Page 252 of Silver Sweet

“He’s why I work so hard,” I admit, more hushed. “I grew up seeing Beckett giveeverythingto ballet, and I figured if I wanted something as badly as I did music, I’d have to put in the time and effort like he did.”

Phoenix almost responds with an arm around my shoulder. He stops himself short. We’re not onstage or at a concert venue where being overly physical can just pass as friendly camaraderie. Just bandmates goofing around. Having fun. Lightly flirting.

Whenever it’s our days off from tour, it feels different.

I’ve had to remind myself not to hook an arm across his back or kiss him. Which I don’t like. It fucking sucks. I feel like how Birdie looks on cello right now. Restrained. Straitjacketed. When I’d prefer to headbang.

The speculation about Phoenix and me is pretty rampant at this point, but there’s still so much conversation about our music. I haven’t wanted that to change, and it’s likely to once we confirm we’re a real-life couple.

My stomach cramps. I’m shocked I feel anything other than loopy and numb because I’m on Vicodin. A low dosage that stops my wrist from screaming in pain—but clearly has zero effect on any trepidation regarding my private relationship.

Phoenix and I are dressed to the nines for NYBC’s summer benefit performance. Mostly for the cocktail reception that comes afterward. We’re ushered into the theater’s grand ballroom where all the major donors to NYBC mingle with the dancers.

“Beckett hates these things,” I whisper to Phoenix after we pluck steak tartare, on toasted brioche, off a server’s tray. “The hors d’oeuvres are his favorite part, but the company doesn’t like if the dancers just eat and don’t schmooze with donors, so he’ll usually find one of us to hang around as long as possible.”

“One of us?” Phoenix washes down the bite-sized food with champagne.

“My siblings. Not a ton to choose from tonight.”

Just Charlie and I could attend the summer benefit. All other brothers and sisters were tied up, and Beckett never pressures anyone to go, since he hasmanyof these things. I’m happy I could be here, even given the circumstances.

My left wrist is splinted, so I have full movement of my dominant hand to snatch foie gras mousse with fig compote off another tray. “You want to do a lap?” I can tell Phoenix is antsy to move around. Ceiling-tall burgundy velvet drapes conceal an arched window behind us. We’ve been loitering in the back for ten minutes now.

“No, I’m good.” His daggered eyes roam over the extreme wealth, then they fall to my punk-rock suit jacket with zippered arms and a chain along my belt loop and pocket.

Phoenix also looks hot in a tailored all-black tux. His dark hair is pushed out of his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline.

“We clean up well, the two of us,” I say. “Red carpet ready.”

“I like this.” He motions a finger off his champagne at my zippered suit jacket. On the ride here, I told him all aboutthe Tom.My fashion designer mom designed suits after all my brothers, using our input.

“The Beckettandthe Benare selling the best,” I tell him now, “but that’s just because very few people have excellent taste.”

“Wow, shots fired at your brothers.”

“No, no, no,” I say fast. “They’re all worthy of being purchased. Mine is just next-level, and of course I’d date someone who recognizes this too.” My voice remains a whisper.

Phoenix is rigid and eyes a young-looking influencer who seems to creep five feet closer every time I look over at him. I don’t blame the dude. We are clearly the shining stars among a rather stuffy event.

The donors here range from twentysomething socialites and trust fund babies to much older aristocrats and blue-blooded elite.

Despite Phoenix’s bitter-etched features and hard-to-approach exterior, he is a social creature. He enjoys conversing with strangers.

He places his emptied flute on a tray. “Okay, let’s do a lap.”

I smile just at the fact that I know him so well. “We should find Beckett and save him from a boring conversation.”

“I’m down—wait.” He catches my bicep before I can move. “I think that girl is coming over to us. You know her?”

A petite girl with springy brown curls and dewy makeup says, “Excuse me, excuse me,” to donors as she weaves between them to reach us. Her pale pink cocktail dress is simple and understated like a lot of the New York fashion.

“Uhhhh, yeah,” I nod slowly. “Ballerina. Not a socialite. She’s…” I trail off in realization of exactlywhoshe is.

Phoenix sees the blood drain out of my face. “No,” he says as it hits him. “She’s notRJ’scousin.”

I cringe. “I think so, dude.” I haven’t heard RJ’s name in so long. Truthfully, I haven’t even thought about my old hookup in literalmonths.

We have no time to form a game plan. The ballerina halts a foot from us, her fingers clasping a skinny flute of champagne.