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 don’t know…but it’s been nice not hearing, Your band is only going to last as long as your relationship.”
“Yeah, I bet,” he says quietly. “They are happy about The Carraways charting. Mom has already asked about ten times when your late-night segment is supposed to air. Dad was funny and said your merch could be more colorful. Too depressing.” We both start laughing, and Birdie has tears in his eyes chuckling, “Remember when he bought you rainbow boxers? God, how old were you?”
“Sixteen,” I laugh. “He tried so hard.” My smile softens in love for him.
“He did not want you to be this angsty little punk.” Birdie’s laughter fades. His frown deepens.
I look him over. My ribs constricting.
“I guess he got two of them, huh?” he tells me.
I can’t reply. Birdie doesn’t really let me. He leaves for the food spread, and I return to my stretches with the resistance band. An hour before Nothing Personal goes onstage, we’re all warming up for the show—only to be interrupted by Jeremy Shaw.
Our manager appears with a soda and a proud grin. He gathers both bands in a semi-circle. Waiting for Scally to untangle himself from Steffi’s guitar, I hang my bicep over Tom’s shoulder while Tom wraps his arm around my waist.
Jeremy slips me a warm, subtle smile of knowing. This time, I’m not shaking my head. I nod back, and his smile grows bigger.
“Now, I know there’s a month left,” Jeremy says. “But as I’ve been told via the CEO himself, this has been one of the most successful tours in Riot’s history for debut artists.”
All the members of Nothing Personal begin to applaud me and Tom, and I’m so not shocked when Tom claps for us too. I laugh into a humongous smile, and I touch the back of his head. When I join in, Tom can’t contain a winning grin.
“Which is why,” Jeremy continues, “they’re sending you on a four-month World Tour. You’ll have August off, and then through December, you’ll be in Europe, Oceania, and South America—and Nothing Personal, you’ll be on your own. Starting in the U.S., Canada, then Europe.”
My face drops. “Wait, we’re not touring together?”
“No,” Jeremy says, and my brother and I share a short, disappointed look. “They wanted separate dates, different schedules. You’re both popular enough to sell tickets, and it’ll be double the profits if the shows are split.”
“Can we request to tour together?” Tom asks this first, surprisingly.
“I already did,” Jeremy says. “It was a firm, firm no, Tom. Respectfully, I would not push on this. They’re fully funding both tours, which is huge.”
We all thank Jere, and for the most part, Scally and Steffi’s excitement overshadow the sea of uncertainty in the green room. I can’t tell who’s more stressed out: my brother or my boyfriend.
Birdie has one foot in the orchestra. He can’t please our parents while he’s an ocean away. Good. Maybe they’ll finally accept he’s choosing his dream and not theirs.
Thirty minutes before The Carraways are called onstage, I talk with Tom and realize his stress is about the second album. The question is: How do we finish this on a rigorous four-month world tour when we’re struggling now?
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.
“I know we will.” He hooks his pinky with mine.
We do our pre-show ritual, and I hold him a little longer until his body relaxes.
Then I whisper in his ear, “Nine-point-two.”
I hear his emotion and see his smile spread as he says, “One of the best.”
Like most nights, being onstage centers us. Everything makes sense when we play our music together. Nothing feels off. We’re on. In sync.
So when Tom scales the lighting truss during “Level Headed” and leaps to the stage—I do not see it coming. I just hear the sickening crack against his microphone and the gasp from the crowd.
He’s crumpled on the stage when he should be on his feet.
I push out from the drum kit so fast that my stool crashes, and I run—I run over to Tom while he lies there.
Is he moving? Please fucking move.
“Tom!” I yell, my pulse in my ears.
Tom.
He starts to pick himself up with one hand. He gets to his knees.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I crouch down to him. “Tom. Wait.”
He’s trying desperately to contain the pain on his face. It flares in his eyes and between his gritted teeth. Our crew has cut the sound from his mic.
“I’m okay. I can keep going,” Tom tries to assure. “We’re not stopping, Phoenix. They paid a lot of money to be here—”
“Slow down. Breathe.” Our backs are to the morbidly quiet crowd. Tom is cradling his forearm against his chest. He looks like he’s about to puke. I stroke the back of his head, then motion for Hannah and Stan.
They rush out to block us from the audience.