Page 12 of Silver Sweet

I flick a switch so Phoenix can hear me in his headset. “You need a countdown?”

“Just play it. I’ll drop in.”

“Fine.” I turn off my mic, then tap the keyboard. The song begins with a frustration-charged drum intro, and Phoenix seamlessly slides into the blistering tempo. His buff arms move so fast, I can barely see the sticks as they bang the drums in quick, heated succession.

I go motionless when the lyrics hit, and his furious eyes lift to mine through the glass. He never stops drumming, each powerful movement embodying Sum 41’s angst-laden vocals.

My eyes grip him.

I can practically feel him screaming at me as he bangs harder, faster.

My chest collapses. I breathe rougher, and I hunch over the controls in a lunge. The song reminds me of inner restlessness but also stagnation you can’t pry yourself out of.

The situation isn’t ever what you want it to be.I know nothing about Phoenix St. Pierre. Not his motivation for being here or why he’d even consider joining my “mediocre” band when he’s…

He’s really fucking talented.

The kind of unmanufactured, raw talent that I’ve been dreaming about finding. He plays similar to his brother, but there’s more scorched earth under Phoenix. More fire, turmoil, and pain. It draws me in. Seizes. Refuses to let go. This familiar heart-fisting, fervent feeling is why I love music.

Passion unmitigated and passion unrestrained. When life is so confined to rules—don’t say that, don’t do that, don’t be that—music is releasing. It makes me feel untamed.

My pulse hasn’t calmed, and I hear my arduous breath. Until the sound of the creaking door steals my attention.

Jeremy slips into the control room, sipping a Fizz Life through a straw. He’s addicted to my family’s soda. I swear he drinks about five cans a day.

“And?” Jeremy asks me while Phoenix continues to play. Phoenix can’t hear in the tracking room since I haven’t switched on the mic.

I watch the drummer of my dreams. He never misses a beat. “What’s wrong with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy, Jere.” I spin toward my manager. He has a shit-eating grin as he sips from the straw. “You’ve sent me a drummer that should be headlining a world tour.”

“Hopefully he will be. With you. As part of The Carraways.”

I shake my head slowly, like I’m trying to find the error in the code, but before I can prod Jeremy, the song ends, and Phoenix is rising from behind the drum kit. “Your turn, Tom.” He points at me with his stick. “Prove you don’t suck.”

I clench my jaw. “Jere, play ‘Fire You Feel.’”

“Roger that.” I hear the smile in his voice.

He shouldn’t be excited. Something about this feels like a catalytic trainwreck. Probably because when I exit into the tracking room, Phoenix and I exchangefuck youglares, and fire sears both my lungs as I fit on headphones, slip the guitar strap over my shoulder, and lower the fixed microphone toward my mouth.

Jeremy’s leveled voice comes through my headset, but he’s not speaking to me. “Phoenix, sit back down. I’m about to start the demo to Tom’s single. Come in on drums if you feel up to it.”

I’m not prepared for Phoenix to play my song. With me.

I’m barely prepared to singto him.

This is happening too fast, but can we go slow? The label wants to rusheverythingsince I misspent all last year struggling to make an album.

I tune the guitar, then when I’m ready, I motion to Jeremy in the control room.

Right as the track begins, I rotate and face Phoenix. His brows tick up a little in surprise, but I’m not going to avoid him. He wants to hear me, then I’m confronting him head-on.

Lips near the mic, I belt out the feverish, caustic intro that feels like magma slipping into my bloodstream. My fingers move naturally on the guitar. My body shifts with the raging beat. When I sing, all my bottled emotion explodesout of me, and I detonate into the chorus.

I wrote “Fire You Feel.” The lyrics are personal. I’m more exposed as each word carries out of my body, but each one is also a weapon, a blade, aimed ahead of me.