Page 193 of Silver Sweet

Phoenix ispissed. His jaw clenches, his body bristles, and he’s pushing me out of the bunk. Instead of confronting Evening Glory, we go into investigation mode in the front lounge. Laptops open. Coffee machine brewing. It takes two hours and three cups of Joe to find the origin of the calls.

A Craigslist ad.

We’re offloading some free signed photos of Fizzle royalty, the Calloway sisters! Just call this number and say, “I’d like to crack open a cold can of Fizz on you.” We’ll save your number, and you’ll be automatically entered to win a signed photo.

Gunther included my cell number in the ad.

“Diabolical.” My hands are on the back of my head, fingers threaded together. “If I wasn’t so annoyed, I’d almost be impressed.”

“How’d he get your number?” Phoenix asks me.

“Uh, he asked for it?” I say with a weird look. “Dude is touring with us. What was I going to do—sayno?”

Phoenix scowls. “I’m calling Gunther and telling him to fuck off.”

“You arenotdoing that. You said it yourself that pranks are normal on tour. I don’t want to be the guy that can’t take a joke. That’s not me, okay? I can take jokes.” My chest rises and falls heavily.Fuck,why is this getting to me all of a sudden?

Phoenix frowns. “I know you can take a joke, Tom.”

“Okay. Cool. So I’m going to just block the numbers. Laugh about it with Gunther tomorrow, and we’ll move on.”

Phoenix winces like the plan physically hurts him. So I’m surprised when he forces a stiff nod. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.”

45

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

The heavy bass of Evening Glory’s final song thumps the green room floor. I stretch my biceps behind my head. Tom bounces on his feet and shakes out his arms. My in-ear monitors (IEMs) are small earpieces that hang from the cord over my shoulder. I’ve already stripped off my shirt, and the aggressive air conditioning pricks my skin.

Tom has on his signatureThe Carrawaysblack jean jacket. The back design is more intricate than the earlier ones. Blue flames with purple tips now lick the band logo. He tosses the jacket into the crowd at each tour stop, and it’s blown up on social media to where we’ve seen a change at shows. Fans are now clamoring to be the one to claim the jacket. A fight broke out in Fresno over it, and Tom had to stop singing to deescalate the situation.

When Tom said he was going to use his own money to buy 67 jackets to give out, I didn’t think it’d becomethis.

It’s pretty fucking cool.

“Ready?” Tom asks.

“Think so. You?”

He nods, and we converge in the center of the room. Only an inch away. Like we’ve done before each show, he hooks our pinkies. Our eyes land on each other, and Tom says, “Your flesh.”

“Your bone,” I reply.

“Something good is going to grow,” he finishes like a promise, and I bring our hands up. We kiss our thumbs.

Then I pull him into my body. We’re hugging, a deep, chest-welding hug where his arms pin against my back and mine tuck tight around his shoulders. Everything sounds hushed except for the steady thump of his heart against mine.

I’ve had pre-show rituals with bandmates before where we all take collective breaths and share a silent minute, but this isn’t just an encouraging hug of camaraderie.

I know what every night on that stage means to Tom. What he gives to the crowd. What he gives to our band. He knows what playing music every night means to me.

It’s our thirteenth show. Our nineteenth day on tour.

The nerves before a performance haven’t changed. They’re still riding me hard. Maybe even more tonight when Gunther made it a point to remindeveryonethis is unlucky number thirteen. Most of our crew are superstitious, and they’ve been extra vigilant today.

As my brother would say,the vibes are off.