Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 220
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Neither of us return the smile.
“Jere.” Phoenix stands from the drum kit. “What’s wrong with him?”
My eyes widen since I asked the same thing about him earlier. “Nothing’s wrong with me, dude,” I defend myself.
He snaps a hard look at me. “Okay, arrogant god. You have the presence and the voice of someone who should be selling out stadiums. But you haven’t even released an album.”
At least he knows I’m amazing.
Jeremy comes closer, and our heads swing toward our manager as he finally says, “I’m putting my two problem children together. Your previous bands said you’re not easy to work with, so let’s see if you can work with each other.”
This is a terrible idea.
But it’s the only one I have left. As Phoenix grinds his teeth, his annoyance verging on actual hate, I feel the same sentiment claw down my body.
I’m very, very fucked.
Maybe I was fucked the moment my dream was born. Dreams are infernos we try to start with our bare hands. I’ve been desperately cradling a flickering ember that might sputter out at any moment, hoping that it’ll spark into a real fire one day.
All I want is to burn alive.
3
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Ican’t go home.
My adrenaline is at an all-time high. I feel untethered to the earth. Wired. Floaty as fuck. I didn’t even give Jeremy the promised hour in the studio. It took twenty minutes to conclude that Tom Cobalt is an egotistical, talented, unfiltered dick. Unfortunately, he’ll be mine for the foreseeable future.
Tom and I agreed to send our schedules to each other and figure out a time to meet up next. But I haven’t opened my calendar on my phone since I was blasted with a new message from my mom.
MOM
There’s a new opportunity with The Manhattan Symphony. They’ll need extras. Link: Star Wars Film Concert Series at The Manhattan Symphony Hall
New opportunities is code for look into this right now. I’d rather chew on chalk than be thinking about playing timpani during The Empire Strikes Back. My mind is elsewhere. For once I just want a blissful moment consumed by thoughts of new music, a new band…hell, even Tom.
Yeah, Tom, who grated on my last fucking nerve tonight.
But playing with him for five minutes made me feel more alive than I’ve felt in five years. It’s got me jittery like I drank seven cups of coffee, downed three Red Bulls, and then streaked naked across Bleecker Street.
I crave to return to the studio and revisit that song. His song. To play it just one more time and release this feeling that’s stirring inside me. But I don’t want that nepo baby to think I need him, want him, or can even stand to be around him. His ego is actually asphyxiating. If it grows any larger, we’re going to have more problems than we already do.
I honestly can’t imagine having a decent conversation with him that doesn’t grind my muscles. He’s everything I hate about the music industry. Sure, he’s talented, but he didn’t have to beat at the door to bust it down. It was held open for him by his parents.
I hate that.
I also hate that I can’t get his fucking song out of my head.
I ache to listen to his voice again. When I open my phone to a music app, a notification pops up with a message from my dad.
DAD
Did you read the link your mom sent? The auditions are next week.
I didn’t click into the link. They’re just trying to be helpful, I remind myself. I’m still swimming in student debt, even after graduating from Berklee College of Music three years ago, and my parents would be the first to tell me I’m making a grave mistake joining another rock band.
They will never approve of this, and even though I’m not seeking their approval, I’m exhausted even thinking about the impending conversation regarding my future.
I don’t want to have it tonight.
Fuck it—I do something I hate doing.
I put my phone in airplane mode.
Cellular data and Wi-Fi are now off, so I won’t be able to receive texts or calls. I can only access my downloaded music.
Just like that, I’m a pinball ricocheting across the city.
I’m at Gillies, a dive bar in Chelsea, until the sun rises. Then I spend two hours at the gym lifting weights, an hour in the showers, four hours at the library, and another at my favorite ramen joint by Union Square. I lose track of time when I walk around Central Park in the cold. Music blasts through my headphones all day. A bundled violinist plays to a crowd of two near the Bethesda fountain. I can’t hear the harmonies over the bass in my ears, but I watch her eyes squeeze closed and her body shift to the movement of the melody.