Page 24 of Silver Sweet

“A bodyguard?” I didn’t notice his bodyguard at the studio. Maybe he waited outside?

“My whole family has private security.”

I’m shocked he’d need security for breakfast. It’s not like he’sthatfamous. At least not like his parents are, but the way he talks, I’m starting to feel like I’m joining a band with the president’s dickhead son.

I really don’t get it, but I’m not about to ask. Pushing his buttons is fun and all, but not if I push them so hard he runs away. The Carraways failing on Day One isn’t how I want this to go.

“Send me the location,” I say.

My apartment is locatedin a five-story brick building in Chelsea, right above Pasquale’s, an Italian restaurant that has the best garlic rolls in a twenty-mile radius but always scorches their pepperoni. I have to fight my way through the burnt-pepperoni smell on the daily.

This morning, I tuck my gray Henley above my nose to cut off the stench. My eyes still water. I hurriedly hike down four flights of stairs and greet the outside by releasing the breath I’d been holding.

I head to Hell’s Kitchen by subway. Partially reading. Mostly spent relistening to Tom’s demo. “Fire You Feel.” I get lost in the lyrics a few times.

Don’t worry, I don’t need you to see.

Any fucking part of me.

I shut my eyes. The fury and pain rampage through me, and my pulse goes on an ascent.

You’ll wish you knew.

Any fucking part of me.

I picture Tom.

The fire you feel is blue.I tear my bulky black headphones to my neck. Breathing ragged like he’s injecting a drug in my veins. Considering I’m verging onaddictedto this song, Tom might be lethal to my system.

I rub a hand over my lips, then do a ruinous thing and put the headphones back on. I listen again and again and again, and my fingers twitch on my knees as I crave to wrap them around drumsticks.

What does this song even mean to Tom? I can’t stop thinking about the context of it. I just don’t know enough about the guy.

But I want to deeplyknowthe music we’re making, and that means diving into who he is and emotions andhurt.I’ve never really written music with someone else. I’m more worried he’s going to try to steamroll me and push me out of this part.

I want to be involved.

I can’t just play someone else’s songs. If I wanted to do that, I’d be on the path my parents havepleadedwithme to take since I graduated from Berklee.

The next stop, I get off. Letting my concerns about Tom hover and bite. Luckily, I’m seconds from seeing him and can put this shit to bed.

When I enter Duke’s on 10th, I expect it to be some bougie brunch spot with overpriced eggs, but the inside resembles more of a kitschy ’50s diner with old records on the walls, neon milkshake signs, and teal and white vinyl booths. Tom waves a hand from a booth deep in the back near the restrooms.

My feet glue to the checkerboard floor for a second.

Tom Cobalt has real natural beauty. A carved jawline, bedroom-blue eyes, and symmetrical features that could be painted and hung in the Louvre. His lush, ruffled hair looks meant for fingers to run through. What makes it all worse—he probably knows he’s as attractive as a marble sculpture in the fucking Met. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons his ego chokes out a room.

I do know he’s gay.

Years ago, Birdie ranted, “I went to that audition thinking here’s a good-looking gay musician who sings like the second coming of MCR. Man, I was being overly complimentary to the point where I’d need to chug Pepto. Then he proves me exactly right—he’s just a rich prick who thinks he knowseverything.”

“One of the Cobalts is gay?” I was surprised.

“Yeah. A very gay, very unreasonable numbskull.”

I don’t know if Tom is single.

Though I probably should get that information. See if I have to deal with a boyfriend of his.