Page 198 of Silver Sweet

TOM COBALT

One of the hardest things about being on tour is the shower situation. The tiny one on the bus is like showering inside a coffin. The water pressure also blows. I imagine it’s what being pissed on feels like—not that I care to verify that.

And look,Iam not the only one who’s been complaining about our shower. Okay—Hannah and Stan also hate it, and my bodyguard has avoided it for days. I am getting sick of smelling Ian’s body spray.

Let’s also not forget my six-foot-four drummer who has to do neck gymnastics to wash his hair under the showerhead.

So when Delia tells us we have to be wheels-up right after a show, there’s always a collective groan. It means no time to use the venue’s showers.

Tonight is not that night.

Steam flows out of the bathroom into a private dressing room as I knot a towel at my waist. My skin is pink from the hot water, and I catch Phoenix pulling a black tee over his head.

“Dude, I think I just reached nirvana in there,” I tell him. “Ten out of ten. No notes.”

“You’re rating the venue showers now?” Phoenix zips up a duffel at his feet. His damp, freshly washed hair is hidden underneath a backwards baseball hat.

“Yeah, and they’re all tens just for being bigger than a sci-fi cryopod.” I dig around in my own duffel for a change of clothes. “Maybe I need to revisit the budget. It wouldn’t be too much to add in hotels, just so everyone can shower outside the bus when the venue showers aren’t an option.”

Phoenix sits on the edge of a chair, pulling on a pair of socks. “No. You’re already personally funding enough shit for the show.”

“Yeah, but how much are hotels actually? Morale is important, dude. The label won’t pay for it, but I can.”

Phoenix cocks his head at me. “What about Roland Fairchild?”

I wince. No regrets in telling him the story about Roland—but I knew it’d bite me in the ass.

Roland is another trust fund baby, but he had a dream to become a big fashion designer. Dumped all his money into his company and it never took off. Anytime I see him, he’s always on the phone with his parents, begging for a deposit into his account.

He’s not even an anomaly. So many of my rich party friends blow their allowance trying to start a company or fuel a passion that goes nowhere. I’ve tried to be smarter for my own pride and because my money isn’t bottomless. Even though my parents’ wealth is in the billions, I’m personally not worth that much, nor do I have that kind of cash to spend.

Still, I have more than enough to live beyond my means, but my trust fund has actual rules. My parents give me a giant lump sum every May, and it needs to last me through the year.

Not all my siblings are good with their finances. Ben gave all his savings away in a mental breakdown. Eliot spends exorbitantamounts on clothes, food, and luxury brands. Dude has like five pairs of red-bottom Louboutin oxfords in his closet.

Mostly, I invest what I’m given and put as much as I can into retirement. For the tour, I set a cap on what I’m willing to spend out of my personal finances, and I even sat down with Phoenix to discuss where the money would be put to best use. We mainly amped up the staging for the show. Special lighting, custom risers and backdrops, stage outfits, the jean jackets I give to fans, and I’m flying in a videographer for weekend shows.

It’s safe to say—I’m at my cap.

“Dropping the Roland Fairchild card is a dick move,” I tell Phoenix.

“If you didn’t want me to use it, you wouldn’t have told me about him.” He shoves his feet in a pair of sneakers and watches me zone out. “Stop thinking about it, man. You’re not breaking open your personal piggybank for some hotel showers.”

“It’s a big piggybank, dude.”

Phoenix glares at me. “Yeah, and it’s going to be an empty one if you use it to make this tour feel like a luxury cruise. We agreed that’s not even a good use of your moneyifyou wanted to spend more. Which you shouldn’t. Youaren’t.”

“Yeah.Yeah.” I let out a heavy sigh. “I just feel guilty, I guess. Like Hannah said she can’t shave her legs in the bus shower. That has to be annoying.” I change into a tee and sweats.

“We’re all making concessions,” Phoenix says. “Once we start selling more tickets and book bigger venues, the band will be able to afford the comfort upgrades. This doesn’t have to be a forever thing.”

“Great, another bullet point on why I’m desperate to become the next big rock band. List is getting way too long—longer than my Christmas naughty list by the time I was ten.”

“Jesus Christ. I do not want to know.” He has a shadow of a smile, so he definitely wants to know.

I tell him that, and Phoenix retorts, “I’m sure you would love to tell me every minute of your life like it’s a nine-hundred-hour movie.”

“And you would love watching it.”