Page 108 of Burn Bright

“Well, you know what they say”—I lean on the sink—“saving the best for last.”

I watch his expression go gentle on me, yet our gazes crash together like we’re the turbulent sea. I chew on the corner of my lip, my pulse thumping.

He scrapes his fingers through his wavy hair, then clears arousal out of his throat. God, that might be my favorite noise on earth, which is so dumb. There are a billion other noises that should be better—like the sound of the snare and bass when I drum to “She” by Green Day.

“Security has just been tighter than usual.” Ben rests his shoulders on the fridge, not turning away from me but not bridging the distance either. “I’m not as famous as Xander or Charlie. But our parents still worry about all of us getting kidnapped and extorted for money.”

“Oh to be that famous,” Tom suddenly appears in the kitchen. Ben and I quickly tear our gazes off each other.

Tension ramps up more. I rotate to the sink, combatting the impulse to stick my flaming face beneath the faucet. It’s good Tom is here—not that Ben and I were about to do anything normal friends wouldn’t do.

Tom plops on the barstool, only wearing black drawstring pants. A tattoo of a black skull with red devil horns is inked over his heart.

Must be new-ish.

I definitely would’ve noticed that tattoo on YouTube. He’ll sometimes peel off his T-shirts during high-octane performances. I’m almost positive he has millions of views online for his arresting stage presence alone. Prickly feelings toward him aside, the dude is talented.

He has the “it” factor.Which is why I’m salty he didn’t think I was worthy enough for the drumming position. Maybe I did want Tom’s approval, okay. It would’ve been nice to be validated.

Now, if he gave it—I’d grind it into the garbage disposal.

Tom grabs a clementine out of the fruit basket. What he said, with a wishful longing, registers with me all of a sudden. “Wait,you’renot that famous?” I ask in disbelief.

I’ll never admit it out loud, but The Carraways were in my top three most listened-to bands last year. I almost uninstalled the music app on my phone when I saw it, but it’s hard to deny I love the EP they put out.

Emo punk-rock has been in my soul since I discovered Green Day, which spiraled me into Simple Plan, Panic at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, and The Carraways. But I’ve loved The Carraways the most because they’re my generation. And sure, it was a sucker punch in the gut when I didn’t make the band—but I didn’t stop listening to their music.

I still watch YouTube videos of their live performances just to see if they’re singing a new song at a show. Then I’ll stream it on repeat until they drop the single.

“Get Lost”is my constant go-to “fuck my life” song that I belt in my car when I’m feeling like the world is out to get me. So I’mjust a little dumbfounded how Tom thinks he’s not famous. In my eyes, he’sincrediblyfamous.

Tom squints at me in his own confusion. “Doyouthink I’m famous?”

“You have three million views on your music video for Get Lost,” I tell him. “And before you say something about me watching it, remember that I was trying out for your band. I had to do my research, Thomas.”

“Obviously not well enough,Harry, because A. My name isjustTom?—”

“I know.”

“—and B. Three million views is nothing. I might be known to people who like the genre, but the random Joe down the block doesn’t know shit about The Carraways. I’m basically a nobody.”

“He wants mainstream popularity,” Ben explains as he kicks the fridge closed with his foot. He brings out two cans of Fizz Life and offers me one.

I take the soda, still baffled. “Then why don’t you play pop?”

“Because I don’t like pop music.” Tom peels the orange with his thumb. “If I have to be a trendsetter and set the trends back to emo-punk, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

I remember Ben mentioning that Tom’s ambition is high, and I’m now realizing how high. Maybe this is why he keeps losing drummers. His goals are fucking lofty.

“You could just use your ‘Cobalt’ name to get popularity.” I pop the tab to the soda, and it lets out a bubbly fizzle. It’s an honest suggestion, but I worry it comes off a little sarcastic.

“Wow, why didn’t I think of that before?” Tom tosses a slice of orange in his mouth and slides off the stool. “Don’t let her near my records, Ben Pirrip. I wouldn’t put it past Harry to practice her drumming skills on them.”

“Not even on my death bed,Tommy.” I flip him off.

He gives me a middle finger in return and leaves for his bedroom. Just when I thought we were having a civil conversation. I whirl around to Ben, who’s taking a large swig of his Fizz Life.

“Did I sound sarcastic?” I ask.