54. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Ishould be able to clock four hours of sleep in the five-star hotel Tom books us in Indianapolis.
I quit the attempt and prop against the headboard of a king-size bed, trying not to wake Tom beside me. He’d been up most of last night reposting content on our socials and replying to media outlets.
He’s stopped saying, “I’m not tired yet,” because he’s received a scathing glare from me every time he does.
“Let me help you, man,” I said at midnight. “I can answer our emails.”
“No, I’m on a roll,” he told me. “You sleep.”
If only I could, Tom.
My legs are half-uncovered beneath the white sheets, and I look over at my twenty-two-year-old talented-as-hell—but so fucking obstinate—boyfriend. Like me, he’s just wearing boxer-briefs. Unlike me, he’s lying on his stomach and hugging a fluffy pillow.
I shake my head to myself. I’ve seen him sleep in every fucking position like it’s his favorite. And I can’t even manage to find one good one.
At least he’s sleeping now.
It’s mid-June, and we made sure not to carry any baggage from the Amarillo stop, three weeks ago, into the next leg of the tour. I left my grievances over his Adderall use behind. The last thing I want is to hurt the band.
Our shows have been on fire. Packed venues in each city.
We’ve both been so locked in, feeding off our passion and the crowd’s feral energy.
In Minneapolis, a group of fans handed out black and silver roses to everyone waiting in line.
After the final encore song, they tossed them at us, and Tom almost started crying.
I told the audience how I’ve never seen Tom shed an actual tear, and he was so close that night. Now, at the end of every show, the stage is littered with roses.
I smile in remembrance.
Carefully, I reach for my phone and headphones without jostling the bed too much. My body aches, and yesterday was Thursday—one of our days off.
We spent most of it in a recording studio. Our live performance of “Under Pressure” by Queen went viral, and Riot wanted us to record the three cover songs from our set list, which also includes “Toxic” by Britney Spears and Radiohead’s “Creep.”
Tom was thrilled about recording “Under Pressure” since it’s the only song that uses my vocals. Even if I can carry a tune, I just prefer to play the drums and listen to Tom sing.
I unlock my phone to find a message.
CHARLIE COBALT
Text me when you’re awake.
He sent that thirty minutes ago.
Strange.
Stranger knowing Charlie is currently staying at this hotel, and he’s attended every single show in June. Tom has about a dozen theories as to why, but I think it’s obvious.
Charlie suspects Tom is on something.
Hell, he probably thinks I’m supplying him drugs and broke my promise to Beckett. Which is not fucking good.
Being on tour, I’ve learned two things about the Cobalt Empire.
One: They show up for each other.
All the times Tom has flown back for Wednesdays to be with family are reciprocated by his siblings making trips to see him.
And not just Charlie. On June 1, Eliot Cobalt spent his twenty-third birthday at our show in Wichita, Kansas.
Ten days later, Jane Cobalt spent her twenty-seventh birthday at our show in Chicago.
That doesn’t even include the amount of times Ben and Harriet bought tickets and surprised Tom.
They could use their money to fuck off, but they use it to spend time together. Even when they’re in a warlike disagreement about their little sister living with them next year. Feels like some type of Game of Thrones battle with how much they rebut each other and offer bribes.
Eliot has even tried to convince me to sway Tom toward his side, but I’m staying so fucking far out of that mess.
Two: Their threats aren’t empty.
Evening Glory assaulted Tom, and I didn’t listen to Gunther and Roy’s pleas the next morning.
My blood was still so hot. It’s hot now, just picturing Tom in a chokehold, on the verge of passing out, and my heart—my heart is wrecked knowing I wasn’t there sooner.
Because I thought I needed space when, really, I just wanted to be with him.
Being apart is excruciating.
The morning after the assault, Tom made good on his threat and called our label. Our opener was not only thrown off the tour, but they were promptly dropped by Riot. I was fucking floored.
Birdie called me last week and asked, “Did Tom eradicate those losers from existence?” I was confused until he informed me, “Man, their socials are gone.”
When I mentioned it to Tom, he looked baffled until he called his brother. Eliot had apparently tracked down every member of Evening Glory and gotten them to delete their accounts. I don’t know what threats he used, but they were successful.
And that was just Eliot.
I have no clue what Charlie and Beckett could do to me if they feel like I’m hurting Tom. But last thing I plan to do is avoid his oldest brother.
So I text Charlie.
PHOENIX
Awake now. What’s up?
While I wait for a response, I pay off one of my credit cards. We’ve made a lot of money off merch, more than I ever imagined I’d see. It feels good to be free of some debt. I smile over at Tom as he lets out an audible breath.
His arm curls around his pillow, and his bicep tattoo—the word troublemaker—stands out. Some of his first ink, he told me. Now he has about five more tattoos since I met him. All small. Like Killer Ultraviolet on his thigh.
I’m about to work on lyrics for our second album when my phone vibrates.
Not with a text from Charlie.
JEREMY
Congratulations, boys. You did this.
Our manager sent us a link to the Billboard Hot 100, and my jaw drops when I click it.
“Tom,” I breathe out.
He doesn’t stir.
“Tom.” I jostle his arm. Jesus Christ, he could sleep through an earthquake. I smack his ass hard. He groans and kicks his legs at me, which are tangled in the bedding and do nothing but wrestle the sheets.
I climb on top of him, my knees on either side of his waist and my phone near his face. “Nepo baby, open your fucking eyes.”
He groans, hugging his pillow tighter. “I know I’m fuckable at all hours, but it’s too early.”
“Man, I’m not trying to fuck you,” I snap.
Tom makes an offended noise. “Okay, I am the greatest morning—” He cuts himself off, his eyes widening on my phone screen. “Is that—?” He pries my cell out of my hand, and I roll off him while he shoots upright. “Phoenix.”
I smile wider and wider. “Our song charted. ‘Nuclear Winter’ charted.”
“Ninety-four,” Tom springs to his feet. “Ninety-four. Holy shit. Ninety-four.”
I soak in his overcome reaction, amplifying mine by a million. It feels like the sun just exploded in my chest, and I laugh and jump on the bed with him before tackling him back into the mattress. His grin is infectious. We’re kissing and hugging and taking screenshots of our song sitting at #94.
“Best number in the world,” Tom says. “Move over number one.”
Funny thing is, he makes ninety-four feel like first place. I’m on top of him again when I tease, “You plan to tattoo ninety-four on your ass?”
“My leg, Phoenix.” He shoves my phone in my chest, more playfully. His smirk is out in full force. “And you’re getting a matching one with me this time.”
I smile back. “Deal.”
Tom jumps off the bed, heading to the bathroom. “I need to tell Eliot and Luna.” He swings back to me with outstretched arms and a smug smile. “And I thought no feeling would surpass beating Nothing Personal.”
I choke on a laugh. “We didn’t beat them, Tom.”
“The Carraways surpassed their follower count by two million, dude. They took a big ugly L.”
“Great, I can’t wait for you to tell them that when they join the tour in Detroit tomorrow.”
“I will,” Tom grins.
I shake my head, smiling back.
We’ve been without an opener for weeks, and I asked Scally if he’d want to join us. Nothing Personal will go on first in the evening, and we’re taking the late-night slot. So it feels like a co-headlining show.
Scally was all-in immediately, and Riot loved the idea of pushing two of their higher-profile bands at once. All of our venues were upgraded to accommodate Nothing Personal’s fanbase too, and we’ve sold out of the east coast leg already.
I’m so excited to be back on tour with my friends and my brother. But Tom is right. It doesn’t beat this moment with him.
Ninety-fucking-four.
There was a moment I thought maybe we’d never chart. Especially after Tom’s entire family posted about the release of Silver Sweet and it didn’t boost our sales much.
Tom said that the same people who follow the Cobalt Empire don’t necessarily care about rock music. He was never going to build a fanbase off his notoriety. He’s always needed people to discover him as The Carraways first and son of Rose Calloway and Connor Cobalt second.
In the hotel, Tom disappears to start a shower and share the news with his family. The second the water cuts on, my phone buzzes.
CHARLIE COBALT
I know about Sophomore Summer. I’d like to talk.
And just like that, my smile is gone.
PHOENIX
Can I meet you in your room?
He sends me the room number.
“Hey, I’ll be right back, Tom!” I call out to him.
“Okay!” He’s too distracted to ask where I’m going.
Maybe that’s for the best.
When I get off the elevator, I recheck the room number in my messages. And my eyes glaze over, stuck on the recent text from my brother—the one that crowded my thoughts all night, making sleep difficult.
BIRDIE
Heard mutterings Riot is going to extend your tour. So don’t pull a muscle yet. You prob have several more months left to make magic onstage with your cocky little bf.
I wanted to tell Tom, but my first reaction was, He’s going to find a reason to take Adderall for years. He’s never going to quit.
I almost wish he were snorting coke. Then it’d be so easy to point out how detrimental it is to his health.
Maybe then he’d listen to me.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I rap on the door, and it flies open abruptly.
Charlie has an irritable expression. “I see neither of us got dressed for this.” He’s wearing black boxers and dark-blue slippers.