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)
“Thank you,” Phoenix says deeply, then picks up his duffel and backpack. “I’ll go drop this off in your room, Tom.”
I nod stiffly, wanting to kiss him but losing the chance because of hesitation and fear.
That crushes me in a worse way.
I can deal with my career myself, so I’m not asking my parents to assist me with my problems. I am fucking capable on my own. “Thank you for stopping by. I feel truly loved. Hope you listen to the album on repeat all day.”
My parents and sister say their goodbyes, but ten feet from the door, Audrey whirls around. “You’ll be flying back for Wednesday Night Dinners?”
“In between the shows, that’s the plan. I wouldn’t miss them.”
“But you can,” Mom says, her fingers in Dad’s hand. “It’s fine if you opt out.”
I grimace. “I don’t opt out. I’ve never opted out.” Dad has furrowed brows of concern, so I add strongly before he speaks, “I can handle it.” In my mind, I don’t need to sacrifice this time with my siblings. I can have everything if I manage my time well. “Let me prove I can handle it.”
“You don’t have anything to prove to us,” Dad assuages.
“Then to myself,” I say.
His gaze softens on me with understanding. “Okay.”
My mom purses her lips but trains her attention more on my dad. They’re speaking through their eyes. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to become an efficient interpreter for those looks. Her eviscerating glare could speak threats as much as they could speak love.
I reiterate to my sister, “I will most definitely be there on Wednesdays.”
“Perfect.” Audrey pops up on her toes. “Because I have an announcement that can only be formally shared on a Wednesday night. It’s sure to wow.” My curiosity piques.
Eliot and I share rising grins before I say, “Drop the dinner bomb, Audrey Virginia.”
“Drop many bombs,” Eliot puffs on a cigar.
“We’re here for the fireworks,” I add.
Her excitement bubbles, and she hugs me and Eliot before she leaves.
Mom is the last to go. “You two.” She points her talon at me and my brother. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Eliot and I snicker, but when the door shuts, our smiles wipe off our faces. We exchange a look of gravity and concern.
I shake my head. “Damage is not the name of the game anymore,” I say to him. “Unless it’s damage control.”
“It’s Audrey. It can’t be that explosive.” He pats my chest. “Worry about the amazing birthday sex you’re going to have tonight.”
Ben is all too happy to crash on the pull-out after the party, considering he’s sent me there over a dozen times this year. He wants to take his turn, and he finally has the opportunity.
But I can’t think about sex.
I’m checking my phone for any album reviews. None yet. There’s still time.
Still hope.
On top of this, the tour starts tomorrow. Phoenix and I leave tomorrow. I cannot get shit-faced on my birthday. I will not start the first leg of a career milestone being hungover.
I heave a box of liquor bottles to the kitchen counter and pull out Don Julio 1942.
The tequila isn’t for me, clearly. I will be on the periphery of entertainment. An onlooker. The most gorgeous fly on the wall, which will cause jealousy among all the other wall-flies.
That’s the plan.
I will not fuck up the plan.
40
TOM COBALT
“Body shots! Body shots! Body shots!”
This is only a minor fuck-up.
The problem: Eliot and I excel at throwing parties—we excel too well. Two hours in and bodies cram into my apartment, raising the temperature to a sweltering, dizzying eighty degrees. Shirts have come off. Most girls strip down to bras. Lights are dimmed, and Silver Sweet playing at high volume incites a raucous energy.
Let this be known: I did not ask for body shots. I didn’t even provoke this. I’m starting to believe I should’ve left Eliot off the guest list, which hurts my soul to even consider for five seconds.
“Dude, no.” I raise my hands at my favorite brother. “I am not taking a body shot.”
“Not off Creighton.”
Of course not off Creighton. I grimace at the dude sitting expectantly on our round marble table near the packed living room. Vodka bottles and shot glasses are strewn around him. He’s a pretentious five-eight, blond-haired trust fund baby with a degree in one-upping. We figured a one-upper wouldn’t burn down the apartment. Maybe just annoy Charlie enough to bang his head against a wall.
Speaking of Charlie, I haven’t seen much of him. He weaves in and out like a mythic creature at our house parties. Never letting anyone speak to him for long. And last I saw Beckett, he’d been hanging with Ben in the kitchen.
“Phoenix!” Eliot calls out.
My heart rate spikes as my shirtless drummer pushes through the sweaty throngs to reach my side. I’ve learned Phoenix likes doing laps at parties. He can’t stand still. I’ve done a couple laps with him, and I can’t tell what I love more—that or this, where we reconjoin and my breath shortens with the rapid ascent of my pulse.