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)
“You?” He yawns into his elbow. He’s about to turn toward my zipper, but I keep him still. His eyes are too heavily lidded. I’ll most likely jerk off later. I’d rather let him sleep and not push our luck.
“I’ll be fine. I’m going to head out soon anyway.”
He’s too tired to combat me. “Dude, I think you rocked my world so hard…” His eyes flutter closed into a softer yawn. “I’m…exhausted…” He dozes off before I can reply.
Breaths leave his lips in warm whispers. His hair caresses the chiseled edges of his face. I’ve never stayed the night at his apartment, but he’s spent the night at mine in Chelsea while my roommates were gone.
I don’t know if I’m more envious of or attracted to how he always looks like an angel resting on a fluffy cloud. There is something so fucking gentle about his sleep state. So peaceful and still.
I’m the absolute opposite.
Anytime I manage to fall asleep, I’m always fighting for my life with my sheets and blankets. They twist and choke around me. It’s a big reason I never sleep with a shirt. Being strangled by my own collar is not fun.
I don’t think I slept at all when he spent the night at my place. Definitely did not hit REM.
Tom probably couldn’t tell since it’s just my natural state.
As I watch him sleep now, I wonder if I can mimic him. His breath patterns. His relaxation. Maybe I can take a nap before I go home to toss and turn in my bed. I close my eyes, trying to shut off my brain.
Two seconds. It takes two seconds for me to remember I have a gig tomorrow night. I’m subbing in at The Manhattan Symphony Orchestra. Shit, did I ask for the tempo notes yet? I pop up my email on my phone and start scrolling. Yes, I have them.
I’m running out of concealer that I need to cover my hand and neck tattoos. Hopefully I can squeeze enough out of the bottle for tomorrow’s gig.
I get sidetracked by a text from my mom.
MOM
Did you hear Stewie might be retiring soon? A salaried position at NYBC Orchestra is good, stable money with benefits if you decide touring isn’t for you.
She’s worried.
The closer I get to having a successful career as a rock musician, the more I’m leaving behind the opportunity to ever play full-time at the orchestra. They know they can’t pull me out to galas and events like they do Birdie. I’m not going to put up with that. If I can pay my bills and get off their health insurance by playing rock music, then I’m done with the timpani.
I just need this band to be successful.
Presale numbers “aren’t fantastic” was the news Jeremy delivered to us last week. It’s going to be an uphill battle to gain marketing support from Riot, but I’ve been trying to assuage Tom’s panic by reminding him that the album still has a placeholder cover. It could pick up steam once the artwork goes live or maybe better yet, once we have reviews.
Once people have listened to it.
Yeah…I feel like I’m assuaging my own panic.
I thread my fingers through my hair, pulling irritably at the strands. And I’m never going to hear the end of this job opening. Maybe my mom got bad intel. Maybe Stewie isn’t retiring.
Maybe I can convince him playing timpani is his life’s purpose.
Fuck. I hate this.
I rub at my jaw and check the time on my phone.
It’s been twenty minutes since Tom fell asleep, and he hasn’t moved a muscle. I am so jealous of his heavy, peaceful slumber, and I don’t want to move him and disrupt it.
I let him sleep a couple more hours while I watch the TV show Station Eleven muted with subtitles on my phone. Halfway through the second episode, a door creaks from one of the two halls. Footsteps pad across the floor.
I mentally file who I’d like to see in order from I-can-deal-with-it to please-fuck-no: Ben, Eliot, Charlie, and then Beckett.
Glancing behind the couch, I see none of the four options.
A short blonde with bedhead hair shuffles into the kitchen. She wears an oversized burgundy MVU Hockey tee that stops below her knees. I watch her fill a glass of water from the fruit-infused jug the Cobalts keep in their fridge.
Ben’s girlfriend. Harriet.
She’s young, nineteen, and has the meanest scowl I’ve ever seen. Literally thought she knew some deep dark secret of mine and hated me for it. Turns out, it’s just her face.
Tom vilifies her at each chance he gets. And yet, I see that he relaxes every time she’s here. When she’s around Ben. Otherwise, he worries about his brother to the point of stress.
I’m not sure why.
Something must have happened—but I still can’t figure out what.