53. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
We skip our pre-show ritual for the first time. After twenty-two shows, the streak ends in Amarillo, Texas. No pinky clasp. No promise this is where something good will grow. His flesh. My bone.
The chill between us in the green room crystalizes my internal organs. Making each breath more painful. I want to fix this, but I can’t figure out the solution. Not in enough time, anyway.
I’m onstage beneath cold blue lights.
Phoenix twirls his drumsticks, then crashes them into the snare as I sing “Nuclear Winter” to the thundering crowd.
I try to block out the ache in my chest. The fans paid to be transported out of their problems for one night—they’re not here to be affected by mine.
We do a good job keeping the spark alive.
Good for me feels terrible.
I know we’re so much better than good. I know we’re so much better than this, and by the end, I can confidently say this was the worst performance I’ve ever given.
I want a hot shower and a solution—one that isn’t quitting Adderall. What I don’t want? A midnight afterparty with Evening Glory. Our tour bus stinks of weed, armpit, and warm blue cheese from whatever Gunther is microwaving.
The stench contorts my face in an eye-watering wince.
“Tom!” Roy slings his arm over my shoulder. “Great fucking show, man. Sold out. Crowd was amped. Did you see the merch line? Mind blown.” His laugh is high-pitched and energized. Because he’s been snorting coke.
He rubs at his nose, and I instantly want to tell Phoenix, Look, I’m not doing that!
Cold hard evidence. I am resisting drugs.
Adderall shouldn’t even be demonized when it literally helps people with ADHD.
And yeah, I don’t have ADHD, but that’s not the point. It isn’t bad like cocaine. I’m not Roy.
But I spin around, Roy’s arm dropping off me, and I realize Phoenix isn’t on the bus. He didn’t follow me here.
My heart is so heavy. “I’m not in the mood, dude,” I tell Gunther when he offers me whiskey on ice.
“Oh no, Gunth,” Roy says, his arm now around his lead singer. “I think the boyfriends are fighting.”
My brain flash-freezes like I swallowed liquid nitrogen. “What?” I say without breathing. Evening Glory isn’t part of our crew—they don’t know that Phoenix and I have kissed, let alone call ourselves boyfriends.
They know as much as the internet, which consists mostly of semi-flirty video clips taken from our shows.
Phoenix and I haven’t officially verified or confirmed anything.
We’ve only made one public denial—to three fans waiting in line before a show, the pseudo-meet-and-greet from a month ago.
Ever since then, we’ve changed course and have been inadvertently following Sheela’s advice—to keep speculation about a romance alive—because outright denying its existence started feeling like a big lie.
I didn’t want to lie to our fans.
They’re so good to us.
“Just fucking with you, man,” Roy snickers. “Your fans should be a part of the CIA. Gunth, weren’t they dissecting Phoenix’s head nods toward him?”
“Chin tilts,” Gunth clarifies.
“Chiiiiin tilts,” Roy draws out into a chuckle. “Oh God. No wonder St. Pierre doesn’t want to be around you right now. He’s probably hoping this all goes away so he can bag a big dick in peace.”
“Get out,” I say coldly.
Roy laughs hard, but the noise fades at the sight of my unamused face. “You’re kidding, right?” He smacks Gunther’s chest. “You have more Molly? Tom needs—”
“Take your rotting food with you, your drugs, your nasty fucking body odor and get off my bus. Right. Now.” I point at the exit. “That way.” I flip him off with my other hand.
Roy is flabbergasted. “Tom.”
Why aren’t they listening to me? I mean, I know I’m adorable, but I need them to fear me at this precious juncture in time.
“Tom, don’t listen to Roy. He’s not that funny.” Gunther stabs what looks like a masticated blue-cheese burger from a half-melted Styrofoam container. “Fuck Roy. We’re cool—”
“Dude. You’re not cool,” I cut in harshly. “Stinking up my bus at midnight without asking if you can be here is not fucking cool. Bringing drugs on my bus, not cool.” I throw up my hands angrily. “You can call me unfunny. I’m a buzzkill. I don’t give a fuck. Just get off my bus!”
Clint and Asher emerge from the back lounge with erratic giggles and pupils blown wide. Awesome.
Fuck them.
Fuck Amarillo.
Fuck blue cheese.
“All of you—out!” I wave Evening Glory toward the exit.
Clint stifles one laugh. “Aw, come on, Tom—”
“Dude, I’m not joking! GET OFF MY FUCKING BUS!
” I shout at the top of my lungs, and if my full-time bodyguard weren’t back in New York sick with the flu, I’d have top-notch security escort them out.
Instead, my temp bodyguard has been taking hour-long shits while glued to Tinder.
He’s unreliable and MIA and currently not on this bus.
Clint and Asher burst into belly-aching laughter that sets my blood to extreme boil.
“Tom,” Gunther says, trying to calm me with a hand to my shoulder.
I jerk back. “Don’t touch me, Gunth. I am this close”—I squeeze my fingers together—“to kicking you all off this tour. If you don’t get off this bus right fucking now, this is the end of the road for you.”
Roy coughs on an unassured laugh. “Only Riot can kick us off, man. The label set up this tour, not you.”
“You don’t think I can call Riot first thing tomorrow morning?” I glare. “I will give them an ultimatum that involves sacking you, and they will do it. And I’d be doing them a favor. Your work ethic is abysmal. I’ve seen toddlers put in more effort than all of you combined.”
I finally puncture their happy-go-lucky, drug-infused mood. No one is laughing. Roy is meeting my glare with one of his own as he says, “Damn. And St. Pierre said you weren’t some silver-spoon, pretentious little prick.”
Every time they bring up Phoenix, my stomach twists in a vicious knot. “Well, he was wrong. It’s exactly what I am, and this silver-spoon, pretentious little prick will eat you for breakfast tomorrow if you don’t get off my motherfucking bus.”
The only movement comes from Gunther. He sets aside his Styrofoam container.
“You can take that with you,” I say, more tensely. Acutely aware that I’m outnumbered and outsized. I’m taller than two of them, but they probably have fifty pounds on me.
Gunther moves forward without his blue-cheese monstrosity.
He’s either going to punch me or purposefully leave his trash behind, and I could demand he remove every crumb he brought in here—but I don’t. I’m not opening another can of worms. I’m so over this crappy night, and I just want a shower, a bed, and Phoenix.
I press my lower back against the kitchenette counter and wave my hands toward the exit. Gunther and his stringy, chest-length hair pass me. His pissed-off expression is tinged with disappointment. I don’t care if he’s upset that I’m not a good time anymore.
The last thing I want to be is a jack-in-the-box he can crank.
Thankfully, Gunther and Roy follow my directive and make their way to the exit near the driver’s seat. Unfortunately, Clint and Asher aren’t as smart. They crowd on either side of me, and my pulse thunders in my ears when Clint messes with my hair and snickers.
I shove his chest. “Dude. I’m not playing. I’ll have you kicked off—” Fuck. Asher wraps his meaty bicep around my throat from behind me.
I claw at his arm and elbow his abs. “Get off,” I rasp, losing air.
“Let him go, Ash,” Gunther says with such a relaxed tone at the front of the bus, you’d think they were playing blackjack with me. And not, I don’t know, putting me in a fucking chokehold!
“I bet he’s never been in a fight,” Clint laughs, advancing on me. I kick his ribs hard, but he might be the titanium man. He doesn’t flinch. Fuck whatever drug he’s on.
He captures my legs. Everything is happening at rapid speed. I can’t think. Asher steps onto the couch, bringing me up with him while Clint still has my feet.
He’s ripping off my Vans and socks.
I’m thrashing, clawing, suffocating. No oxygen is entering my lungs now. I can’t even gasp. I feel my face reddening. I tap his arm, so he understands I’m seconds from passing out. This isn’t funny. This isn’t fun. You’ve scared me, okay. Let me fucking go.
Black dots dance in my vision.
“Phoenix!!” I hear Hannah screaming for my boyfriend, and what feels like a millisecond later, he’s on the bus in a violent rush.
“TOM!” he yells out, barreling toward me. “The fuck—GET OFF HIM!!” His voice is as murderous as his face.
Asher releases the chokehold immediately, and Clint lets go of my ankles. I come crashing down on the couch’s edge. Right in the kidney. I’m coughing too much to care about the stabbing pain.
“We’re just playing—” Asher is cut off with a wounded grunt.
I heave for breath, peering up from the floor to see feet knocking together all the way to the front of the bus. The noise drops several octaves as the fight travels outside. Urgency crashes into me. I need to be with Phoenix—to aid him in what could be a four-on-one brawl.
“Tom?” Hannah crouches to my side. “Just take a big breath.”
“Oh Jesus,” Delia says with a sigh like she’s dealt with this issue before. Definitely not from me. Okay, this is a first. I would not invite a brawl on my tour bus.
The whole bus suddenly rocks. Like someone was slammed against the side of it.
Taking in a rough lungful of air and rubbing my burning neck, I pull myself to my feet with one hand. My jeans are unbuttoned and partially unzipped. Fuck Clint. I think his goal was just to humiliate me—which isn’t working.
Concern and fury propel me out of the bus.
My bare feet touch the asphalt of the emptied parking lot.
Stars blanket the clear Texan sky, and dirt blows toward the fight—if it can be called that.
Phoenix has Asher pinned against the side of the bus, his forearm tight across Asher’s neck. He clearly does not need my help.
I hack up a lung into my elbow.
“You okay, Tom?” Roy asks.
“Fuck you,” I cough, then massage my throat.