11. Phoenix

Phoenix

Uninvited

“ W here are you going? That’s my car, you know?” I yell at Eli as he storms out of my parents’ side gate and down the driveway.

“Stop!” he screams at me, spinning around. “Back off, Phoenix.”

He keeps going, and I follow him because I won’t stop. I found his fucking stash in his pocket. “Just Adderall” my ass. My legs pump harder as I go down to my car just as he gets in the driver’s side. I grab the door, he tugs on it almost smashing my fingers.

“Eli!” I slap the window.

His fingers fumble with my keys, so I hop in the backseat. The engine starts and he peels away while I crawl over the center console. “How long?” I demand, cursing my body for being so fucking tall and awkward. “How long!” I scream in his ear, and he jerks the wheel, sending me falling into the dash.

“Does it matter?”

I don’t know what’s gotten into him or who he’s running away from. “Yes. Yes, it does. How long have you been using?”

“It’s Adderall, you dumb fuck,” he growls, blowing through a red light.

I sit in the seat, looking behind us to see if cops are anywhere. “Since when do you have ADHD? In all our time together, you’ve never mentioned having any prescriptions. And the pills? What the fuck are those?”

He seethes, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Answer me!”

I sit outside by the bus, puffing on my vape and trying to come to terms with what I just did. I let him do it again. I let him use his body against me, lure me in with his pretty eyes and sensual lips.

Fuck.

Fuck!

His boyfriend is inside, probably crying his heart out, wondering what he did wrong. Why didn’t I stop him? I don’t want it. I don’t want this pain and devastation that comes with it. But I think deep down I do.

I fucking love that he wants me.

God, the way he calls me baby is enough to get my dick hard, to make my brain short-circuit. Clearly, I’m beyond fucked up because I’m half tempted to find him. It isn’t that I’m horny, no it’s way more twisted than that. He has this ability to make me feel so damn special. Like I’m his first and only. The only spotlight I ever want to be under is the one he beams down on me. It’s like multiple gut punches knowing I’m not the only person he’s made feel that way. I’m not his first and only.

I doubt I ever will be.

But behind that veil of pheromones and addicting effects on my body, there’s rot. The darkness I still don’t know what to do with or how to get over.

He’s an addict. And it’s a disease.

It’s a horrible disease that most people never beat. They never recover. What’s it going to look like five years from now? Will he be worse? Sick? Dead? He isn’t wrong, I still want forever but he can’t promise that. He hasn’t even tried to accept his problem. He’s in denial he even has one.

Vomiting blood should’ve been a huge eye-opener for him. Did he even get seen? I doubt it.

I should’ve kicked him out of the room as soon as I saw him crying in bed. But I couldn’t. I just…couldn’t. I walked away before, and that rare vulnerability lured me in. I was hypnotized by such genuine emotion. Nothing clouded in sex or nonchalance. No lies or hiding. He said it’s quiet when I’m there, so I stayed. I gave him that peace.

I’m not sure the cost was worth it.

His taste is still on my lips, his scent in my nose. I can feel his hands on my cheeks and hear his voice in my ears. He haunts me every second of the day. If I could, I’d bleed myself just to wash away every ounce of toxicity flooding him. There’s a deep-seated pain that he’s bestowed on me; the shock of losing him still electrocutes me. I wonder if he knows how deep the wound cut. Does he know how lonely I am without him?

He gave me a taste of before. A taste of the old us, and as exhilarating as it was, I didn’t lie to him. I want more. I want before and after. I want him to be healing and vulnerable like he was hours ago. We need to talk. We need to vent and expose all the cobwebs we keep pretending don’t exist. And that can’t happen as long as he’s with another man.

As long as he stays with Leon, I’ll stay away. I’ll force myself to because it’s wrong.

I looked a few days ago, jealousy consuming me, and discovered Eli hadn’t posted since the beginning of the tour. Every video of him with Leon is gone, and his fans are pissed. That has to mean…something, right? Eli wouldn’t take them down without a reason. That’s his livelihood.

Chewing my lip, I flick my eyes back at the house. My stomach fizzles with some sick desire to tell Leon. Just walk into his room and announce, “He kissed me. He wants me. ” There goes that toxic possessiveness rearing its hideous head.

I’m not that person. But I am tired of being forgotten. I’m tired of my voice not mattering, even when I use it. I’m tired of watching the love of my life wither away with someone who doesn’t realize it’s happening. I have to do something, I just don’t know what.

T he following week is a blur. We play the shows. I joke around with my band. I eat, sleep, shit—a body on autopilot.

It’s clear that Eli isn’t leaving Leon. He isn’t going back home. For whatever reason, he lingers.

Several times since Thanksgiving, I texted Oli. Because we both use Android phones, I know he’s seen them. Our relationship is estranged—it has been for eight years. Most of that distance is due to how badly I took everything. I love all my siblings, we are pretty close, but Oli could’ve been my twin when we were little.

He loves metal like I do. He loves playing his guitar. He’s pansexual, which made me feel so accepted when I first came out. We both love olives on our pizza, sleep with socks on in the winter, and we’re both allergic to grapes. Despite being younger than me, he’s always felt my age. We’ve always been able to bond over things my other siblings couldn’t. A lot factors into the relationship I used to have with Oli. But then he overdosed, and I backed off. I shut him out.I stopped trying.

Bottom line, I felt betrayed.

We would tell each other everything. I’m self-aware enough to know this tear in one of the most solid parts of my life directly affects how I handle Eli. Maybe that’s why I’m reaching out to my little brother. Maybe if I can fix things with him, I’ll be able to forgive Eli—let him go for good.

Just let me know you’re okay.

The text sends and delivers.

The ball is in Oli’s court now. I don’t know if he wants me as his brother anymore. I can’t say I’d blame him if that’s the case. Instead of trying to understand, I got bitter. I took it personally.

Google says that’s the middle child syndrome. I didn’t used to think I had that shit, but I may. My mom forgot me once, like that kid in Home Alone. Sure, she didn’t leave the country but left me in the grocery store. I was trying to decide which PopTarts I wanted, and the next thing I knew, she was gone.

My dad was not okay with me being gay for a long time. He was cold to me, a little mean, even. But when Oli came out as pansexual, he was better about it. I think he liked the possibility of my brother ending up with a woman at some point—that one hurt. I was a misfit because of how I was born, but Oli got an easy smile and the “I’m glad you told us” speech. I suppose I’m a bit jealous of that. I don’t think anyone even realizes how it molded me, either.

We’re getting closer to the East Coast. Only a handful more shows until we circle back for Christmas, and then we’re getting on a plane to Europe. The scenery changes, but it’s the same routine. Drive, park, sound check, set up, play, pack up, drive. Rinse and repeat. I’m lucky to be a part of this. Lucky to be living a life that so many people never get to. So why don’t I feel lucky? Why do I feel so fucking empty? Part of me wonders if this is what creeps up on some musicians.

Like they know in their head that they should appreciate it all and be thankful. This is the chance of a lifetime. Yet, somewhere along their journey, it gets overwhelming. Their lives are under a microscope, and their relationships are broadcast.They’re overly sexualized, scrutinized, and the focal point of negativity. And then they crack.

Is that going to happen to me one day?

Like some foreboding sign from God, the wind picks up around me, hair billowing in my face. I shiver and blink at the sun setting in the sky. I’m lost out here. Is this what I really want? My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, hopeful that it’s my brother.

Eli: Are you wearing your lucky socks?

Yes, I saved his fucking number. Why? Because I’m sick. I glance down at my feet, see the pizza slices sporadically printed over the black socks, and frown. I spin in place, searching for him. He’s not outside, and I don’t smell anyone smoking.

Why do you care?

He writes back instantly.

Wanted to know if they still work.

When he and I first started dating, Dreadful only played locally—little bars ‘n shit with maybe thirty people in the audience. We’ve come a long way in just over two and a half years. At our first big concert, I was so nervous that I threw up. Eli took me down Hollywood Boulevard with maybe twenty minutes until we went on. We went to a tourist shop and he bought me these socks. He said I needed something familiar to keep me grounded on stage. I’ve worn them almost every show since, and haven’t thrown up once.

My chest pinches painfully while my eyes mist over.

They do.

He takes a bit longer to reply, and when he does, my eyes bulge out of their sockets.

I’m ending things with Leon soon.

My face twists into a scowl. Is he finally feeling guilty about cheating on him? Because that’s what happened, anyway you slice it. I sure as shit feel guilty. There were multiple points when I could’ve stopped him, but I didn’t. I wanted that kiss more than I care to admit. And now, with this text, my stomach is firing off with flutters while my dick twitches.

No. Just no.

I’m not going to acknowledge this. I know what happens if I do.

Don’t do it, Phoenix.

Good. You don’t want him anyways.

Goddammit.

My hand flies to the top of my head while I pace, watching in horror as he starts to type. I’m an idiot. I’m pathetic, desperate. I’m feeding into this despite all my efforts not to. How long has it been? A week since we kissed? I shouldn’t be this excited over the possibility of Eli being single. I shouldn’t even be talking to him.

Fuck me. Fuck.

And you know what I want, don’t you?

Not him.

E verything is hot.

I rarely play shirtless, but I stripped after the first song. The strands of my hair cling to my naked back while I beat my drums to death.

Whoever came up with this stage should be shot. It’s long and shallow, so my kit is up on this platform, allowing me to see more of the crowd than I’m used to. It also allows them to see me very well.

And guess who is right at the front, licking his lips?

I try not to make eye contact. I try to stay with the music and feel the groove in my chest. Jorge is killing it tonight. Devon’s bass drops are so powerful the tiny hairs on my arms move from the soundwaves. Banging my head to unstick the hair from my back, I flip my head up and catch him gripping the stage. His shoulders are squared, almost statuesque, and people mosh behind him.

Eli’s eyes are on me.

My best friend must feel the tension slicing through the stage, so he jumps up on the platform, effectively blocking me. I shudder a breath and keep playing. Jorge roars into the mic, moving his body to the beat when it shifts into a breakdown. I follow his lead but it’s not to look cool for the crowd. Eli loves it when I headbang. And I’m taunting him at this point.

The song comes to an end, the last one left to play. Jorge bends to grab his water and faces me. I can tell he wants to ask what is going on but can’t currently. I shake my head a little and smile, hoping that’s enough to get him to back off until I can explain—or not. He’s my best friend, but he doesn’t need to know everything. Or maybe I’m protective over this attention I’m getting. Who knows anymore? I’m tired of trying to figure it out.

It’s been weeks of this shit.

Glancing at Eli and wetting my lips, I catch his jaw clenching, eyes trailing over the parts of me he can see. When he leans forward a bit, rests his hands on the stage, and cocks his head, a quiver racks my stomach.

My mind goes straight to the gutter, too. He looks as if he’s cornered his prey and ready to eat. My throat tightens as I suck in a breath, grabbing my sticks. Jorge announces the song, I kick off the beat, and I don’t even bother hiding my smirk when Jorge mouths what the fuck in my direction.