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 laugh, a tight one as emotion swells and makes it harder to breathe. “I’ve hated you too.”
“Hmm, yeah. I could tell.” He tries to swallow the flooding sentiments too. His nose flares and eyes grow redder. “And Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you want to make sweet love declarations to me, but save your voice, nepo baby. You sound like Kermit the Frog.”
“I do not—”
“Tom,” he groans, pressing his forehead to mine. Then we’re back to holding each other and drawing out tender, sensual kisses. Time seems to go still. He stays quiet to ease me into silence, and soon, we’re shedding one another down to bare, warm flesh.
I check my throat in the mirror. The angry inflamed skin hurts to the touch, but I’ll nurse my vocal cords later. Right now, I just want to wash away the bad parts of tonight with my boyfriend.
We clean ourselves of most of it.
Once Phoenix climbs behind me in my bunk, smelling like something I’d want to be buried against, I relax and breathe. His arms tuck around my frame, and he presses another kiss to my head. “I’m proud of you for kicking those fuckers off the bus,” he whispers into my hair. “You did a good thing tonight. Think you can do another?”
Quit Adderall, he means.
“I know I can,” I assure, just as hushed. “I know I will. When the tour ends.” I tense, waiting on edge for his response.
Phoenix exhales a long breath, but his arms stay around me. Giving in.
54
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Ishould be able to clock four hours of sleep in the five-star hotel Tom books us in Indianapolis.
But it’s now 6 a.m., and my temples pound like I spent all night chugging Red Bull. Did not do that. I just couldn’t shut off my brain after I read a text from Birdie. Then I kept forcing myself to try to sleep—which just impeded me from sleeping.
I quit the attempt and prop against the headboard of a king-size bed, trying not to wake Tom beside me. He’d been up most of last night reposting content on our socials and replying to media outlets.
He’s stopped saying, “I’m not tired yet,” because he’s received a scathing glare from me every time he does.
“Let me help you, man,” I said at midnight. “I can answer our emails.”
“No, I’m on a roll,” he told me. “You sleep.”
If only I could, Tom.
My legs are half-uncovered beneath the white sheets, and I look over at my twenty-two-year-old talented-as-hell—but so fucking obstinate—boyfriend. Like me, he’s just wearing boxer-briefs. Unlike me, he’s lying on his stomach and hugging a fluffy pillow.
I shake my head to myself. I’ve seen him sleep in every fucking position like it’s his favorite. And I can’t even manage to find one good one.
At least he’s sleeping now.
It’s mid-June, and we made sure not to carry any baggage from the Amarillo stop, three weeks ago, into the next leg of the tour. I left my grievances over his Adderall use behind. The last thing I want is to hurt the band.
Our shows have been on fire. Packed venues in each city. We’ve both been so locked in, feeding off our passion and the crowd’s feral energy. In Minneapolis, a group of fans handed out black and silver roses to everyone waiting in line. After the final encore song, they tossed them at us, and Tom almost started crying.
I told the audience how I’ve never seen Tom shed an actual tear, and he was so close that night. Now, at the end of every show, the stage is littered with roses.
I smile in remembrance.
Carefully, I reach for my phone and headphones without jostling the bed too much. My body aches, and yesterday was Thursday—one of our days off.
We spent most of it in a recording studio. Our live performance of “Under Pressure” by Queen went viral, and Riot wanted us to record the three cover songs from our set list, which also includes “Toxic” by Britney Spears and Radiohead’s “Creep.”
Tom was thrilled about recording “Under Pressure” since it’s the only song that uses my vocals. Even if I can carry a tune, I just prefer to play the drums and listen to Tom sing.
I unlock my phone to find a message.
CHARLIE COBALT
Text me when you’re awake.
He sent that thirty minutes ago.
Strange.
Stranger knowing Charlie is currently staying at this hotel, and he’s attended every single show in June. Tom has about a dozen theories as to why, but I think it’s obvious.
Charlie suspects Tom is on something.
Hell, he probably thinks I’m supplying him drugs and broke my promise to Beckett. Which is not fucking good.
Being on tour, I’ve learned two things about the Cobalt Empire.
One: They show up for each other.
All the times Tom has flown back for Wednesdays to be with family are reciprocated by his siblings making trips to see him. And not just Charlie. On June 1, Eliot Cobalt spent his twenty-third birthday at our show in Wichita, Kansas. Ten days later, Jane Cobalt spent her twenty-seventh birthday at our show in Chicago. That doesn’t even include the amount of times Ben and Harriet bought tickets and surprised Tom.