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)
Tom grips the mic and sings the first verse of “Your Epidemic,” stepping closer and closer to the edge of the stage. My muscles sear as I throttle the drums.
The venue is not sold out—not by a long shot—but the crowd that’s gathered in Spokane, Washington, screams so loud that you’d think we just sold out Madison Square Garden. They also know all the lyrics to “Nuclear Winter” and we’ve only been on tour for five days.
Tom’s shoes hit the lip of the stage, and he fucking leaps to a small four-by-four platform on the barricade: a temporary structure our crew sets up right before “Your Epidemic” begins.
But that’s not the part I hate.
It’s when Tom steps into the crowd. He puts a foot out into the darkness and relies on fans to grip his ankles and laced Vans. They shriek, excited and overwhelmed just by being able to touch him.
Their screams pitch over the music when he reaches out a hand and sings to them.
His energy is magnetizing.
Tom never misses a beat through the chorus. Never falls off key. He’s precision, passion, and if I were in the crowd I’d be dreaming about him every fucking night, every minute of every day. I’d be etching the torture in his eyes into my brain.
I’d be transfixed.
But I’m the guy behind the drum kit, watching his back—or his side, depending on the angle—and wondering if he’s caught bad luck and is about to be dropped onto the hard concrete.
My heart is in my throat through the entire song. It feels like I’m on a fucking terrible ascent.
I pour my concern for my singer into the snare and rise a little behind the kit as Tom works his way back to the stage. He nods to me like, good.
I nod back, a fist still in my lungs.
Fuck it—I play harder. Mostly in anticipation of what’s to come. Because I know this isn’t the only part of the show that causes me physical distress.
Red swarms the stage during a new lighting transition. We both worked hard to perfect all the visuals of the show, and I think it pays off as fans freak over Tom dropping to his knees under the raging colors.
His all-out, soul-crushing range on “Hellbent” makes the crowd go even more feral, but it quite literally looks like he’s about to bust a vocal cord any second.
Then there’s a section in “Territorial” where he does a trust fall without anyone there to catch him. His head appears seconds from being walloped against the hard stage no matter how many times he’s told me, “Dude, I’ve practiced this with Stan.” Stan is the production manager for the tour in charge of safety and logistics and making sure Tom doesn’t break his fucking skull on the stage.
So I know who to curse out if this all goes sideways.
But I really don’t want it to go sideways.
I like Tom’s skull.
I like a lot about Tom.
He says, “Wolfgang St. Pierre on drums!” before one of my favorite drum fills in the song “Silver Sweet Sound.” He smirks at me like it’s hilarious I’m just Wolfgang.
It drives me nuts. His cocky smirk mid-show. His little laugh when the song ends.
I skate my hand through my sweaty hair and fight for breath before the next track. He climbs the side lighting truss. He holds the metal bars with one hand and careens his body toward the audience at a reckless height, flirting with jumping off while singing “Level Headed.”
I hear a sharp collective gasp. He has everyone in the palm of his hand. I almost fall for it, even knowing he’ll drop several feet down before he leaps. Still too high for comfort, but low enough he won’t seriously injure himself.
When Tom vaults back onstage, the crowd roars. Because he brings them into the moment and rushes straight for them during the chorus.
It’s heady, and it’s mind-fucking me.
I try to release a larger breath as my sticks crash against my drums. It takes all my energy not to worry and to lock into the performance.
I seep into the music like the rest of the audience, and my body catches fire. My biceps burn with each fill, each powerful beat. It feels violently propulsive. Like someone is shaking me from the inside out. My fears aren’t just being heard tonight. They’re being echoed, chanted, and slain.
The catharsis is bone-rattling, and when we perform our first encore song, “Dirty Rise,” it’s the ultimate release.
My ultimate high.
Red lights bleed into purple midway through, and I feel the ascent out of rage and rubble. I feel Tom lifting me as we lock eyes and he belts our lyrics to me.
This is it.
This is what I never want to lose.
This is why I love to play.
I can’t believe I ever quit.
We finish with “Killer Ultraviolet,” and Tom puts everything—his whole heart, whole body, whole soul—into this final song. Like it’s the last one he’ll sing on Earth.