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)
Harriet returns the jug to the fridge, and when she spins around, she catches me staring. I’m on the receiving end of a serious death glare.
Unfortunately, I’m hardwired to glare back.
Her lips downturn, and instead of returning to Ben and Tom’s bedroom, she comes over. She must be investigating since she can’t see Tom over the back of the couch.
When she rounds the corner and has eyes on the sleeping singer on my lap, her brows hike in surprise. She looks from me (shirtless, by the way), to Tom, and back to me (still very shirtless).
My brows spring in reply like yeah and?
She chews on her lower lip in thought, her bangs frizzing around her forehead, before giving me a strong nod and shuffling off toward the bedroom.
I know Tom asked her to be his drummer last year. Apparently, she’s pretty good behind a kit.
She turned him down.
I liked her instantly after I knew that.
Ten minutes later, I’m able to shimmy Tom off my lap without stirring him. I take out a Sharpie from my backpack before I leave, and I scrawl on the top of his fist. A little skull with the title of our album underneath. Our creation we’re about to birth together.
Silver Sweet.
38
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“It’s rare to see a rock band with only two members,” a podcaster tells us in her eclectic studio apartment in Greenwich. Tom and I are squashed on a mustard sofa that’s shaped like a giant flower. Microphones in each of our hands, we face Tiff Montclair.
She’s a friend of a friend of Tom’s.
It’s another stop on our week-long mini press junket leading up to the album’s April 21 release. Most have been short video chat interviews with influencers. This is the first in-person thing, which has my leg jostling. On camera.
Her phone is on a tripod filming us.
“So as a rock duo,” Tiff says, “how would you describe your relationship exactly?”
Intense. Edging. Like I’m living on a perpetual cliff, but instead of looking down, my eyes are in the sky and I’m looking for him. Oh and I fucked him in his shower this morning. But we’re just bandmates who hookup, apparently.
On instinct, I tilt my head to Tom. Most podcasters seek him out anyway and ignore my presence. He’s a Cobalt, the real draw. But also, he’s not the one who looks like he was dragged into the chair and told to sit down and behave.
“Total honesty?” Tom says, angling conspiratorially toward Tiff. “It was hate at first sight. And since you’re asking, I still can’t stand him.” He’s looking right at me with that stupid smirk.
Cute. The corner of my mouth tics up. “Mutual feeling,” I say into the mic while I sweep the black muscle tee he’s wearing. Collar ripped. The word ZERO is printed on the forehead of a skull. “Zero” is a song we wrote before we slept together, and it’s all about trying to let go of immense pressure.
About giving zero fucks.
It looks good on him.
I’m just dressed in my usual shit. Backward baseball cap, a gray long-sleeved Henley. I don’t think I exude “star” energy like Tom, not enough to exist in a two-person band where there’s nowhere to hide, but I’m hot. So there’s that going for me.
Tiff beams at Tom. “You two wrote fourteen songs together, so the partnership must be working.”
“Yeah, how did we do that?” Tom grins over at me.
“Miracles do happen.” I struggle not to call him a nepo baby during these fucking things, but I am watching my mouth.
Tom nods. “Yes, they do. Frequently when I’m around, some would say.”
I cough out a laugh, then tell Tiff, “See what I’m dealing with?”
Her smile is a megawatt lightbulb. “A miracle maker.” She gestures to Tom.
He holds out a hand of reason to me. “It’s been stated. On the record. In front of the universe.”
“To all of Tiff’s listeners,” I correct.
Tiff grins. “Like my friends and family in New York. Thank you for tuning in, fam!”
“The best people in New York,” Tom adds. “Greatest city in the country.” Tom mouths to me, behind Philly. I’m pretty sure her camera caught that.
I think it’d be impossible for Tom to be anyone but himself, even at the risk of coming across like a pompous, rich dick. I love that about him, and he’s the reason I’m enjoying these interviews more than I ever imagined I would.
Still, my leg won’t stop jostling under me. I wish we could perform “Nuclear Winter,” but we’re not scheduled for any performances for press. Riot said they had one for us, but later, we learned it fell through.
Tiff asks about the album, and Tom sits forward in excitement. He loves talking in depth about Silver Sweet, but more so on a universal level. He’ll bring up fears, insecurities, pressure, and passion, but not what they personally represent to us.