Page 7 of Silver Sweet

I took that to mean,I don’t want to talk. I just want to fuck.I haven’t been misreading those hints. I’m positive he wants to keep our situationextremely casual. He’s said as much, and every time I attempt to dive beneath the surface, I’ve found myself alone in the act.

I don’t want to be alone in a dark, nine-foot deep end.

Every time we fuck, it already ends with me feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the chest because he leaves. He never spends the night. Though he kisses me like he’ll come back. Like he wants to come back again and again, which means the door is open to call him.

Invite him over.

Torture myself just a little bit more. Why not? I run my fingers through my hair, literally a heartbeat away from calling RJ when my phone rings.

I frown and bolt upright. “Hey. Jeremy,” I answer my manager. “I was going to ask about an extension with the label?—”

“They were firm about the deadline, Tom,” Jeremy says, sounding in a rush and slightly out of breath.

“In that case, I think I might have found a new bassist. He’s good. He’s from…Brooklyn.” I wince.

“Really?” Jeremy’s skepticism is warranted. He’s been my manager for almost seven years and bullshitting him takes actual work.

“I mean, Icouldhave a new bassist from Brooklyn by the morning.”

Jeremy sighs. “How about you don’t do anything stupid. I found something else.”

“Wait—what?” I almost choke on air. Like seriously,what?

“You’ll need to come to the studio tonight?—”

“I can do that.” I’m already on my feet.

“We don’t have time to drag this out, so I’d like you to meet him now.”

“Yeah.Yeah.”

“And Tom,” Jeremy says.

My gut drops.

“Try to be on your best behavior.”

Who am I meeting—the fucking pope? I don’t ask who the guy is. I don’t ask about stipulations or the catch. Even if this feels too good to be true, I want to scrape myself off the dirt.

It finally feels like I’m about to.

2

TOM COBALT

“Two things you need to know before you go in there,” Jeremy says as we walk through the dead-quiet recording studio. It’s past midnight, and Jere, wearing his usual studded denim vest, unlocked the door when I arrived.

He’s fifty years old and Black, with a blue runway of hair, a septum piercing, and a penchant for dressing like he’s about to walk in an edgy New York fashion show.

That’s actually how I met him. At NYFW. He’d been in the audience watching my mom’s spring collection for Calloway Couture being modeled. I recognized Jeremy Shaw as the manager for Sepsis Ink, an old emo-punk band I loved when I was a kid for their outrageous, high-energy performances. The lead singer would swing his mic cord around his neck and vault into the crowd. They’d stopped making music years ago, but Jere had been a legend for discovering them when he was in his twenties.

I approached him after the show. I was sixteen and wanting to kick open as many doors as possible. So I introduced myself and asked if I could send him a demo.

He laughed. “Are you brave or cocky, kid?”

“Be my manager and you’ll find out.” I paused. “Also, not a kid.” I didn’t want to be treated like one, at least. I wasn’t being handheld by my parents. They didn’t even suggest I approach him. I was actively doing thison my own.I preferred the independence of carving my own path.

I still do.