Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
I’ve never taken it personally if those around me don’t share my exact ideologies. Not everyone will care about the environmental impact of meat consumption. How it contributes to deforestation, climate change, water depletion, and soil erosion. Not everyone will be as eco-conscious as I am, and I would never claim to be the perfect hero called to save Mother Earth.
I know I could do more.
I know I might never do enough.
So people don’t need to practice veganism for me to love them. My brother abuses his private jet far too fucking much, and I haven’t shunned him out of my life. He’s sitting right next to me.
But I would’ve been hurt if my parents didn’t do the bare minimum. Recycle. Don’t wear fur. Use less water. Yet, my mom and dad continue to surprise me. Like when they installed solar panels on the house. When Dad planted more trees in the backyard. When Mom sold her car for an electric Porche. When they donated a shit ton of money to a clean energy organization.
I see them trying, and that’s more than enough for me.
My thoughts draw my gaze back to the city. The car is quiet for another few minutes before Charlie says, “One last thing. For Beckett.”
It’s irritating that he can’t just be nice to me without doing it for Beckett. But I’m too drained to say something about it.
He flicks his cigarette outside and rolls up the window. “Harriet makes you happy. It’s been very fucking obvious to all of us. Don’t push her away over this.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Charlie takes out a pair of sunglasses and slips them over his eyes. “Then we’re settled here.” He lays his head on the window. Maybe to take a nap.
I’m not sure. I’m not trying to decipher the persisting riddle that is Charlie Keating Cobalt tonight.
He doesn’t ask who my text is from when my phone buzzes.
Harriet Fisher
Going to be a long night. I don’t think I’ll make it back to the club. Talk tomorrow?
I send her a quick reply.
Ben Cobalt
Definitely.
Slipping my phone in my pocket, I feel worse. I wish I could speak to her tonight. Tell her I don’t hate her. Maybe she could explain more about what she’s doing. Maybe it does tear her up inside. Maybe it doesn’t. I think, at this point, I don’t worry about the answer. I just want to know.
It’s another ten minutes to the apartment, and neither Charlie nor I talk as we trek through the lobby and ride the elevator. Our bodyguards slip past us down the hall to their rooms on the same floor.
Once inside, I shower. Brush my teeth. Say “I’m okay, just tired” to Beckett, Eliot, and Tom when they show up. I’m mentally drained and wish I could just pass out. Except, I find myself lying under the sheets on the pull-out, staring up at the ceiling in the darkened living room.
For at least an hour.
It’s too late to call Harriet. I’d rather she get the sleep I’m longing for. So I scroll through my texts. Earlier tonight, I wished my uncle a happy birthday, and I reread his reply now.
Uncle Ryke
Nothing beats getting old. Being alive. Really fucking miss you, Ben. When you’re free, let’s go hiking. I found a new trail I know you’ll love.
I breathe a deeper breath through my nose. Ryke Meadows is one of the world’s greatest free-solo rock climbers, and he’s risked death ascending thousands of feet. No harness, no rope. Just his body and bare hands. He has an appreciation for life in a different way than my dad does. Uncle Ryke isn’t weighing costs and benefits and always doing what’s in his best interest. He’s heart-over-head. All the time.
I’d already sent a reply that I’d let him know when there’s a good day.
Placing my phone aside, I close my eyes. Sleep. Sleep. Breathe. My body untightens, and I slowly begin to fade into a weighted slumber.
I’m out for minutes or maybe hours when the sound of rushing water and rustling stirs me awake. Rolling over, I squint out at the kitchen. Lights off, Beckett is drowned in a fuzzy darkness as he washes his hands at the sink.
He doesn’t notice me.
I prop up on my forearm, realizing all the cupboards are opened. Dishes, glassware, pots, pans—all pulled out of the cabinets. Gone.
Bar stools have been moved, made room for the massive black trash bags lined up symmetrically on the floor, each one spaced about three inches apart from the next. My pulse thunders in my ears.
“Beckett?” I call out in a whisper.
I barely see his eyes flit up to mine in the dark. His bare chest rises and falls in quick, heavy succession. “Go back to bed,” he whispers. “I’m almost done.”
The pull-out creaks as I stand up and go to my brother. As I near, absolute dread slams against me. He’s not just washing his hands. He’s scrubbing them with the rough side of a sponge.