Page 195 of Silver Sweet

Tom chokes halfway through, which causes Clint and Asher to cackle with laughter. I shoot both of them a death glare. “Shutthe fuckup,” I snap.

They go instantly quiet.

Tom’s neck stains red. He rubs his lips with the back of his hand, then looks to me. “Nothing Personal?”

“Yeah. My brother…he started the game.” I haven’t spoken to Birdie in a week. That weighs on me suddenly.Thisconversation.Tonight.

Thirteen.

Fuck, I’m not superstitious. What is wrong with me?

I exhale deeply, trying to ground myself. I blink. It’s not working. I light a cigarette instead.

“No smoking in the green room,” Roy tells me.

“Fuck off, Roy,” I snap and blow smoke up in the air.

Clint puts a hand on my shoulder. “You need a good lay, my man. What kind of dudes are you into? I can scope the audience for you.”

“He likes the skinny guys,” Gunther says. “That’s what he went for last tour. Right, St. Pierre?”

My brain hums with static.

Tom’s not looking at me.

I shrug Clint’s palm off my shoulder. “Do not scope anything for me. I don’t need to get laid. I need the drums.”

Asher howls.

Then Roy.

Gunther next.

These stupid fuckers. My lips twitch, and then I see Tom finishing the water off, and I’m back to feeling like a ten-car pile-up. All wreckage and smoke. I take another drag from my cigarette before putting it out on the abused and graffitied coffee table.

Delia comes into the green room, and her nose curls at the smell of smoke. “Roy.”

“Sorry, Delia,” he grins and gives me a wink. I suppress an eyeroll.

“We’re ready,” Tom tells her, chucking the empty water bottle into the trashcan. I follow him out into the hallway, and Delia disappears while we wait stage right.

It’s just us for a second, and Tom rotates to me.

His earnest blue eyes puncture even the toughest parts of me. “You told me that there would be bad nights,” he says. “You remember that?”

My pep talk before we went on tour. I told him that with 67 cities and three months, we’d be facing some bad nights where we’d probably be fighting, irritable, and hating each other’s guts. Maybe we’d be hungover or just fucking done with the travel and the bullshit.

But we’d have to go out there anyway. I told him not to expect every night to be the best show of his life. To expect ones that don’t go well. That feel off. That aren’t up to his standards. Just bad fucking nights.

I didn’t think he’d ever bring it up. My throat swells. “I remember.”

“This is a bad night,” he tells me with a strong nod. “I know that. I’m probably to blame for a part of it.”

I shake my head. “I was going to say about eighty percent.”

“Valid. Yeah…” He lets out a deeper breath, and his face morphs into a grimace. “It destroys me to admit, but I have no backbone with those guys. I’m just not used to being in these situations without…”

“Your brother,” I say for him.Eliot.