Page 232 of Silver Sweet
Phoenix twirls his drumsticks, then crashes them into the snare as I sing “Nuclear Winter” to the thundering crowd.
I try to block out the ache in my chest. The fans paid to be transported out of their problems for one night—they’re not here to be affected by mine.
We do a good job keeping the spark alive.
Good for me feels terrible.
I know we’re so much better than good. I know we’re so much better than this, and by the end, I can confidently say this was the worst performance I’ve ever given.
I want a hot shower and a solution—one that isn’t quitting Adderall. What I don’t want? A midnight afterparty with Evening Glory. Our tour bus stinks of weed, armpit, and warm blue cheese from whatever Gunther is microwaving.
The stench contorts my face in an eye-watering wince.
“Tom!” Roy slings his arm over my shoulder. “Great fucking show, man. Sold out. Crowd was amped. Did you see the merch line? Mindblown.” His laugh is high-pitched and energized. Because he’s been snorting coke.
He rubs at his nose, and I instantly want to tell Phoenix,Look, I’m not doing that!Cold hard evidence. I am resisting drugs. Adderall shouldn’t even be demonized when it literally helps people with ADHD. And yeah, I don’t have ADHD, but that’s not the point. It isn’t bad like cocaine. I’m notRoy.
But I spin around, Roy’s arm dropping off me, and I realize Phoenix isn’t on the bus. He didn’t follow me here.
My heart is so heavy. “I’m not in the mood, dude,” I tell Gunther when he offers me whiskey on ice.
“Oh no, Gunth,” Roy says, his arm now around his lead singer. “I think the boyfriends are fighting.”
My brain flash-freezes like I swallowed liquid nitrogen. “What?” I say without breathing. Evening Glory isn’t part of our crew—they don’t know that Phoenix and I have kissed, let alone call ourselvesboyfriends.
They know as much as the internet, which consists mostly of semi-flirty video clips taken from our shows. Phoenix and I haven’t officially verified or confirmed anything. We’ve only made one public denial—to three fans waiting in line before a show, the pseudo-meet-and-greet from a month ago. Ever since then, we’ve changed course and have been inadvertently following Sheela’s advice—to keep speculation about a romance alive—because outright denying its existence started feeling like a big lie.
I didn’t want to lie to our fans.
They’re so good to us.
“Just fucking with you, man,” Roy snickers. “Your fans should be a part of the CIA. Gunth, weren’t they dissecting Phoenix’s head nods toward him?”
“Chin tilts,” Gunth clarifies.
“Chiiiiin tilts,” Roy draws out into a chuckle. “Oh God. No wonder St. Pierre doesn’t want to be around you right now. He’s probably hoping this all goes away so he can bag a big dick in peace.”
“Get out,” I say coldly.
Roy laughs hard, but the noise fades at the sight of my unamused face. “You’re kidding, right?” He smacks Gunther’s chest. “You have more Molly? Tom needs?—”
“Take your rotting food with you, your drugs, your nasty fucking body odor and get off my bus. Right. Now.” I point at the exit. “That way.” I flip him off with my other hand.
Roy is flabbergasted. “Tom.”
Why aren’t they listening to me? I mean, I know I’m adorable, but I need them to fear me at this precious juncture in time.
“Tom, don’t listen to Roy. He’s not that funny.” Gunther stabs what looks like a masticated blue-cheese burger from a half-melted Styrofoam container. “Fuck Roy. We’re cool?—”
“Dude.You’re not cool,” I cut in harshly. “Stinking up my bus at midnight without asking if you can be here is not fucking cool. Bringing drugs on my bus, not cool.” I throw up my hands angrily. “You can call me unfunny. I’m a buzzkill. I don’t give a fuck. Just get off my bus!”
Clint and Asher emerge from the back lounge with erratic giggles and pupils blown wide. Awesome.
Fuck them.
Fuck Amarillo.
Fuck blue cheese.
