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)
I draw my headphones to my neck and pause the second track. I’ve been inside Tom, and he’s not brushing that fact aside like it’s an ordinary occurrence.
Sex for me typically isn’t so emotional. It’s a physical act of release, and that’s it. I’ve known that what I feel with him is different. Everything is more heightened and intense. Buzzing. All my senses.
“You think I don’t care?” I ask with furrowed brows and a mountain of confusion because I thought I did a pretty decent job of showing I did.
His voice drops to a trained whisper. “Maybe I just care more than you, dude, because you were in me. You don’t know what it’s like.”
I cock my head. “I don’t know what it’s like?”
“Yeah…?” He makes a face at me.
I make one back. “I do, actually. I’ve bottomed before. Many fucking times.”
Tom blinks. “Excuse me, why am I just learning this?”
I laugh hard. “You never fucking asked. That’s why.”
He groans. “Uh, I need to stop assuming shit.” He must be recalling the French misconnection. “And no—you could’ve offered this pertinent info in your apartment.”
I cough on another laugh. “I can barely take you seriously when you’re waving your pizza around.”
He tears a rough bite with his teeth and flips me off.
“It honestly didn’t cross my mind,” I tell him. “I prefer to top, and I’ve gotten the sense you prefer to bottom, so what’s there to talk about?”
“Then why bottom at all?” Tom questions. “Let alone many fucking times, Phoenix.”
I chew pizza and swallow. “Because, Tom, there are strict tops and also verse guys out there who prefer a flip-fuck, and as you’ve so adorably highlighted, I am impatient and so I don’t ask a one-night stand twenty questions. It pretty much goes, ‘You want to fuck,’ and then I find out the rest later.”
He’s slow-blinking. “Wait, why not just ditch the one-night stand if they’re not compatible?”
“I wanted to have sex. Even incompatible sex, man.”
He sucks air through his teeth. “That could never be me.”
I lift my brows. “I know.” Now I’m curious. “You ever try to top?”
“Yeah. Did not enjoy.”
“Figured.” I bring my headphones up, but before I slip them back over my ears, I say, “And Tom?”
“Hmm?” He’s tapping the playlist on his phone. I wait for his eyes to hoist to mine.
And very strongly, I tell him, “I care.”
Tom inhales, his chest rising in one deep, powerful breath.
Two weeks pass by in meetings, rehearsals for the tour, more meetings, and working out with Tom. I’m at his apartment when the art director at Riot Records sends us options for the album cover.
It still hasn’t fully sunk in that there’s no more writing. No more arranging. No more recording.
I’m waiting for the gotcha moment when they send us back to the studio. Being done doesn’t feel real. I’m hoping staring at these covers tonight will let it sink in a little more.
“Ugly. Ugly. Uglier.” Tom lies longways on his faux-leather couch. His head is in my lap while a sticker-decaled computer balances on his chest. He scrolls through the different versions of the album art. The label has final approval, but they’re letting us make suggestions.
I stare down at him. “You know someone actually spent their time mocking these up. You don’t need to dismiss them so—”
He angles the laptop to me. An artsy cubism lion cub stares back at me with bared teeth dripping blue blood. “Okay, yeah. That’s ugly. What’s up with the lion cub?”
“Someone wants to capitalize on the Cobalt Empire, dude.”
“Lions?” I frown.
Tom slips me a look like seriously. “Practically a Cobalt mascot at this point. Might as well be the center of our family crest.”
“Surprised you don’t already have a family crest hanging in your dining room for your fancy ass tea parties.”
His nose flares. “Dude. You can’t call them that. It’s beyond disrespectful.”
“Sorry,” I say flatly. “Wednesday Night Dinners.” Still not invited. Do not care to be. I don’t even mind that Tom ghosts me every Wednesday night like he’s a part of some secret society. It’s nice that his family has something they do together. I wouldn’t want to take him away from that.
“Thank you.” He swipes to the next option, then the next.
“Wait, go back,” I tell him. He returns to the previous version.
Blue fire engulfs the marble torso of a man, all sinewy lines of muscle like Michelangelo’s David. The fire hooks me for a solid moment. Because the blue flames roar into violet purple.
The album title looks stamped with old-school ink in the bottom right corner.
Several weeks ago, Tom approached me with the name of the album. We’d been lying on his bed together after a long five-hour session writing “Dead Poets”—a haunting song about measuring up to the great artists who’ve inspired us. Knowing we can’t reach them. Knowing we still want to try. Knowing it’s okay if we never come close.