Page 109 of Silver Sweet

“Je ne crois pas.”I don’t think so. Beckett replies, “Il ne sortirait jamais avec son batteur.”He wouldn’t date his drummer. He takes a short pause. “Ils se séparent, le groupe se sépare.”They break up. The band breaks up.

“Ils niquent?”Are they fucking?

“Peut-être.”Maybe.Beckett clicks open the middle console.“Mais il nous le dirait. Non?”But he would tell us. No?

The car rolls to a stop near a curb, and I’m about to reposition Tom so I can go grab him food. But Beckett tells me, “We have to wait.”

“Why?” I clearly spot the golden yellow McDonald’s arches among the high-rise buildings. I don’t see the problem. “I can even hop out and get halal on the street—there’s a truck right there.”

“We can get McDonald’s,” Beckett says.

Okay, that’s not the issue then. “I know why Tom shouldn’t be stepping out of the car. But you have two feet.” It dawns on me. “You aren’t seriously going to make your secret service grab you a pack of nuggets.”Fuck it.“I’ll go.”

I’m gently leaning Tom back against the door and untangling his legs from mine, then I jump out on the other side. Fully understanding that they could leave my ass inside this McDonald’s and drive away.

Birdie would tell me I’m setting myself up for it.

Each step away from the SUV feels like swords piercing me through the back.You’re an idiot, I tell myself. Truly this is so fucking stupid.

25

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

I’m ordering at a self-service kiosk, the fast-food joint packed with New Yorkers who’ve been drinking past 2 a.m.

Common trend tonight.

I tap the screen and look up just as the door opens. Beckett strides through, a dark blue Yankees ballcap somewhat obscuring his features. He’s shrugged on a leather jacket over his white button-down and keeps his hands in the pockets.

What makes my finger freeze over the kiosk—he’s alone. No brothers. No bodyguard trailing after his expensive-looking loafers. Shock is an undercurrent to my confusion.

Beckett stops at my side, but his focus trains to the kiosk. “What do you want? I think Tom will be good with nuggets.”

I turn my head to the door, then to Beckett. “I thought you said you were waiting in the car?”

“I was. For my bodyguard. He’s three blocks away in a different SUV.” Beckett’s eyes pierce me, and in the bright lighting, they look more yellow than green. “But you got out of the car. Charlie made a comment about leaving you, and Tom flipped out. So I’m here to show my little brother that we’re not going to ditch you.”

“Charlie was about to though.”

“He wasn’t serious. And if Tom weren’t drunk, he’d know that.” Beckett side-eyes a loud cluster of college-aged girls. The one slurping on a soft drink is squinting at him. He shifts so his back is to her, then he surveys the kiosk. His brows knit. “Let’s order at the counter.”

“This is faster.” I swipe through the menu, quickly adding a bunch of random food to the order. Nuggets, Big Macs, a Filet-O-Fish. Lots of fries.

“Any of you vegetarian?” I wonder.

“No,” Beckett says. “Youngest brother is vegan. I assume you haven’t met Ben.”

“Nope.”

“Swipe over.” His hand comes out of his pocket as he points. I notice his black leather glove. “Get the Peanut Butter Crunch McFlurry.”

It’s on the limited-time menu. “For Tom,” I say, knowing.

Beckett slips me a subtle look of surprise.

“Guy brings 18-ounce jars of SKIPPY and organic nut butter to the studio. With baggies of pretzels, apples, celery. Every time. All the time.” I tap the McFlurry. “I thought it was a superstitious thing at first. A lot of musicians have their rituals, but he’s just obsessed with peanut butter.”

Beckett listens intently but says nothing.