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)
Afterward, I look for my singer, but he’s not in the mix of people milling around. I head out to the backline area. Still no Tom.
My stomach churns, and I spot Delia and catch her before she can leave. “Where’s Tom?”
“Outside,” she says. “You might want to give him a second. His bodyguard wouldn’t let him follow you off the stage.”
Good. Good.
He’s pissed, I’m sure. I imagine there’s a screaming match with Ian going on.
“Okay,” I breathe out. “If he asks where I’m at, can you tell him I went to the bus?”
Delia nods, and she touches my arm in comfort. “It happens, Phoenix. You’re not the first drummer to hurt someone with a flying drumstick.”
That’s not it.
I must look as wrecked as I fucking feel.
The bus is quiet. Crew take longer to break things down, which gives me time alone. I slump on the couch in the front lounge and press my forehead to my knees. The urge to vomit flares my nostrils. I don’t know how long I sit alone before the bus door swings open abruptly.
“Phoenix?” Tom’s panicked concern jumpstarts my pulse. He hurries up the steps and skids to a stop when he sees me. His hollow gaze pins to my chest, and I glance down at my skin. My bare chest is smeared in blood.
“It’s not mine,” I say.
He sinks down beside me, his eyes scavenging my body for harm. “I’m sorry I didn’t come down in the crowd with you. Ian—”
“Did the right thing,” I interject. “Don’t be mad at him. His job is to protect you.” I wring my hands together. My breathing hasn’t steadied.
Tom puts a palm on my jostling knee, and it barely stops. “I talked to the medic. They don’t think you broke her nose. It might just be a contusion or ruptured blood vessels…something like that…” He tilts his head. “Yay?”
I can’t say anything. My throat tightens up.
He frowns in confusion. “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t about the drumstick?”
“Because it’s not. Not completely.” My mouth is so dry, swallowing hurts. My tongue feels thick. “I promised you I’d tell you about it once we make it through the tour.”
He lifts his hand off my knee. “No, you promised you’d tell me about what happened with your ex and ‘Tragic Hold.’ What does tonight have to do with that?”
“Everything,” I say, but I know that’s not good enough. So I tell him, “Being in the crowd brought back a bad memory. It was the worst night of my life, honestly.”
“Does it have to do with your arrest?”
I nod.
“Then why’d you jump down there?”
“Because I hurt someone tonight. And it felt like the right thing to do at the time. I wasn’t thinking how it’d just…pummel me.”
He scoots closer and puts an arm around my waist. I lean into him. And then I rotate more and he pulls me into a tighter hug. His hand claws into my hair, and I feel his lips press to my head. I’m not sure I deserve it.
I’m not sure I deserve a lot of Tom’s love.
But I think I’m going to keep trying to be someone who might.
46
TOM COBALT
One of the hardest things about being on tour is the shower situation. The tiny one on the bus is like showering inside a coffin. The water pressure also blows. I imagine it’s what being pissed on feels like—not that I care to verify that.
And look, I am not the only one who’s been complaining about our shower. Okay—Hannah and Stan also hate it, and my bodyguard has avoided it for days. I am getting sick of smelling Ian’s body spray.
Let’s also not forget my six-foot-four drummer who has to do neck gymnastics to wash his hair under the showerhead.
So when Delia tells us we have to be wheels-up right after a show, there’s always a collective groan. It means no time to use the venue’s showers.
Tonight is not that night.
Steam flows out of the bathroom into a private dressing room as I knot a towel at my waist. My skin is pink from the hot water, and I catch Phoenix pulling a black tee over his head.
“Dude, I think I just reached nirvana in there,” I tell him. “Ten out of ten. No notes.”
“You’re rating the venue showers now?” Phoenix zips up a duffel at his feet. His damp, freshly washed hair is hidden underneath a backwards baseball hat.
“Yeah, and they’re all tens just for being bigger than a sci-fi cryopod.” I dig around in my own duffel for a change of clothes. “Maybe I need to revisit the budget. It wouldn’t be too much to add in hotels, just so everyone can shower outside the bus when the venue showers aren’t an option.”
Phoenix sits on the edge of a chair, pulling on a pair of socks. “No. You’re already personally funding enough shit for the show.”