Page 96 of Silver Sweet

“Yeah.” It’s a harshyeah.

Then he tries to reinvest himself in the music, the rhythm, but I watch him catch the eager gaze of a pale, redheaded dude, a smattering of freckles across his thick biceps and angular face.

The redhead bobs his head and stalks over to the dark-haired drummer of my dreams.

They’re the same height, and Red moves scarily quick—he’s slipping behind my drummer, grinding against him, and his hands fall to Phoenix’s hips.

Phoenix barely bats an eye like this has happened a thousand times before. He digs out a vape, takes a hit, and blows smoke up at the ceiling, and for a second, I think about saving him from this dude’s gropey fucking hands. But then Phoenix reaches an arm backward and cups his skull. He brings the guy’s head down, and…they’re kissing.

My insides form an intricate knot.

I try to play it off. I keep bouncing on my feet, downing the remainder of my drink with fake enthusiasm. The rum scalds the back of my throat. I barely taste the Fizz. I avoid lingering looks from other guys who check me out. My bodyguard takes the hint that I do not want to be grinded on or approached by a stranger. So he subtly cuts off advances. It isn’t until the track changes to a remixed NSYNC song that I bail off the dance floor, not giving Phoenix a single glance back.

I’m at the bar. My breathing shaken.

It’s fine.

He’s not your boyfriend, Tom Carraway.This is what you want.No.This is what you need. This is the best thing for the band.

It’s just confusing. Everything. I don’t want it to be. But I’ve never spent this much time with someone outside family. Not a friend. Not even abandmate.Warner and my other old band members dragged their feet at the late nights and early mornings. Phoenix is different. He replies to my voice memos at four in the morning and will keep working well into the night with me, even after my head throbs and my fingers ache.

We’ve been together nonstop for over two months, and maybe that was good for the album, but it’s obviously been a mistake for my brain. All the wires are mixed up. Because holy shit, I shouldnotbe this crushed seeing him kiss another guy.

I should not wish that guy were me. Not when I rejected himfirst. My pulse is on a NASCAR track, speeding away from me.

I order two vodka shots.

They’re in my stomach in seconds, so I ask the bartender, “Do you pour Belvedere 10 by the glass?”

She nods. “But it’s ninety bucks.”

“That’s fine. Double neat,” I tell her and open my own tab so that it’s not charged to Phoenix’s card.

When I put the glass to my lips, I see Phoenix weaving between bodies, making his way toward the bar.Fuck. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him.

I take a giant gulp of alcohol and notice the redhead loitering near the outskirts of the dance floor. He’s waiting…for Phoenix.

Like, this is what Phoenix wants, right? It’s what he said he was looking for—a release. If I can’t give it to him, then who am I to say no?

My muscles strain. Movement hurts. When Phoenix lands beside me at the bar, I don’t give him a chance to explain. I justask, “You heading out, dude?” I’m proud of myself for sounding ultra casual.

His brows knit together. “Not yet.” He nods to the drink in my hand. “I thought you were drinking rum?”

“I like rum in mixed drinks. Vodka neat.”

He slides his fingers across the back of his neck. “Is that smart? Mixing that many drinks?” He’s probably recalling the Jell-O shots I had earlier. And I do recognize the fact that he ditched his vodka cranberry before he was even halfway through. He drinks slow.

I am a machine.

“Stomach made of steel,” I tell him. I raise my glass toward the redhead who is now eagle-eyeing the fuck out of us right now. “Your friend is waiting for you. You can go celebrate being halfway through the album with him.” The comment is an immediate regret. I didn’t mean it so petulantly. Definitely didn’t mean it like a territorial brat. I’m in a full-on grimace.

“I want to celebrate with you,” Phoenix says, his brown-blue eyes drifting around me with an airy softness he typically doesn’t exert. He’s usually all rough, enflamed edges. “Man, I shouldn’t have…” He cuts himself off, and I can’t tell if he’s about to say,kissed himortried to kiss you. Maybe it’s both.

Maybe he regrets one more than the other.

Maybe he regrets me.

Holyfuck, I need to get out of my head. It’s not a good place to be right now. I take a bigger swig of vodka.