Page 98 of Silver Sweet

Phoenix narrows his eyes at me like he can see through my obvious change of heart. “You texted him, didn’t you? RJ is coming here?”

My vision spins for a second. “Yep.” My mouth pops on thepof the word. Didn’t mean to say it like that. Fuck, I’m drunk.

Phoenix wipes a sheen of sweat off the side of his jaw. “Then I guess I’m meeting him.”

I brace the table.No. This is not happening. Did I just single handedly manufacture this clusterfuck? My pulse thumps harder. “Or you could go? I’m sure the redhead hasn’t made it far.” Why do I keep suggesting this shit? I don’t want him to go—not really. But the inverse is he stays and meets RJ. How is thatanybetter?

Phoenix untwists the cap to his water bottle. “Yeah.No. I’m not leaving you after you just drank straight vodka. Especially when I don’t know PJ?—”

“RJ.”

“Whatever. You want to fuck an on-off hookup and be messy,fine. That’s your bed. But I don’t know him well enough to trust him with you.”

My head feels like mush, and I can only process half of what he’s saying. “You want me to fuck RJ.”

He squeezes his water bottle too hard and water splashes against his shirt. “Shit,” he curses and sets it on the high-top quickly. His eyes return to me in a stronger beat. “Tom?—”

“Tom?” The other voice comes from our left.

23

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

You want me to fuck RJ.

Tom’s words lay waste to my head. It wasn’t even a question, but I’m torched knowing I don’t have time to reject it. I have no time to even micromanage this situation that’s slipping through my grip.

Not when RJ fills the space on the other side of Tom.

The mysteriousRJ.

I’m clenching my jaw too hard as I size him up. It’s apparent from one glance that RJ and I actually look alike.

I side-eye Tom. Yeah, he has a fucking type. Dark hair, inked body, carved biceps. And unfortunately, RJ is shirtless so I know he’s shredded. Lean but defined muscle. He looks around Tom’s age. Maybe a little older.

His T-shirt sticks out of the back pocket of his blue athletic shorts. He has on white crew socks and sneakers like he meant to hit the gym and just accidentally stumbled into The Trench.

Tom was wrong.

This guy isn’t a twelve out of ten. Because the twelve is Tom. This fucker is a solid seven in my book, dropping to a fuckingfive, maybe four, on the pure fact that he should not be a part of tonight. He should not be here.

RJ looks from Tom to me and my narrowed eyes. I expect him to cold-shoulder me, but he’s nodding his chin up in greeting. “Hey, man. I’m RJ.” His gray eyes are lighter than Birdie’s, and they appear very nonthreatening. To the point where I should cool off.

I just want him to fuck off. “Phoenix,” I say with the antithesis of friendliness. “Tom’s new drummer. You just come from the gym?”

“Sort of.”

I glare. “Maybe you should go back there?—”

“He’s kidding. He kids,” Tom says fast to RJ.

I’m so far from making a joke right now. I feel like the least funny person on Earth.

RJ pays me less attention and gives Tom more. “If we’re going to be here for a second, I’m going to grab a drink. Want anything?”

“Yeah,” Tom says tightly, almost nervously. “Surprise me.”

RJ runs a hand along Tom’s arm in quiet comfort that nearly doubles me over. I have to bear my rigid forearms to the edge of the high-top. I should just leave them together, right?