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’m unsure of which brother has requested this tonight.
“Any of you want a drink?” I ask them since I’d prefer if they stayed until closing. Yes, even Tom.
“Glenfiddich, neat,” Charlie says. It’s easily one of the most expensive bottles we stock, and I stiffen when I see it’s on the highest shelf. Not again.
My joints need oiled. I can’t fucking move for an unbearable second.
Skin pleats between Charlie’s brows as his gaze bores through me. Before I reanimate, Ben grabs the bottle, then slides a comforting hand down my back, knowing why I just had a minor internal freakout.
I breathe in.
Charlie asks Ben something in French. What calms me more is realizing I’m not Charlie’s punchline. He just wanted a drink, Harriet.
While I pour whiskey in a tumbler, their French conversation picks up intensity. Eliot is joining in with a fiery emphasis on some words. Tom has a distraught yet irritated expression—on his phone. He’s texting, not listening to whatever his brothers are passionately discussing.
As Eliot’s blue eyes flit from me to the beefy dickhead from earlier, I know for certain Ben is relaying the minor shitshow before they arrived. Seeing Eliot, and even Charlie to a degree, appear incensed on my behalf feels strangely good.
I didn’t think I needed more people to look out for me. I’ve been okay on my own, but to witness it happening is spurring a sudden onslaught of emotion. I can’t tamp it down fast enough.
“Eliot, Eliot,” Ben whisper-hisses as his broad-shouldered brother has a murderous glare on Beefy Dude and purposefully tries to catch this dickhead’s attention. Ben speaks in forceful, blazing French, recapturing Eliot’s gaze. Then he rests his hands on my head, then my shoulders, as if mentioning me in the equation.
I lean back into his chest on impulse.
Ben is stroking my hair, calming me even if his words sound aggressive as fuck.
“Anyone want to clue me in?” I ask.
“Learn French,” Charlie bites back.
I do not have the fucking time right now to pick up another language. “It’s about me, dude,” I say.
“Astute.”
I glower, then tell Eliot, “It’s fine. They’re fine. We have it handled.”
Eliot is on his feet, unable to even sit. “He’s still breathing, so it’s not handled to my homicidal standards.” He motions to Charlie’s drink that I slide over. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
I pour another whiskey. Loving Ben’s hands on me. Loving him behind me, really. Literally and figuratively. Don’t get used to this.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I sigh to myself.
Eliot exhales the fire, then centers his focus on Ben. “We’ve hardly seen you at the apartment since Charlie and Beckett’s birthday. You’re really taking leave no trace behind to heart, brother.”
I feel Ben tense behind me. I pass Eliot his drink, his grin flickering out before he takes a sip.
“I told you,” Ben says, “once the frat gives me a room, I’m out of the apartment.”
“Your days are numbered, we’ve heard,” Charlie says with irritation.
Ben glares. “Don’t act like you won’t love it when I’m out of there.”
“I love very little, so I can promise you I won’t bother loving that.” He picks up his whiskey. “Beckett wants you to stay with us, truthfully. Almost desperately. In case you didn’t realize the last fifty times he’s told you.”
Ben didn’t mention that Beckett has pleaded with him to stay at their apartment.
“I can’t,” Ben shakes his head. “I can’t be there.”
“Why?” Eliot’s brows knit together. “Beckett said it was nothing you did.” I assume Ben doesn’t believe this. “He’s ok—”
“I can’t.”
Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s aggravated. It seems like anything Ben says is an annoyance to him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tom gapes at his phone, then puts it to his ear. “No, dude. No, the song isn’t ready. We’re not playing it—it’s not good enough. Yeah, I said so, Warner.” He’s on a call with his bassist. “I’m not a tyrant! I just know what sounds good and what sounds like shit. Warner—Warner.” Tom plugs one of his ears as the Yankees fans grow noisier in the back. They’ll likely want another round soon. “Shit.” He looks up. “Ben, is there a storage room or somewhere quiet I can go take this?”
“Yeah, I’ll show you. We need to restock the Jameson anyway.” His hand slips off my back as he leaves.
I’m rarely alone with Charlie and Eliot. Last time I was truly alone with Charlie, I offered to blow him. It still makes me cringe, but weirdly that whirlwind of a night feels forever ago. No one has necessarily buried what I did. It’s become the sand. Harmless in light gusts, blowing past us.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Charlie says to me while Eliot angles sideways, observing the beefy dickhead’s every move from the corner of his eye.
“Okay?” I grab an empty pint glass a girl brings to the bar and say to her, “Thanks, you want another?”