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)
That’s his favorite. “You would eat ramen at my funeral.”
Phoenix is smiling even more. It’s maybe the most I’ve ever seen him smile at one time. “You’re going to survive this, Tom.”
“I know,” I say more seriously. “Cobalts never die.”
36
TOM COBALT
That same day at Phoenix’s place turns into a night worthy of remembrance, of never forgetting. I want to immortalize the minutes with him as we devour ramen in his tiny living room. I wash out the bowls when we’re done, and he’s surprised I can clean well.
I’m only slightly offended. Mostly, I’m reeling with ideas. We both can’t stop talking chords, beats, and lyrics. Music is all I hear in his apartment, and nothing is playing. No stereo, no soundtrack other than the ones we share in our heads.
“Like this.” He taps my thigh to demonstrate a steady beat while I lie against his chest on the couch. We’re both just in boxer-briefs. He lent me his underwear, and they look so good on me, I’m going to steal them. He doesn’t know it yet.
“Faster,” I tell him. “It needs to grow until you almost can’t take it.” We’re both staring at the darkened living room. All the lights are off and the glow from the city outside illuminates a slender Ficus tree, a television on a media console, and a cello perched in the corner.
The cello.
“I hear the cello,” I say. “Do you?”
I wait as he imagines. “Yeah. Yeah. I hear it too.”
His fingers drift against my jaw, then slip down my chest. He’s always been physical with me, but now it’s different. I can feel him checking on me. Like he’s making sure I’m okay after he railed me twice.
It’d be easy to just tell him, “Dude, I’m fine,” and push him off. Because I am fine, but I’m really enjoying the extra attention. I’ve never really experienced this post-hookup. Mostly I have myself to blame there, considering I never wanted anyone to believe I needed it. I never gave anyone the chance.
Phoenix plays another beat on my thigh with his palm.
“Yeah, faster,” I say, our heads bobbing to the sound. I hum a little, then tell him, “It’s an inferno.”
“Merciless?”
“No, no, it’s not cruel. It’s intense, raging heat. What you find after the thaw.” I see us together in his bed. I feel his heart beat against mine. I see us playing at the studio. I feel the sound leaving my body. “It’s just passion.”
I’ve found what comes after nuclear winter.
I’ve been discovering it with Phoenix this whole time.
The rest of the night, we write “Killer Ultraviolet,” and I doubt there’ll be a song that I love more than this one.
37
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The last four days of March, we completely lose ourselves to the music. Tom calls it post-sex bliss. Like we’re riding a euphoric high from finally fucking.
I can’t completely deny it.
The lyrics come easier. The music flows better. We’re in a deep groove as we barrel toward our deadline, and we don’t just finish the final song. After “Killer Ultraviolet,” we write and record two more. (Tom was correct about being an overachiever.)
The album is complete with fourteen total tracks, and it’s almost incomprehensible that we’re done.
There is no after-club celebration because Tom and I did not want a repeat of the half-baked celebration at The Trench. Instead, we grab a Sicilian pizza with black olives and eat it on the grass in Central Park while listening to the mastered tracks together.
Black headphones cover my ears while Tom has on slim AirPods, and the first song on the album plays. “Fire You Feel.” I am instantly transported to the moment I met Tom, and I won’t tell him—I’ll likely never tell him, so his head doesn’t grow five fucking sizes bigger—that this song is the whole album for me.
It would be nothing without it.
Tom pops an earbud out. “You think it needs mor—?”
“No,” I snap, cutting him off. “Every time you ask that, you’re getting an olive to the face. Listen to your voice, man, and just hear how good you sound.”
“Maybe you should loan me your ears.”
“Come on, you know you sound amazing.” I look him over, up-down. “Don’t fucking doubt yourself now.” I kick his shin, wondering if I do need to tell him how much I love “Fire You Feel,” but then he nods robustly.
“You’re right,” he says into a smirk. “I’m a vocal marvel.”
“Even the lightest stroke of the ego does it for you, huh?”
“You could go harder,” he grins. “I won’t complain.”
“I know you won’t.”
Tom diverts his gaze as his face reddens. He stares around the park, but the weather isn’t bone-chilling anymore. Too many people meander around to pay any attention to us.
“No one cares that I fucked you, Tom,” I whisper.
His jaw tenses. I’m not sure why until his blue eyes hit mine, and he says, “I care.”