Page 68 of Silver Sweet

ButIdon’t want this for my little brother.

I place the new steel core string in Birdie’s outstretched palm. “Maybe Papi should just croak then,” I say.

Birdie glares. “You don’t mean that.”

Yeah, I don’t. Guilt chews at my insides even saying it.

Our grandfather is a benevolent old man who has an illustrious history as a world-renowned conductor. He’s the one who encouraged our dad to foster our musical abilities when we were toddlers.

“I’m not just doing it for Papi,” Birdie says as he finishes restringing the cello and picks up his bow. “Mom and Dad also deserve to have the money they spent on us mean something.”

Our parents racked up so much fucking debt sending Birdie and me to the best music schools, hiring the best private tutors, buying the best instruments. It weighs on both of us. They’renearing retirement age, and they’re nowhere close to being able to afford to leave the Boston Symphony. Not to mention, Mom has arthritis in her right hand. Playing viola is now physically painful.

I harbor just as much guilt as Bird, but I’m also not the one they drag out to these events. I’m not the one in a popular rock band who’s living a dream he had since he was fourteen. Birdie shouldn’t have to strain his life or his time for them.

I’d rather it be me.

I hate that it isn’t.

“How’d it go last night with that bonehead?” Birdie asks, repositioning the cello against his chest. “Tell me you cut him down to size. Sledgehammered his ego.”

I scrape my tongue over my back molars. Yeah. I justmasturbatedto the mental image of Tom. Recalling my morning shower has confined my entire body in a straitjacket. I can’t move a muscle.

Birdie freezes, his eyes widening in horror. “No.Tell me you do not like Tom?—”

“I don’t like Tom,” I snap. “I like hismusic.” Because I definitely did not just picture pushing him up against a wall.

“You havethe look,” he accuses.

I glower. “The fuck, Bird?—”

“Man, you are turningred.”

I scrub my throbbing temples with two fingers of both hands. “I am too tired for this shit.”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” He springs up from his chair, places the cello against it, and yeah, I wanted him to desert the instrument but not forthisfucking reason. “You are not falling for that rich fucker.”

A groan scratches out of my throat. “I’m not falling for him. He’s my bandmate. Ibarelylike him. And maybe you can jog my memory—but weren’t you the one who said you’d tell him todrop to the floor and blow you? So don’t come at me for finding him somewhat hot.”Somewhat, right.I struggle not to roll my eyes at myself.

Birdie narrows his gaze intensely like he’s reworking an intricate puzzle or playing a 7 against 5 polyrhythm on his cello. “Is it the money?” he asks. “Because if you’re trying to find a sugar dad?—”

I shove his chest.

He pushes my chest just as hard. I sway back but don’t stumble. “For fuck’s sake, Birdie,” I snap. “No. I don’t want his money.”

“You just want his dick,” Birdie reasons. He’s not even trying to incite me—this is just who Birdie is.

“If I argue with you, will you even believe me?”

He shrugs. “Probably not. You’re a shade of crimson I’ve never seen on you. The face doesn’t lie, man.”

“Great. Glad we have that cleared up.”

He outstretches an arm toward me. “Look, if this is just sex, I get it. I’ve slept with more annoying people than Tom Cobalt. Fuck each other until you see shooting stars. Take him in the mouth. Take him in the ass. Invent new sex positions together. It’s theotherstuff I’m worried about.”

My muscles tense. “The fuck does that mean? Other stuff?”

“Feelings. Emotions. Inviting those into your life withhim—not a good idea. I wouldn’t be shocked if he dumps your ass in two months after he builds you up with hopes and promises he’ll never fucking keep. It’s the rich prick playbook. They’re bored, and they only care about themselves. You’re just a toy for them to gnaw on for shits and giggles.”