Page 10 of Silver Sweet

“For a long-ago scandal and being American royalty,” I cut in. “That’s definitelysomething.”

He stares at me like I come from Jupiter. “You seriously call yourself American royalty?”

“I call myself an Americangod.”

His brows hoist. “Tell me you’re joking.”

I put aserious hand on my chest. “My confidence isn’t a joke to me.” Then I flip him off.

He groans while pinching the bridge of his nose. His stiffened muscles don’t untense. “What the fuck am I getting into?”

I’m asking myself the same shit.

His hand shifts to his head, his arm flexing. I’d believe he were posing if he didn’t wear edged panic. “Really, are you sixteen or seventeen? Because I’m not working with a minor.”

He’s really pissing me off. “I’mtwenty-one.”

He only slightly eases, dropping his arm.

“And you?” I flip my phone in my hand. “Stop taking what I’m giving and share.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

Same age as Charlie and Beckett, my oldest brothers. I can work with that. “I’m going to start calling you Don’t Dick Around if you don’t tell me your name.”

“I’m not dicking around with you,” he says coarsely, then stands…andfuck, he’s tall. I didn’t expect him to have about three inches on me. Oxygen cages in my lungs as he bridges the space between us. Tension stretches with each footfall forward, and heat blisters under my skin.

He stops.

Then he extends a hand and says, “Phoenix Wolfgang St. Pierre.”

He’s screwing with me. “And I’m Gerard Way. Come on, I need yourrealname.”

He doesn’t even crack a shadow of a smile. “That is my name.”

“No, that’s the name of the drummer from the band Nothing Personal, and that drummer isn’t you.” I would know. I literallyjustwatched a video clip. He’d need a face transplant to be him. He’s also, very clearly, missing the red birthmark on his neck.

“That drummer isn’t me,” he agrees. “That drummer is my little brother. Birdie St. Pierre.”

It solidifies me.

I feel mind-fucked for a frozen second.

I wince. “No.No.” I shake my head firmly, disbelieving. “Jere must be messing with me.”

“Jeremy isn’t the type to play practical jokes on his clients.”

I’d agree. “And you would know that how?”

“He’s been my manager for years.”

We share a manager. Great. I don’t want to share anything with him. It’s a gut reaction when we’re supposed to be sharing aband. “You’renotPhoenix, dude.” I’m about to call my manager, only stopping when this guy digs in the cargo pocket of his dark pants, retrieving a leather wallet.

While his angered eyes are on mine, he slips out his ID, then passes it over between two fingers.

I swipe it and stare unblinkingly at a photo of the bitter-faced dude in front of me and the accompanying name: PHOENIX WOLFGANG ST. PIERRE.

My pulse has quickened and won’t slow. It dawns on me that I’ve had the hots for his brother.