Page 194 of Silver Sweet

Less chatter. Fewer high-fives and less friendly banter. It’s been putting me on edge.

All this is happening when I’ve just started to not worry during Tom’s crowd-surfing and choreographed falls and jumps.

Nothing will happen, I tell myself. I suck in a deeper breath, squeezing him tighter just once more before I let go.

Tom attempts to hide a smile, one that reddens his face.

It upturns my lips.

The bass in Evening Glory’s song dies off, and it’s our sign to break farther apart. Tom grabs a water bottle from the mini-fridge as the doors blow open to wild screams and laughter.

“Goddamn!” Roy howls.

Clint and Asher make wolf noises in response, and Gunther trails the pack. “Boys, you are not going to believe it.” Gunther’s talking to Tom and me. “We’re almost at a full house.”

“Bullshit,” I say. We’re in Los Angeles. One of the bigger venues on our schedule.

“Not bullshit, St. Pierre.” Roy catches the fridge door before Tom can close it. He bends down and grabs four beers. “It’spacked.”

Tom’s eyes light up in excitement. Whenever he meets even the tiniest crumb of success, you’d think the whole sky exploded in comets and shooting stars. It’s one of my favorite sights.

I’m starting to think celebrating small achievements should be a prerequisite to life. It feels so much better than always counting the miles left to go.

“Buffalo!” Gunther yells, breaking the moment.

Fuck.He’s pointing at Tom.

My singer holds a water bottle in hisrighthand. Buffalo Club. It’s a drinking game we’ve started playing. The best part: it’s pulled Gunther’s attention away from pranks. Helovesthis game. The rules are overly simple. While on tour, you must drink with your non-dominant hand. In Tom’s case, he needs to be drinking with hislefthand.

When caught using the wrong hand, someone—mainly Gunther and Roy—will be sure to notice and scream “Buffalo!” in your face. This incurs a penalty. You have to chug whatever you’re holding.

I glare at Gunther. “We’re going on in less than twenty.”

Gunther makes a face. “It’swater.”

My muscles are coiled. Tom doesn’t like to drink more than a couple sips ofanythingbefore a show. He doesn’t want the urge to piss onstage—and you know what, I get it. Will Gunther give a fuck? No.

Tom shrugs like it’s nothing, but I see his fingers tightening against the plastic bottle. He meets my gaze. “It’s cool. I can chug it.”

I know that hecan.It’s not the point. Maybe I’m irritable from lack of sleep. The bus shakes too much on the road. I forgot how much harder it is to catch any decent rest on tour. I can’t stop myself from speaking. “Hey, Gunth, weren’t you the one saying how this is unluckythirteen? Maybe we should cut the stupid drinking game for one night, all right?”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Tom tells me casually, but he slides me a fierce look likedrop it.

Peer pressure was not something I thought Tom would succumb to. But this is different, I think. Tom is so wrapped up in his identity as the “fun” brother of his family that he can’t imagine a scenario where he’d be the unfun one ruining a fucking drinking game. Not laughing at a prank. Not being the life of the party.

Tom presses the water to his lips and starts chugging the entire thing.

I hate watching this.

But I’m not about to rip the water bottle out of his hand and embarrass him.

I’m not his big brother.

I’m just the guy fucking him.

I grind down on my teeth.

Gunther turns to me. His long blond hair clings in sweaty strings to his torn muscle shirt. “Stupid drinking game, huh? Funny you think that when your old band taught it to us.”