Page 70 of Silver Sweet

We’re both musicians. We’re both driven. We’re both sons of Miriam O’Toole and Philippe St. Pierre. We’ve both leaned on each other and competed against each other. And maybe up until a week ago, we could have stayed on the same road. But I joined The Carraways—and where I’m going, Birdie can’t come.

15

TOM COBALT

“Have you had sex with your hot drummer yet?” Eliot asks a reasonable question, considering I’ve mentally raced down the path like I’m an F1 driver every day this past week. Which was every day I met with Phoenix to work on the album.

Except for Wednesday.

Spending hours upon hours with him has been exactly what I feared when I first met him at the studio. It’s too much.

Too raw.

Too real.

Too incensed.

Too good.

Only good is starting to feelextraordinary. “Nuclear Winter” is one of the best songs I’ve ever created, and I wonder if it’s because it wasn’t all me. It was him. It was us. Together in a bedroom. Digging under each other’s skin.

Jeremy had the biggest grin on his face when he heard us play the finished arrangement. He clapped his hand against a can of Fizz, and he said, “Keep going. I like this momentum, boys.”

I love this momentum. I never want to slow down.

“No, dude,” I say to Eliot while I do a lazy sit up on the rubber flooring. Working out in the gym at our high-rise means waking at four a.m. so it’s not jam-packed. Right now, I’m so tired, I could curl up and sleep beside a rack of dumbbells. But I force myself awake to tell Eliot very firmly, “I amneverhaving sex with Phoenix St. Pierre.” I point at Ben, who’s supine on the weight bench. “Write that down, Ben Pirrip. Notarize it. Seal it.”

“For all time,” Ben banters with a bright smile while hoisting a barbell and heavy plates over his chest. “Never to be reopened.”

I echo to Eliot, “Neverto be reopened.”

Eliot towers behind the weight bench, spotting our little brother. “Never is an awfully long time.”

“He’s a bad temptation, Eliot.” I lie flat, then crunch upward. “The universe is testing me, and thankfully, I am, if nothing else, resilient and dedicated to my craft. Which ismusic.And not boning my insanely talented, moody, angry…” I trail off picturing Phoenix’s dark glare. “Dangerous, short-tempered…” I picture him pushing my jaw with two fingers, so my eyes meet his. “Hot drummer.”

I barely hear Eliot’s response. I’m in a haze of remembrance. Of Phoenix behind the drums, pitching his whole body into the tortured heart of the rhythm. Hedeeplyunderstood the song we were making. Deeply felt it.

“We’ve lost him,” Eliot says.

My arms are on my knees. I try to blink out of the stupor.

“He said he’s dangerous,” Ben grunts raising the barbell. I hear him set it in the rack. “Should we be worried?”

“I doubt he’s chasing after Patrick Bateman,” Eliot says to Ben, then calls out to me. “Right, brother? You aren’t into the nextAmerican Psycho?”

I nod, unblinking. “I wouldn’t care if he has blood on his hands, he’s that good.”

“No one is that good,” Ben contests. “Because no Patrick Bateman is worth dating.”

“We weren’t talking about dating,” I lie back on the floor, my hands on my abs. I feel out of breath, and I think I’ve done one partial sit-up. “He’sjustmy drummer.”

“Hot drummer,” Eliot corrects.

Ben adds, “Insanely talented, moody, angry, dangerous, short-tempered, hot drummer.”

I smile and crunch back up. “I knew your memory was above average this whole time.”

Eliot wags his brows at Ben. “Tu ne peux pas jouer l’idiot avec nous, petit frère.”You can’t play dumb with us, little brother.