Page 17 of Silver Sweet

I frown. “What is that for?”

“To stab you with in case this goes poorly.” He scratches something on the sheet of music at the stand.

“Just don’t go for the jugular.”

“I was thinking more like the thigh.” He rips off a portion of the paper and hands it to me.

“Death by lead is the way I’ve always wanted to go,” I say dryly, then let out a short laugh as soon as I see his phone number scribbled on the torn page. “Who am I giving this to?”

“Dancer. The cute one with blonde hair.”

“The bitchy one,” I correct.

“Bitchy and cute.” He points the pencil at me. “Deliver my nine digits.”

I fold the paper. “This is your Future Favor?” It’s what we call our IOUs. I didn’t think he’d be cashing in already.

He makes a disgruntled expression before rising off the chair. “No, this is a brotherly duty. Hurry before they leave.” He’s pushing my shoulder.

I am a magnet to conflict. Prone to confrontation. Crossing into a ballet dancer’s domain isn’t going to end well for me. “And why can’t you do it yourself?” I ask.

“They think you’re the one with the big dick.”

“The fuck, fine,” I curse, shoving him back with my forearm. The things I do for my little brother.

I drag a fold-out chair. The pit is about seven feet below the stage, so I stand on the chair to see over it, and I rest my elbowson the surface. As soon as I’m facing the ballerinas, the two slender girls twist to look at me in suspicion.

“You.” I nod toward the blonde girl, her hair pulled in a tight, painful-looking bun.

She crosses her arms in defense. “I have a name.”

“Does it look like I know it?” I ask irritably.

“Beth Anne.”

“Terrible name. Here.” I slide the piece of paper toward her on the stage.

She lets out a sharp laugh. “Uh,no.”

“Great. Thanks for doing my brother a favor. I’m sure he would’ve had tons of fun with you.”

“Asshole,” she says while her friend draws her toward backstage. They whisper together, then end up laughing as they disappear behind the curtain.

When I jump off the chair and rotate to my brother, he’s shaking his head repeatedly. “Excruciating,” he says. “You have the charm of a black hole. How many sad fuckers have you consumed?”

“Not enough.” I push the paper with his number into his chest.

Birdie takes it. “I’d say you’re in a mood, but the ‘drop-dead’ vibe is basically your natural state.” Still, he explores the edges of my face, especially as I rub at my sore eyes. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

It is hitting me. The lack of sleep. My head heavies.

He shoves the paper in his front pocket, then picks his water bottle back up. “Is that why you no-showed?” he asks. “Feeling too jittery?”

“I can play without sleep.”

He holds out a hand likeeh.“Maybe a drum kit, but I’ve seen you on timpani after 48 hours no sleep and you can’t keep time.”

I glare. “Fuck you, I can keep time.”