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)
“My whole family does,” he whispers, “except Beckett….well.” He cocks his head a little, then sighs. “I don’t know.” Mention of Beckett kills the mood. He’s been upfront on why he needs to move out of his brothers’ apartment. I was surprised when he said it wasn’t because of Charlie, but a combination of things, most recently Beckett.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he said, putting major emphasis on the secrecy. How what he was divulging wasn’t advertised anywhere. How it was nothing Beckett would like to share, probably for me to even know, but Ben wanted to be honest with me. “Beckett has OCD, and I’m making it worse by living there.”
His sudden urgency to move out made a whole lot more sense.
I slide off the bar, which causes Ben to back up and add space between us. He rotates away and exhales to cool off, and I touch the new choker again. “I’ll make you one,” I say without thinking.
“What?” He spins back around.
“For your birthday. I’ll make you a bracelet or something…” I trail off, realizing the mistake here.
Ben blinks, then tugs the dish rag off his shoulder. His frown is heavy.
He won’t be here. March 29th—of course I know his birthday. I wished him a happy one last year. It’d been the day he thwarted a bad interaction with my shitty professor.
“I’ll mail it to you.” I rinse a splotchy pint glass. “You have the address?”
He watches me. “Not yet.”
My stomach backflips. “But you know where you’re going? Is this an American vacation or are we talking overseas?”
“America.” He takes the glass from me to dry it. “More like I’m going to live there. It’s not just a trip.”
Okay… “But where is there exactly?”
“A place that my parents would definitely not enjoy.” He smiles a little at the thought. He really loves his mom and dad. “They’re not campers. My mom would last a solid day sleeping on the ground, then she’d book a hotel at the Ritz.”
“I can’t blame her.”
His smile grows. “You wouldn’t sleep on the ground with me, Fisher?”
“I would do a lot of things with you that I normally wouldn’t do,” I say. “I just wish there was more time to do them, I guess.”
“I’m right here, right now.” He flings the towel at my face.
I toss it back with a smile battling its way out of me. “You want to go camping sometime, nature boy?”
“You asking me out?”
I shrug. “You saying yes?”
Ben skates a hand across his jaw. “You have time in your pre-med schedule to drive hours out of the city and camp overnight?”
No, is my first initial thought. I definitely do not have that kind of fucking time between classes, labs, volunteering, research, clubs, bartending, studying, trying to snag a shadowing position. “Sure,” I lie. “I can make time. Just like I did for your brothers’ birthday.”
“Midterms are coming up.”
Oh my God, don’t remind me!
“Are you itching your arms?” Concern pushes him toward me.
“Am I breaking out in hives?” I ask.
He checks the reddened speckling on my arms, but it’s faint enough that I relax before he says, “I think you’re good.”
A weight sinks into my stomach as I replay our back and forth. “Did you just reject me?”
“No,” he says like the idea pains him. “If it doesn’t derail your goals, I’d do anything with you. But I’m honestly cool with staying in the city, hanging out in your apartment, helping you study. You don’t need to go far for me. I just like being around you.”
It means a lot to me—that my presence is simply good enough, that just being with me in any capacity is fulfilling. Still, I wonder, “Me plus you plus the woods doesn’t sound more appealing?”
His lips tic up but flatline. “No—” He’s cut off as the door blows open, and a rowdy stream of sports fans floods the bar. All in Yankees garb, all dropping f-bombs and gesticulating wildly. I’m guessing they just lost the postseason playoffs and came to drown their sorrows.
I’m no diehard baseball fanatic, but I have faint memories of attending a Pirates game with my mom and dad before the divorce. So by association to the decently happy memory in my brain, I am a Pirates fan. Ben roots for the Phillies. Both our teams didn’t even make the playoffs. We have no skin in this year’s World Series.
Ben and I split apart to “divide and conquer” as he so often tells me at work. He helps the right side of the bar, and I take orders from the left.
Unfortunately for me, the left consists of pushy thirtysomethings outfitted in jerseys. They elbow their way to the front of the bar. “Hey, you!” the beefiest guy shouts at me, wobbling just a little to where I know he’s not sober.
I’m pouring lagers for a patient couple who wear Yankees ballcaps. “In a sec. They were first.” I must have serious RBF because he growls under his breath to his friend, “What’s this bitch’s problem? I’m just trying to order a fuckin’ drink, Jesus Christ.”