Page 174 of Silver Sweet

I am dead.

I’m so fuckingdeceased.

When his tongue reaches my sternum, he drops back down and wraps his lips around the shot glass near my cock. He pries it out with his mouth, then as he stands, he throws his head back, taking the liquor like a body-shot pro.

I’m enamored by him. He sets the shot glass by my thigh and moves toward my face. I think he’s about to kiss me. Until his lips veer to my ear, and he whispers, “Happy birthday, Tom.”

This.

This.

This.

I’m…undone. It’s too much. Does he feel it too? Is that why his eyes never return to mine? He wipes a hand across his mouth like we kissed. We didn’t kiss. I can’t even banter. I can’t even speak.

He’s just twisting away. Then he’s gone, slipping between my party friends.

Thundering noise reaches my ears again. Cheering blends with the heart-racing beat of our song “Wired” and various exclamations and shouts like:

“That wassohot!”

“Who was that?!”

“Drummer for The Carraways—Wolfgang something!”

“Oh shit, I’ve seen him on social media!”

I try to reanimate. Before Creighton gets any ideas, I hop off the table.

“Tom?” Eliot puts a hand on my shoulder, checking in with me.

“I’m good. I’m good.” Just in a daze. “Keep this up.” I wave toward the lively crowd, and he nods.

Maybe Phoenix just needs a minute to cool off alone. Yeah,yeah.

I might need that too.

41

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

Fucking hell, I am sweating. And it’s not just because the number of bodies in Tom’s apartment has increased the noxious heat by twenty degrees. I could very well blame it on the body shot I just took off Tom, the one that will be ravaging my head for years to come. But that’s not it either.

Two hours ago, before this party even started, I fucked up.

It’s been itching at me.

Clawing.

I just need to tell someone, and that someone cannot be Tom.

I’m in Tom’s bathroom after waiting in line for what felt like twenty minutes. Phone on video call, I have it propped up against the mirror.

My brother runs a towel over his damp hair, grown out just past the awkward stage from a couple of months ago. The brown strands are at a short, workable length now.

“You look freaked.” His voice is so full of rasp, it catches me off guard.

“What the fuck happened to your voice?” I ask.