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)
Ugh, I’m ruining the mood.
“Take it, take it.” I shove my phone into his chest. “I can’t keep checking for reviews. It’s bringing emotional distress, and that’s not the vibe tonight.”
He clutches my cell. “You want me to hang onto your phone all night?” he says like I’ve lost it.
“Yes. Protect my phone. My birthday wish.”
He slips my phone in the cargo pocket at his thigh. “You realize you don’t get an unlimited number of birthday wishes?”
“It’s my birthday, dude. I make the rules.”
“Has anyone ever called you a birthdayzilla?”
“Yes. They were all dicks. I’ll add you to the list.”
His eyes perform an attractive roll on me. He zips his pocket shut, and he’s about to reply when we both get distracted.
Harriet is headbanging to a song off our album. Phoenix smiles down at her, and I wince into a groan, “Harry. Do not tell me that ‘Hellbent’ is your favorite song.”
“It’s not my favorite,” she deadpans.
It’s totally her favorite. “You would love the song that destroys my voice.”
“It’s not because of you,” she says. “The drums go hard, dude.”
Phoenix smiles. “It’s because of me, nepo baby.” He fist-bumps Harriet, and I blink so much that I wonder if I can transport myself to another dimension where this isn’t happening in front of my face.
“Made these for you.” Harriet pulls off several bracelets climbing up her wrists. She dangles the purple beads up at me and Phoenix.
I take one and see SILVER SWEET in block letters. “You made me a birthday gift?” I start to laugh.
“I made The Carraways a gift. You just happen to be attached.”
Phoenix slips the bracelet on his wrist. “Say thank you, Tom.”
“Thank you, Tom,” I say.
Harriet grimaces. “On second thought, they should just go to Phoenix.”
My mouth falls. “You can’t take back a birthday pres—”
“It’s not a birthday present.” She snatches the bracelet out of my hand. We play tug-of-war for two seconds before the beads burst off the elastic string.
They scatter the floorboards.
Harriet looks immediately crestfallen, and I don’t ask her how long this arts and crafts project took. “I have string,” I say. “I can fix this.”
Sure, I am not great at fixing things.
But that has to change sometime. This time. Before Harriet or even Phoenix can utter a word, I’m heading to my bedroom. Sliding past people means getting random body sweat on my skin. It’s not gross for me, but I just think about Beckett. I know he deals with body sweat at the ballet studio, but hopefully none of this is triggering his OCD.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” I weave between people. “Pardon. Merci.” I duck underneath someone’s outstretched arm, finally reaching the hallway that leads to my room.
I push open the door, and a loud thwomp catapults my heart to my throat.
Ben and a broad, stocky dude are throwing fists, tearing at each other’s shirts. Justin. It has to be Justin Dupont—I don’t have any other 6’5’’ friends with wide, muscular frames. He played defensive end for Vanderbilt in the SEC. Ben body slams him into the wall. Fuckfuckfuck.
I don’t think, I’m just bolting to my little brother. “HEY!” I scream and try to push my way between them, but they’re shoving, pulling, punching.
“FIGHT!” someone screams from the hall. “FIGHT!”
Holy shit, what is happening?
“BEN!” I yell, but he’s all focused rage. His knuckles collide with Justin’s jaw. I hear a sickening crack and then Ben gets tackled into the wall. His shoulders make impact with my Thomas Cole painting in a loud thud. The frame rattles free, and the canvas clips the sharp corner of my dresser on the way to the floor.
My concern lies solely with my brother who looks like he’s ready to murder Justin. I don’t know what fucking happened. I don’t care. I just want this to end before Ben gets hurt.
I turn on my friend. “JUSTIN! FUCKING STOP!” I yank his shirt and slip in between their bodies. Bad move. I’m six-one. They’re both four inches taller. Justin throws a punch at Ben, and I’m at a horrible angle. When Justin’s arm snaps back, his elbow collides with the soft tissue of my eye.
Immediate pain. Sharp, spiky fucking agony.
I drop to the ground in a squat to avoid another assault to my eye socket. Vision blurred, I squint, but everything happens too fast.
Someone bulldozes into the room, and I have to blink multiple times to realize…it’s Phoenix.
Phoenix is thrusting Justin off my brother and body slamming him into the ground.
Phoenix is laying one, two, three punches in Justin’s face.
Ben is breathing heavier, his eyes wide. Neck swiveling as he takes in the total annihilation of our bedroom. Dents in the walls. His bed keeled over to the side as if a leg broke. My blue Gibson has been bumped off the rack and lies face-down on the ground.