2. Phoenix

Phoenix

Kissing Someone Else

I lay in my bed, spooning Helios, trying not to sniffle. It’s pathetic to still feel so heartbroken after all this time, but I am.

For the first few weeks after our terrible breakup, I was beyond angry. Like…I seriously debated killing Eli. Jorge said his uncle has a few pigs that might eat a body. Kelly tacked on that, saying that her one class in human anatomy qualified her to chop up said body. Devon said we were all insane. Michael didn’t have anything to say, but he judged us. It was easier to be angry when it all happened.

But once that fizzled out and I didn’t commit murder, the pain quadrupled in my chest. I swear my heart seized like a dying animal before falling somewhere in my lower abdomen to rot. It all seemed so real to me when I was living it.

People warned me; of course, they did.

Those people didn’t understand what it is like to date someone who makes a living off their body. I act like I have such a vast group of confidantes who advise me. No, it was just my bandmates. Well, my parents did, too, when they eventually found out what Eli did. And my siblings.

The first thing you must remember about dating an adult entertainer is that you can’t get jealous. It’s business, not cheating. I struggled very hard with that in the beginning. It’s not like me to be territorial, and for months before anything ever happened, I considered letting my blossoming feelings die. Eli is one of the top-grossing content creators on numerous porn sites, including OnlyFans. I mean, he’s just that hot. And charming. But he also has this dark, broody energy, too. It’s ensnaring and addicting.

One look was all it took for me. And it was through a fucking laptop screen.

I saw him and jerked off like some crazy dude. But then shit got weird. I got to meet him. I’m not exactly Mr. Social Butterfly, so I was ridiculously shy and quiet—more so than usual. Somehow, that caught his attention, and before I knew it, I had his phone number. Obviously, a lot more happened, but I’m reminiscing and licking my wounds right now.

It isn’t just the fact that we had more sexual chemistry than an oxygen and hydrogen molecule. It isn’t the fact that when we were together, I felt like a different person. Or maybe those play a factor in it. I don’t know anymore.

Eli and I were one of those couples that spoke with our eyes. We checked in with physical touch. I could pick up on his energy; he did the same with mine. We had the kind of relationship that people write in fiction. I swear I didn’t need to breathe when we were together because his presence gave me life.

I loved him.

In many ways, I still do. So, I sniffle and mope, knowing that it was one-sided. That I must’ve imagined it all. Don’t people say that time makes memories sweeter? Blurs all the ugly shit, and you cling to the good? Or is this just a trauma response?

I tuck Helios tighter to my chest, burying my nose in his fur because I’m thirty years old and crying in my room like a lovesick fourteen-year-old with his first unrequited crush. I hate that I can’t move on. I hate that one moment of unchecked aggression and pain aimed the spotlight on me while he’s off living his Eurotrip dreams screwing half the metal genre. I keep telling myself that I need to get angry again. I need to harness it into motivation. But I can’t. It feels like a thousand rocks live inside my chest cavity instead of my heart. Cold and heavy, weighing me down to the bottom of this ocean, a graveyard for love.

We leave tomorrow, and I need to get it together. Just knowing that Eli’s most recent boyfriend is going to be traveling with us has me wanting to peel my skin off so that I have an excuse not to go. If I could get away with it, I’d stay in this spot for six months. Easily. But I don’t have that option, and as much as I like to pretend it’ll all be miserable, I know that isn’t true.

I love playing. I love making music. And I love my drums almost as much as Helios.

Mom has videos of me somewhere banging on pots and pans as an infant and holding a beat. It’s in my genetic makeup. She used to play violin for some fancy orchestra before settling down and having a million babies. Dad played the sax for a jazz band in the 80s. My oldest brother, Darien, plays piano like some angel, but he went into real estate instead of music. Regardless, I know this is what I’m supposed to do. Broken heart and ex-boyfriend aside, this tour is huge for Dreadful.

“Alright, baby. Daddy’s gotta go,” I whisper to my fur child and nuzzle him again.

He merely stretches and closes his eyes.

“ W hat’s up with that snare, man?” Devon hollers at me, muting his bass with his palm.

Michael’s wailing guitar stops abruptly. I hurry to tighten it up. We’ve been jamming for a few hours, and I’m off my game. Fucked up a few songs that I’ve played hundreds of times because my mind isn’t here in the studio. It’s split between my bed with Helios and Leon Persson’s bed, where I know he’s getting railed from behind by my ex.

Fuck.

Giving myself a mental shake, I start from the top again. Everyone looks at me funny before getting back to business.

Kelly mouths, are you okay?

I nod fast, feet hammering the bass drum peddle.

Sweat drips down my back while I lose myself in the music. This is only practice, and I’m fucking up. Jorge will smother me in my sleep if I slip up on stage. The drummer carries the rest of the band. The songs will sound terrible if that beat is off even by a second. And with microphones attached to my kit, the amps up full volume, the crowd will hear it. I must be hyper-fixating on that possibility because I fumble the beat again.

“Time out!” Jorge yells into the microphone, and we all collectively stop.

I’m breathing hard, a little winded, because I’ve been sleeping like shit and haven’t been eating as much. Wiping my face with the hand towel I keep under my stool, I wait for Jorge to get on my ass. A few moments pass, and I look up to see he’s on his phone. It confuses me for three seconds until he glances at me, eyes softening into puddles.

“Shit, man. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Fuck me in the dick with a razor. “It’s no big deal,” I mumble, busying myself with my cymbals.

“What happened?” Devon and Kelly ask in unison. Michael studies me before setting his guitar on its stand.

All of them are looking at me. My skin crawls while my stomach knots. “It’s fine,” I say pointedly to Jorge, but my best friend ignores me.

“Eli is with Leon. Motherfucker .”

“Ew. Another drummer? Seriously?” Kelly makes a face.

My nonexistent heart shrivels into a gross little raisin. “Are you okay, bro? Seriously, do you need to talk?” Devon adds.

I grab my bottle of water instead of answering them. So they start talking without me.

“That’s pretty low.”

“He has to know we’re going on tour with them.”

“Do you think he’ll tag along?”

“Shit. Hope not.”

I don’t even know who is saying what at this point. Unfortunately, they all know our history. The dirty details of how we met, how I pined for him way longer than anyone would deem healthy before he put me out of my misery, and we started down the path of me falling in love with him. And then, of course, everything that went down a year ago. I don’t fault them for being protective of me because I can’t deny the dark place I went to. But I would appreciate it if they all stopped.

Just shut the fuck up.

Everyone is quiet, four pairs of round eyes on me. “Did I say that out loud?”

Jorge nods, gulping. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“We got carried away.”

Devon goes to say something along the lines of an apology, but I shake my head. Standing and walking out from behind my kit, I snap my eyes to the floor and beeline for the door. Once outside, I dig out my vape from my pocket and take a couple of pulls. I rub my eyes, trying to staunch the burn in them. If any form of higher power exists in the universe, I hope they hear my silent beg.

Please don’t let Eli show up on this tour. It’s one thing to know he’s fucking other people, kissing and touching them. It’s another to see it in the flesh, and I’ve been spared so far.

The door to the studio swings open behind me. Jorge wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Forgive me?”

A weak laugh exits my lips. “I forgive you.”

My best friend is a physical guy. He will kiss you on the lips if you bring him Pop Rocks, so it’s not weird that he lingers, holding me in a comforting embrace. “We can still ask my uncle about the pigs,” he whispers in my ear, successfully getting a real laugh from me.

“No. I’m not feeling stabby anymore. I just…”

“It sucks. It does.” He squeezes me tighter before releasing me to puff on his vape. “I don’t want to be that guy.” I blink at him. “The one who tells you that the only way to get over him is to get under someone else.”

“Then don’t.”

“I wasn’t.” He grins. The wind flutters his curly hair off his face. “Besides. You don’t bottom.”

Inwardly, I cringe, hating that the one time I got drunk, I told him I was strictly a top. Little does he know… “I’ll be good in a few minutes. We can finish up the set.”

“Are you sure?” His dark brown eyes puddle. God, he’s such a pushover. I bet I could get him to do anything if I look slightly sad. Scratch that, I have. Quite a few times.

“I’m sure.”

Clapping a hand on my shoulder, he says, “He will regret what he did. Sooner or later. And when he does, you’ll be buried in some new sweet ass, too doped up on love or whatever to give a fuck.”

I chuckle, wishing with all my body that was the truth. But I know deep down that if I see Eli again, it’ll be the exact opposite. And that’s my biggest fear.