Page 11 of Silver Sweet
He seizes the ID back. “Proof enough?”
Yeah.“That proves you’ve always looked like someone broke your favorite toy.”
He drills a threat in me. “Keep trying to read me for filth.”
“I wasn’t planning on stopping,” I combat. “But thanks for the warning. What are you going to do to me if I keep going? Walk out?”He’s your last chance, Tom.I grimace. “Or, you know, you could stay.” I swallow shrapnel. “And you could tell me why your brother is being calledPhoenixall over Nothing Personal’s bio and at press junkets.”
I don’t mention that I’ve met his brother. I don’t mention that we haveslighthistory. I don’t mention that his brother also introduced himself to me asPhoenix St. Pierre.
“He’s using it as a stage name.”
What? “Why?” I say like it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “Phoenix is a douchey name.”
“Says you,Tom.Owner of one of the most generic names in the world.”
Oh my fuck, really? “We’re not talking aboutmyname,Phoenix.” I shove my phone in my jeans angrily and swipe twohands through my hair. “So let me get this straight—you’re Irish with the last name St. Pierre?”
“Mom’s side is O’Toole. Dad’s side is St. Pierre.”
“And your brother is the drummer—so why are you here?”
“I’ma drummer. Birdie is a…” His face twitches as unnamed emotions cross over his features. “Can we not get into him?”
My temple pounds. “I don’t even know if you’re any good at drums, dude. Maybe you fucking suck.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “Maybe you fucking suck at guitar and singing, Tom. Maybe it’s why everyone left your band.”Damn.“The song I heard could’ve been mixed to hide your shitty vocals.”
“So you’ve listened to my music?”
“The Carraways,” he nods. “Yeah. And you named your band after yourself. Big ego. Small dick.” His gaze plunges down, then rises back up.
My face is on fire. “You would know about dicks,” I contest. “You’re an even bigger one than your little brother.”
That felt wrong calling his brotherlittlebecause I’m certain that I’m around the same age as Birdie.
Phoenix suddenly pushes past me, heading into the tracking room where instruments are spread out among the soundproof walls. I wedge into the doorway to keep it open. “What are you doing?” I call out.
He picks up a pair of wooden sticks off a drum kit. “I’m showing you that I don’t suck.” He slips on chunky black headphones and straddles the stool behind the toms and snare. “You know how to play a track in the control room?”
“Uh,yeah.” I scrutinize how comfortable he is in the live studio room. Like he’s recorded in one before, but he’s not a part of Nothing Personal. I have no idea how much experience Phoenix has making music. “You’ve done this before?” I ask him.
“I’ve been in multiple bands.”
Promising, and yet… “Jere gave me another band’s leftovers.”
“And Jere gave me the reject of a mediocre,failingband.”
“Did you put the emphasis on ‘failing’ because you know calling me mediocre is a lie?”
“Play the track, nepo baby.” He looks restless.
“What track?”
“Sum 41’s ‘Motivation.’”
I head back into the control room. Door shutting behind me, I bend over the mixing console and computer keyboard. I haven’t heard this Sum 41 song in years. Looking up, I see Phoenix clearly through the glass wall.
His leg jostles while he waits impatiently for me to hurry. He spins a stick between his fingers, his chest taut against his gray Henley tee. “Any day now,” he says, his pissed-off voice booming clear through the control room.
