Page 107 of Silver Sweet

I am a guy from Boston.

So there is no way I would steal Tom away from his brothers.

Not even as Tom groans, “Fuck,no.They’re nooo fun. We need Eliot Aliiiiice.” He gasps. “Let’s get Eliot?—”

“No,” Charlie and Beckett say in unison.

Tom lets out an extended moan. “Everyone’s out to get meee.”

“Yes, because the whole world revolves around you,” Charlie says.

“It does, thank you for noticing.” Tom slips me the fucking cutest smug smile I’ve ever seen.

I pat his thigh on my lap. “Sorry, nepo baby, you’re being held hostage.”

“Break me freeee, dude.”

I feel more heat off Beckett’s eyes, and I glare back at him. “What?” I ask with a grimace.

“Nepo baby?”

“Is it inaccurate?” I snap, feeling attacked even though the guy hasn’t raised his voice once. “He’s a nepo baby.”

Tom cackles. “That’s me.” He has a widening grin while he laces his fingers back over his eyes. “He loooves me.”

My insides cramp, and I’m too caught off guard to do anything but act like Tom spoke drunk bullshit into the air.

“Everyone loooooves me,” Tom smiles into a snicker. “I looove me.”

“Subtract me,” Charlie says, passing his cigarette to Beckett, who takes a short drag before handing it back.

“Mmmm-hmm,” Tom mumbles. “No can do, Shar-lee boy. You looove me. I don’t make the rules. Now, 7-Eleven. Chop, chop.” He claps twice.

The SUV is still idling in the cold. I glance between them. “Can we not go to the 7-Eleven?” I ask.

Beckett turns to Charlie. “He needs food.”

“He’s playing you.” Charlie extends his hand out the window. “He wants to go there to grab more alcohol.” He stretches his head toward the bodyguard. “McDonald’s, Oscar. Merci beaucoup.”

I frown over at Tom. Is he that shrewd? He seems harmless. He’s literally flipping Charlie off right now.

Charlie puts out the cigarette, then rolls up the window. The SUV starts moving and bumps along the road. Beckett still has the glass bottle of water.

“Give me that,” I motion my fingers at it.

“You slip anything in this water, and your life will be over,” Beckett says like he’s telling me the weather and not my fate. Like it’s a fact that he will destroy me if I hurt his brother, andsomehow the impact of that is more forceful than a fist to my face.

“I wouldneverdrug him,” I emphasize with everything in me, then I grimace remembering Tom’s bodyguard at the club. “Jesus, why is everyone afraid he’s going to be drugged?” My face just plummets. My stomach falls out of my body. “Please don’t tell me he’s been…” I crash backward, my whole body locked tight again.

I extend my arm back over the seat.

No one is saying anything.

No one is denying.

“Was he roofied?” I ask outright, gritting my molars. Visceral anger tears through me, imagining Tom going through this. The car suddenly bakes with heat—I’m baking. I drag a tense hand over my mouth. Now I feel like I’m going to puke. Tom’s legs are still draped across my spread knees, so I can’t exactly bow forward and put my arms on my thighs. I’m uncomfortable in this agonizing silence of uncertainty.

I stretch my neck backward and say a harsh, “Fuck.” Then I glance at Tom, my pulse in my throat, and I ask his brothers, “Yes or no?” Neither respond. “You really can’t tell me? Because when he’s sober, I’m going to ask him anyway.”