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)
My smile feels gentle. “Our little brothers.”
Luna’s brother has social anxiety, and then there’s mine, who begged me to throw the ragiest rager to prove my life has not changed because of his OCD.
I will ensure everyone’s brother doesn’t run themselves into the ground. Maybe that’s my second major purpose in life.
All brothers will remain standing.
At least the ones I care about. I cannot be responsible for the brotherhood of mankind.
I sigh in lament. “What are we going to do with them?”
“Love them,” Luna sing-songs.
“A whole lot,” I nod strongly. “Too much, maybe.”
“Is there such thing as loving too much?”
My eyes burn. All I think about is Phoenix.
After I hug Luna goodbye, I try to pry my mind away from my drummer. I check Backbeat Ledger, a smaller press, for reviews.
None.
It’s midnight.
I dodge several party friends asking to do shots with me. Acting like I can’t hear, I enter the suffocating heat of the living room. I use my T-shirt like a rag, wipe off my chest, then stuff it into my jeans’ back pocket.
I search for Phoenix.
Did he go to the bathroom? I haven’t seen him in a while. Concern starts to build in my chest. Popping out of the congested area, I reach the floor-length window where I can finally breathe, but I’m not alone.
“I see you’ve perfected the wall-fly stance, Harry.”
“I see you’re ditching your friends,” Harriet says.
“Just to aggravate my enemy.” I join her near the sparkling nighttime view. She’s scowling so hard, no one bothers her. I eye her Solo cup. “What are you drinking?”
She tips the cup to me.
I laugh. “You did not put jolly ranchers in your tequila.”
“I did. And it tastes really fucking good.” She takes a long, defiant swig.
“Don’t come running to me when you choke.”
She bites down on the candy. “I won’t because you look like you can’t do the Heimlich.”
“Okay, pre-med snob, I can pick you up, but I wouldn’t—not even if you were halfway dead.” I scour the party. “Where’s Ben?”
“Your room.” She explains how Eliot and Ben are opening the windows and the doors to their bedrooms to circulate cool air. Sweat soaks through Harriet’s white cropped top.
I rub beads off my forehead. “Eliot knows I won’t care if our friends go into my bedroom, but I’m surprised Ben would want them in his.”
Harriet shrugs. “He doesn’t care about material objects, and Mister Feathers is safe in Xander’s apartment tonight.”
I can’t see how Ben would be okay if someone broke one of my guitars or messed with his girlfriend’s stuffed animal that she leaves on his bed.
Like she can see where my mind is descending, Harriet says, “He’s learning how to process fucked-up, messy situations. He knows he’s not the root cause if things go bad.”
My chest rises. Is he getting better? Or is it just hopeful thinking?
I’m tempted to ask, but I’m too afraid the answer won’t be what I want. So instead, I say, “You can go mingle, you know.” I gesture toward the different clusters of my friends. “They don’t bite.”
Harriet swishes her cup. “I like the air over here.” Her blue eyes flit up to me, then down.
“I do breathe clean air.”
“Not your air, dude. Jeez.”
I catch her arm when I see Phoenix. “There he is.” Then I retract fast when I realize I’m touching my blonde nightmare.
Harriet looks unbothered. “He’s coming over here.”
“Probably for the clean air that has absolutely nothing to do with me,” I banter.
She gives me a middle finger while sipping her drink, and as Phoenix breaks through a dance pit, he stops dead five feet from me.
We take a breath at the same time. He’s okay? He’s okay. I can feel him studying me the same way, then he closes the distance to say, “Your friends are interesting.”
“Interesting as in bad or good?”
“Interesting as in one couldn’t stop name-dropping actors and the other kept backhand-insulting me. He said only no-named bands go on Susie Mac’s channel. Among other things.”
Anger pricks my skin, barely a surface-level burn. “They aren’t friend-friends,” I remind him.
“So they’re fake friends?”
“They’re friends I don’t care about, dude. They can talk shit and be jealous and put me down from afar because they’re not going to touch me. I won’t let them. So don’t let them get to you.” I skim him as he pushes damp hair out of his face. “Have they gotten to you?”
He lets out a laugh. “No. I’m mildly annoyed at most.”
I nod. “Good.”
He checks me out. “Worried about me?”
I shrug. “You’re only a part of my lifelong dreams. It would be weirder if I wasn’t.”
“Agreed.” He watches me peek at my phone and refresh a few tabs.
Backbeat Ledger, nothing.
Rolling Stone, nothing.
Pitchfork, nothing.
His frown deepens off mine. Phoenix doesn’t even give a shit what these critics say. He’s not seeking external validation as much as he just wants to play rock music for a living.