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)
I want to be involved.
I can’t just play someone else’s songs. If I wanted to do that, I’d be on the path my parents have pleaded with me to take since I graduated from Berklee.
The next stop, I get off. Letting my concerns about Tom hover and bite. Luckily, I’m seconds from seeing him and can put this shit to bed.
When I enter Duke’s on 10th, I expect it to be some bougie brunch spot with overpriced eggs, but the inside resembles more of a kitschy ’50s diner with old records on the walls, neon milkshake signs, and teal and white vinyl booths. Tom waves a hand from a booth deep in the back near the restrooms.
My feet glue to the checkerboard floor for a second.
Tom Cobalt has real natural beauty. A carved jawline, bedroom-blue eyes, and symmetrical features that could be painted and hung in the Louvre. His lush, ruffled hair looks meant for fingers to run through. What makes it all worse—he probably knows he’s as attractive as a marble sculpture in the fucking Met. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons his ego chokes out a room.
I do know he’s gay.
Years ago, Birdie ranted, “I went to that audition thinking here’s a good-looking gay musician who sings like the second coming of MCR. Man, I was being overly complimentary to the point where I’d need to chug Pepto. Then he proves me exactly right—he’s just a rich prick who thinks he knows everything.”
“One of the Cobalts is gay?” I was surprised.
“Yeah. A very gay, very unreasonable numbskull.”
I don’t know if Tom is single.
Though I probably should get that information. See if I have to deal with a boyfriend of his.
When I join Tom at the booth, he immediately says, “So you being the embodiment of ‘someone pissed in my cornflakes’ is a permanent feature.”
I’m assuming he’s talking about my scowl.
“I’m more of a Raisin Bran guy.” I flip open the menu, trying to avoid his face. He has penetrating powder-blue eyes. The kind that feel invasive, exploratory, like he wants to take a journey down my soul. And fuck me for finding that hot. I don’t need to go down that route. Especially not with a bandmate. Especially not with someone who makes me want to claw at the walls.
“What’s good here?” I flip the second page.
“Literally everything.”
“Unhelpful, got it.”
Tom snorts. “Do you need me to order for you?”
“Did I ask that?” I snap back and peek up at him over the menu.
His jaw tics. Shaggy golden-brown hair hangs over his forehead, brushing the tops of his lashes. He pushes the strands back with a hand. That face. I scrape my tongue over my molars. Yeah.
He’s fucking beautiful.
I force my gaze back to the menu, but it doesn’t stay down for long. My eyes level on him as he says, “I mostly come here for the burgers and fries. But for breakfast, I’d recommend waffles or pancakes.” He skims me up and down. “Unless you’re super health conscious or something.” Pink flush inches up his neck, but he doesn’t break his gaze from mine.
I wonder if he’s comparing our builds. I have more muscle than him, but I’m no body builder or linebacker, and Tom is on the lankier side but not completely lacking in muscle. I can tell he doesn’t lift weights at least.
“I’m not health conscious,” I tell him. “My diet consists of Doritos and cigarettes. My primary doc hates to see me.”
Tom hasn’t opened his menu, I realize. So I ask, “What are you getting?”
“Strawberry waffle.”
I flip the back of the menu. “I’m more of a savory breakfast kind of guy.”
“You can be a basic bitch and get the omelet.”
“Hilarious.”
“Is this your strategic way of seeing if we’re good at collabing?” he asks. “You pestering me about your breakfast order?”
“No.” I close the menu. “Just me making conversation, Tom.”
He squeezes his eyes skeptically.
“I don’t know how you operate,” I say. “But I don’t play games. Despite the impulse to just argue with you nonstop for the next three hundred sixty-five days, I’m trying to get along with you. I want to be able to make music together without it feeling like a tug-of-war.”
“I don’t know how to do that.” He careens back against the booth and places two hands on his head in a deep exhale. “This band…my music. I don’t like to settle. My past bandmates hated me for it, but I can tell when something is wrong. So it’s not even just you. I would probably battle Odysseus if it meant fighting for the perfect album.”
I nod slowly. “Would you even believe me if I told you that I want to fight for that too? I’m not going to settle either.”
Tom drops his hands to his sides. “Hard to believe since no one has lived up to my standards yet. They are apparently insurmountable.”