Page 187 of Silver Sweet

We’re still bathed in purple when it’s over and Tom yells, “We’re The Carraways! Thank you and goodnight!”

The fans never stop screaming. Even as we leave to the green room. It’s the first time it’s happened. Tom’s eyes glitter back toward the stage. “Do you think they want a second encore?”

“We don’t have another song.” I open the door to the green room. He wavers in the doorway. I remind him, “We don’t even have enough original songs to fill a show. Remember how we had to add inthreecover songs?”

“Good point. We can do another cover as a second encore.”

“Save your energy for the next show, Tom,” Delia Shaw says, bounding in with a clipboard. All business. But you’d never be able to tell from her black band tee and denim pants. She pauses outside the green room. “You both have ten minutes in here. The venue needs to use the space for a late-night private event, and we should hit the road soon to make it to Boise in time.”

She gives us privacy, shutting the door.

I grab a couple waters from the mini-fridge, but I can tell Tom’s reeling about something. “It’s eleven p.m. Thought spiral right on schedule,” I say.

“Yeah, along with my annoyance for you.” He gives me a smile. “Clocking in right on time.” He runs a rigid hand through his sweaty, golden-brown hair. I approach him and shove a water bottle in his chest. His powder-blue eyes catch mine.

“What’s wrong?” I ask more tenderly. “You were just about to jump back on stage and sing ‘Bittersweet Symphony’—”

“I was actually thinking we’d do ‘Brain Stew’ by Green Day.”

“Wow, you really were going to do a second encore.” My brows rise in surprise. “Were you going to drag me out there too or just play on a track?”

“Dude, your ass wasdefinitelycoming with me.”

“Hmmm.” My eyes descend to his lips. I cup the hard edges of his jaw, then slide my hand to the back of his neck. “So you’re upset the night was cut short, is that it?”

He shakes his head, but he leans back into the support of my hand. “Kind of? I’m just bummed this venue couldn’t give us more than ten minutes after our show. Like we’re not worthy. Like there was never even aconsiderationfor a second encore.”

“Because we’renotworthy. We can’t even sell out this midsize venue. I don’t blame them double-booking the night.”

Tom’s jaw tics. “Sure. Let’s side with the venue over your singer.”

“You mean my melodramatic, arrogant-as-fuck singer. That one?” I’m backing him up against the wall.

“Never heard of him,” Tom says into a shallow breath and expanding smile. “He sounds hot though.”

My eyes flit around his body, making a show of taking him in. “He’s okay.”

“Now Ireallydon’t know this guy.” Tom grabs at the waistband of my jeans. His eyes go to the door. “We have time. Ten minutes, right?”

Jesus Christ. He’s obsessed with the danger of us getting caught. Green room blow jobs are his favorite, and they’ve quickly become like an after-show ritual. I do not have any complaints.

“Yeah, we can go quick,” I tell him. “I just want you to know that I’m not siding with the venue. The sales just don’t matter to me when the crowd is that tuned in. Did you not hear them on ‘Nuclear Winter’? They were fuckingbeltingthose lyrics.Ourlyrics.”

Tom swallows hard, nodding. “I feel the same, dude. I think it’s just worry that it could go away at any second. Like a half-crowded room in Spokane could be an empty room in Des Moines.”

“I’m scared of the same shit, man. You can’t dwell on it.” My fingers are on his belt. “I’ve got ten minutes to take your mind off it.”

“Five,” he counters. “I’m going down on you next.”

We finisheach other off in under ten minutes, and by the time we make it back to the tour bus, vapor is already puffing out ofthe exhaust pipe. The massive vehicle rumbles, ready to hit the road.

As soon as the dooropens, I’m met with the thick smell of tour funk. A disgusting mixture of greasy burgers, stale sweat, cigarettes, and whiskey. There’s also a lingering vanilla scent like someone attempted to cover the funk with an air freshener.

“Holy shit,” Tom pulls his shirt up to his nose. “What fucking died?”

It’s his first tour.

Not mine.