46. Tom Cobalt #2
We have momentum in our sales. A positive upward trajectory.
Jere thinks it could be from so many different factors: the viral video of Phoenix carrying the bloodied girl out of the pit, the ongoing speculation of Phoenix and me being a thing, my high-octane performances, or maybe even the music. It’s hard to pinpoint one thing.
Riot Records has taken notice, and they want a second album. Fast. Before the end of the year. “The sooner, the better,” Jeremy relayed. “They want to capitalize on the attention.”
And while it bums me out that we can’t just focus on the tour and Silver Sweet, I am beyond ecstatic that Riot sees enough potential in us that they want the next thing. There’s going to be a next thing.
I don’t want to fuck it up.
Don’t want to waste any time.
So I’m already planning to work on the album after shows, which means I can’t be yawning and about to pass out at 1 a.m.
I consulted the list of essentials to my life. Things I’m unwilling to sacrifice. Sleep isn’t on it.
Therefore, Adderall is necessary. At least until we finish album number two. This is temporary. It’s not forever.
I have a feeling Phoenix won’t agree with that, and his question still hangs in the air. The call didn’t stress you out, did it?
“I’m not stressed,” I answer him. “We can do it all.”
“No, you believe we must do it all,” he contends. “Like letting go of any aspect will deem us less than and not worthy of success. It’s not failure to say we need extra time.”
I exhale a long breath. “You know I’m a perfectionist to like the umpteenth degree. To the point where I was diagnosed with OCPD as a teenager.”
“You’ve told me, yeah,” he nods, listening intently.
I’ve explained to Phoenix that OCPD is a personality disorder, not an anxiety disorder like OCD. Totally different. In group projects, I want to take control because I can’t trust others to do it the right way.
And the right way is obviously my way.
I’ve been working on understanding that my way isn’t always the best way. It’s not easy for me to get there, but I’d like to think I’ve done well this year just collaborating with Phoenix.
“Lowering my standards and compromising has always been hard for me,” I tell him.
“And maybe I am struggling to let go. But you can’t deny that the label has a point?
Faster releases will keep us relevant. They’re handing us a roadmap to success, and I want to follow it.
Especially since they’re just now starting to believe in us. ”
Phoenix looks understanding. “We can try, man. I just don’t want you to run yourself in the ground over this.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Is it stressing you out? Jere’s call about the second album?”
He lifts his shoulders and kneads his muscles against his neck. “Nothing Personal has written on tour, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world.”
He wrote on tour, he means. He’s already done this before, but it was different, I guess. He wasn’t also playing onstage every night. Phoenix just assisted backstage.
As he winces and rolls his neck side to side, I unlatch the table between us and fold it flat against the wall. “I have something for you,” I say, sifting through my backpack at my feet.
Phoenix watches as I hide the item behind my back and stand up. Nearing him, I knock my legs against his knees, and he spreads his thighs open to let me step between them.
His brows furrow. “My birthday is—”
“January first,” I cut in. “It’s practically imprinted on my cerebral cortex. When I’m a corpse, your birthday will be the first thing I remember as a ghost.”
“You said you were immortal.”
“Immortal, incorporeal. I’m really just going to haunt all planes of existence forever.”
His lips twitch. “Jesus fuck. You really can’t take an L, can you?”
“Unless it stands for legendary. No.”
The confused wrinkles between his brows haven’t softened. My pulse suddenly quickens. “Has no one ever gotten you a gift on a random day?” I ask him.
His body stiffens, the corded muscles in his arms more prominent. “No. I can’t say anyone has.”
Uh, fuck. “Not an ex-boyfriend?”
“No.” It’s a hard no.
I open my mouth, close it, reconsidering my response as nerves and uncertainty batter me. Is this too much? No. I would give him a random ass gift again in a fucking heartbeat.
Phoenix shifts tensely upright in the seat, but his posture is already too strict. “It’s okay. Whatever you got me isn’t a big deal, man. We’re just bandmates.” He motions for the thing behind my back.
I can’t move a muscle.
It isn’t a big deal.
We’re just bandmates.
Each word is a harpoon impaling my chest. Right into the heart. “I don’t think we’re just bandmates,” I mutter out.
Phoenix narrows a scalding look at my face. “Yeah. We’re bandmates who fuck.” He juts out his hand more impatiently. “Just give it, Tom.”
“I wouldn’t have said it like that.”
“How did you want me to say it?” he challenges. “How, Tom?”
I don’t know. “We’re only sleeping with each other, dude.”
“Okay, then we’re bandmates who only fuck each other. Good?”
No.
That doesn’t encompass what I feel for him either. I swallow hard and frown at his glare, one he pins to the airplane window and not on me. “Why are you so pissed?” I ask.
“I’m not pissed.” He rakes a hot hand through his hair. “I’m always pissed, okay.” He looks up at me.
“No, this is different.” I spot angst in his eyes.
“Please stop,” he says like I’m torturing him. “Please.”
Does he want more? I hadn’t considered how much Phoenix would, but I’m wondering just how much he does now.
Truthfully, I’ve been content with where we’re at.
It’s been working for the band. Anything more could cost us energy or mental fortitude we should be putting into music and not into each other. Right?
Except, I’m holding a gift I got him out of the fucking blue.
Half my time in my head is already spent thinking about him.
And hearing we’re just “bandmates who only fuck each other” makes me want to scream, and not in a melodic way.
“You don’t do relationships,” I mutter.
“That’s not why we’re not in one,” he says firmly, but almost choked. “You don’t want a serious one with me.”
It hurts to hear the truth out loud from him. My lips part, but words catch in my swollen throat.
He rises, his legs brushing against mine, but he turns his head away from me. “I need a minute.”
My chest caves.
He’s pushing out into the aisle of the plane.
I throw his gift on my chair and follow. “Phoenix—”
“Just give me a minute, Tom.” His voice breaks. “Fuck.” He stops like hardened cement a few feet from me.
I don’t bridge the distance. I give him that space, at least. My mind is whirling through a thousand different responses. We can’t risk the band. We should be focused on work. This tour is more important. What does it matter if we label what we are? It doesn’t change my feelings for you.
It doesn’t change my feelings.
It doesn’t change anything.
We’re already committed to each other.
So why am I riding a brake pedal when I crave to ease off? Phoenix is everything I’ve ever dreamed, and I’ve wanted a relationship. I’ve wanted what I realize he’s been willing to give.
Why stop now?
“Be my boyfriend,” I say with my entire chest, my entire heart.
He flinches, then rotates to face me. His eyes are as red and raw as mine feel. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” I begin to smile. “I don’t go around asking guys to be my boyfriend for shits and giggles, but I can see how you’d think it since I am perfect boyfriend material.”
He grinds his teeth, his lips nearly upturning. “Perfect boyfriend material, huh?”
“Yeah.” I risk a step closer. “I’m easy to work with.”
He laughs.
I smile more just hearing the bright sound. “I have the voice of an angel.” One more step. “I’m extraordinary in bed, my boyfriend would say. He’s rated me five stars every time.”
“Which boyfriend?”
“The only one I’ve ever had.” I’m inches from him. “You.”
Phoenix clasps my face, and our chests rise and fall in time together. And I tell him, “I think you’ve probably been my boyfriend for a while, and I was just too immovable in my mindset to accept it. But I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”
“What shouldn’t?” he murmurs.
“That you move me. Away from my fears. Away from the things holding me back.”
He grips my gaze so strongly, so affectionately. There is helium in my lungs. He’s injecting this soaring feeling in me, and I want it all.
Everything with him.
“So you’re my boyfriend?” I ask.
His smile almost makes my eyes well up. “Yeah, I’m your boyfriend, Tom.”
I grin wide, able to tell how much he’s wanted this too. “Great, perfect. Then your boyfriend is giving you a gift on a random day. You can hold the applause. I know you’ll want to clap for me.”
He shakes his head slowly at me. “Rethinking this boyfriend thing as we speak.”
I smirk. “Because you want to marry me instead?”
“Shut up.” It’s the least harsh shut up, which somehow makes my cheeks burn. Tearing away from him, I return to my seat just to grab the gift I abandoned on my chair.
My pulse is racing when I head back to Phoenix, and his eyes flit all over me. Then he finally notices the neck massager in my clutch. A device that splays over the shoulders like a scarf.
“It’s for your neck,” I explain. “I know it’s been bugging you.”
I don’t have to ask if he likes it. His lips are on mine. His hand against my flushed face, and his kiss speaks what words can’t. I slide my fingers into his hair, clutching Phoenix, and I try not to let it hit me.
The bad truth among all these amazing feelings.
I’m keeping the Adderall a secret from my boyfriend.