Page 175 of Silver Sweet

He makes a face. “Deep throated too hard.”

“No, seriously,” I say.

“Seriously,” Birdie says with a grin. “Scratched up my throat bad. Hell of a blow job though. Thank God, I’m not a singer. Hey, Tom’s going easy on the head, righ?—”

“Fuck off,” I cut him off hotly. “Did you get checked for?—”

“Yeah, all negative. It’s really just a sore throat. Don’t freak.” He tilts his head and narrows his gray eyes. “But youarefreaked about something.” He motions a hand at his own face. “You’re all scary grimace lines.”

I run a hand through my hair, about to tell him, but my resolve drops for a second. “You coming to the party?” I ask instead.

He’d been invited personally by Tom, which wasn’t the biggest shock of the century. Tom knows how close I am to my brother, and I think he respects that relationship a lot, the same way I respect his with Eliot.

Not to mention Birdie isonthe album.

I brought my brother into the studio and recorded him playing cello for “Killer Ultraviolet.” I prepared for a verbal bloodbath between my singer and my brother. But it never happened. Birdie was so professional, you’d think he was auditioning for The Manhattan Symphony. Tom holstered all weapons in favor of finishing the song on a strong note.

I’m not deluding myself into thinking they’ve established a permanent truce, but it was nice to see them get along for a stretch.

“Was going to, but then this happened.” He motions to his throat. “And while I’d love seeing Tom absolutely fawn over you like you’re the second coming of Jesus Christ?—”

“He does not do that,” I cut in.

Birdie smirks. “You’re right, at the studio he looked like he wanted to take a guitar pick and wedge it in your eye socket, but the Cobalt Empire speaks in code, man. I think that’s code for ‘I’m obsessed with you.’”

I don’t have the energy to disagree. I’m not even sure I do. “So you’re not coming to the party?”

“Man, I’m not setting myself up for Batman jokes. Hard pass.” His graveled voice does sound like a Bruce Wayne impersonation. I get it. Birdie can take being the butt of a joke—but probably not in a room full of Tom’s rich friends. His expression sobers into something more serious. “Can we stop talking about me and go back to why you’re all freakishly freaked out? I thought you were having fun at your boyfriend’s little birthday party.”

There it is.

Boyfriend.

I grip the marble sink counter and expel a heavy breath. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Birdie makes another face like he doesn’t get it.

I’m having trouble explaining without recounting my humiliation. So I start out with something small. “I ran into his parents before the party.”

“You met the parents?” Birdie readjusts his phone while he sits down on the edge of his bed. “How were they? Do they bleed red or are they made of nuts and bolts?”

I roll my eyes. “You think I sliced them open and found out?”

“You’re right. Save the experiments for later.”

“For never.”

“Sure.Sure.”

“I told them Tom and I are dating.”

He looks me over. “How’d they take that?”

“The interaction was…tense. They’re protective of Tom, and they’re aware of all the charges filed after my arrest. So they brought that up, then they went into a whole diatribe about safe sex.” I run a hand along the back of my neck and laugh dryly. “They’re way more comfortable talking about sex than our parents at least.”

“Makes sense when Tom’s aunt is a sex addict, right? He probably had convos at a young age about it.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think about that.” I’m so wrapped up in the Cobalts that I often forget Tom’s closely related to the Hales.