song thumps the green room floor.
I stretch my biceps behind my head. Tom bounces on his feet and shakes out his arms. My in-ear monitors (IEMs) are small earpieces that hang from the cord over my shoulder.
I’ve already stripped off my shirt, and the aggressive air conditioning pricks my skin.
Tom has on his signature The Carraways black jean jacket.
The back design is more intricate than the earlier ones.
Blue flames with purple tips now lick the band logo.
He tosses the jacket into the crowd at each tour stop, and it’s blown up on social media to where we’ve seen a change at shows.
Fans are now clamoring to be the one to claim the jacket.
A fight broke out in Fresno over it, and Tom had to stop singing to deescalate the situation.
It’s pretty fucking cool.
“Ready?” Tom asks.
“Think so. You?”
He nods, and we converge in the center of the room. Only an inch away. Like we’ve done before each show, he hooks our pinkies. Our eyes land on each other, and Tom says, “Your flesh.”
“Your bone,” I reply.
“Something good is going to grow,” he finishes like a promise, and I bring our hands up. We kiss our thumbs.
Then I pull him into my body. We’re hugging, a deep, chest-welding hug where his arms pin against my back and mine tuck tight around his shoulders. Everything sounds hushed except for the steady thump of his heart against mine.
I’ve had pre-show rituals with bandmates before where we all take collective breaths and share a silent minute, but this isn’t just an encouraging hug of camaraderie.
I know what every night on that stage means to Tom. What he gives to the crowd. What he gives to our band. He knows what playing music every night means to me.
It’s our thirteenth show. Our nineteenth day on tour.
The nerves before a performance haven’t changed. They’re still riding me hard. Maybe even more tonight when Gunther made it a point to remind everyone this is unlucky number thirteen. Most of our crew are superstitious, and they’ve been extra vigilant today.
As my brother would say, the vibes are off.
Less chatter. Fewer high-fives and less friendly banter. It’s been putting me on edge.
All this is happening when I’ve just started to not worry during Tom’s crowd-surfing and choreographed falls and jumps.
Nothing will happen, I tell myself. I suck in a deeper breath, squeezing him tighter just once more before I let go.
Tom attempts to hide a smile, one that reddens his face.
It upturns my lips.
The bass in Evening Glory’s song dies off, and it’s our sign to break farther apart. Tom grabs a water bottle from the mini-fridge as the doors blow open to wild screams and laughter.
“Goddamn!” Roy howls.
Clint and Asher make wolf noises in response, and Gunther trails the pack. “Boys, you are not going to believe it.” Gunther’s talking to Tom and me. “We’re almost at a full house.”
“Bullshit,” I say. We’re in Los Angeles. One of the bigger venues on our schedule.
“Not bullshit, St. Pierre.” Roy catches the fridge door before Tom can close it. He bends down and grabs four beers. “It’s packed.”
Tom’s eyes light up in excitement. Whenever he meets even the tiniest crumb of success, you’d think the whole sky exploded in comets and shooting stars. It’s one of my favorite sights.
I’m starting to think celebrating small achievements should be a prerequisite to life. It feels so much better than always counting the miles left to go.
“Buffalo!” Gunther yells, breaking the moment.
Fuck. He’s pointing at Tom.
My singer holds a water bottle in his right hand.
Buffalo Club. It’s a drinking game we’ve started playing.
The best part: it’s pulled Gunther’s attention away from pranks.
He loves this game. The rules are overly simple.
While on tour, you must drink with your non-dominant hand.
In Tom’s case, he needs to be drinking with his left hand.
When caught using the wrong hand, someone—mainly Gunther and Roy—will be sure to notice and scream “Buffalo!” in your face. This incurs a penalty. You have to chug whatever you’re holding.
I glare at Gunther. “We’re going on in less than twenty.”
Gunther makes a face. “It’s water.”
My muscles are coiled. Tom doesn’t like to drink more than a couple sips of anything before a show. He doesn’t want the urge to piss onstage—and you know what, I get it. Will Gunther give a fuck? No.
Tom shrugs like it’s nothing, but I see his fingers tightening against the plastic bottle. He meets my gaze. “It’s cool. I can chug it.”
I know that he can. It’s not the point. Maybe I’m irritable from lack of sleep.
The bus shakes too much on the road. I forgot how much harder it is to catch any decent rest on tour.
I can’t stop myself from speaking. “Hey, Gunth, weren’t you the one saying how this is unlucky thirteen?
Maybe we should cut the stupid drinking game for one night, all right? ”
“Dude, it’s fine,” Tom tells me casually, but he slides me a fierce look like drop it.
Peer pressure was not something I thought Tom would succumb to.
But this is different, I think. Tom is so wrapped up in his identity as the “fun” brother of his family that he can’t imagine a scenario where he’d be the unfun one ruining a fucking drinking game.
Not laughing at a prank. Not being the life of the party.
Tom presses the water to his lips and starts chugging the entire thing.
I hate watching this.
But I’m not about to rip the water bottle out of his hand and embarrass him.
I’m not his big brother.
I’m just the guy fucking him.
I grind down on my teeth.
Gunther turns to me. His long blond hair clings in sweaty strings to his torn muscle shirt. “Stupid drinking game, huh? Funny you think that when your old band taught it to us.”
Tom chokes halfway through, which causes Clint and Asher to cackle with laughter. I shoot both of them a death glare. “Shut the fuck up,” I snap.
They go instantly quiet.
Tom’s neck stains red. He rubs his lips with the back of his hand, then looks to me. “Nothing Personal?”
“Yeah. My brother…he started the game.” I haven’t spoken to Birdie in a week. That weighs on me suddenly. This conversation. Tonight.
Thirteen.
Fuck, I’m not superstitious. What is wrong with me?
I exhale deeply, trying to ground myself. I blink. It’s not working. I light a cigarette instead.
“No smoking in the green room,” Roy tells me.
“Fuck off, Roy,” I snap and blow smoke up in the air.
Clint puts a hand on my shoulder. “You need a good lay, my man. What kind of dudes are you into? I can scope the audience for you.”
“He likes the skinny guys,” Gunther says. “That’s what he went for last tour. Right, St. Pierre?”
My brain hums with static.
Tom’s not looking at me.
I shrug Clint’s palm off my shoulder. “Do not scope anything for me. I don’t need to get laid. I need the drums.”
Asher howls.
Then Roy.
Gunther next.
These stupid fuckers. My lips twitch, and then I see Tom finishing the water off, and I’m back to feeling like a ten-car pile-up. All wreckage and smoke. I take another drag from my cigarette before putting it out on the abused and graffitied coffee table.
Delia comes into the green room, and her nose curls at the smell of smoke. “Roy.”
“Sorry, Delia,” he grins and gives me a wink. I suppress an eyeroll.
“We’re ready,” Tom tells her, chucking the empty water bottle into the trashcan. I follow him out into the hallway, and Delia disappears while we wait stage right.
It’s just us for a second, and Tom rotates to me.
His earnest blue eyes puncture even the toughest parts of me. “You told me that there would be bad nights,” he says. “You remember that?”
My pep talk before we went on tour. I told him that with 67 cities and three months, we’d be facing some bad nights where we’d probably be fighting, irritable, and hating each other’s guts. Maybe we’d be hungover or just fucking done with the travel and the bullshit.
But we’d have to go out there anyway. I told him not to expect every night to be the best show of his life. To expect ones that don’t go well. That feel off. That aren’t up to his standards. Just bad fucking nights.
I didn’t think he’d ever bring it up. My throat swells. “I remember.”
“This is a bad night,” he tells me with a strong nod. “I know that. I’m probably to blame for a part of it.”
I shake my head. “I was going to say about eighty percent.”
“Valid. Yeah…” He lets out a deeper breath, and his face morphs into a grimace. “It destroys me to admit, but I have no backbone with those guys. I’m just not used to being in these situations without…”
“Your brother,” I say for him. Eliot.
He clenches his jaw as he nods. “He always knows what to do and say—and I’m not saying you don’t. Because, holy shit, I don’t want you to be Eliot. That’s like the last thing I want.”
I adjust one of my IEMs into my left ear. “The feeling is mutual, Tom.”
He glances cautiously at the stage, but I can see a tech guy fixing one of the pedals, so we at least have some time.
“I guess navigating this without him is harder for me than I thought it’d be.
” He swings his hands and claps them together.
“But I don’t want to ruin us onstage. This… tension or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” I tell him. “It’s not tension. I’m just struggling watching you make stupid decisions.”
“Yeah, thanks. Me too.” His lips lift softly.
Mine follow. “You know I’m usually the one fucking everything up, so this is a nice little change.”
“There’s still time, dude. I’ll give you this crown.” He fits an IEM in his right ear, and big, vibrating screams thunder the floor. The audience starts chanting, “Carraways! Carraways! Carraways!”
Tom’s gaze never leaves mine. “It’s just you and me on that stage,” he says over the noise. “We have the ability to turn bad nights into great performances. I believe that.”
My chest swells. “Is this your pep talk for me?”
“Yeah.” He searches my eyes. “Is it working?”