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)
“Based on what?” I ask him tensely.
“The way they were looking at each other, man. But it’s probably nothing. It doesn’t seem like anyone reacted.”
“I don’t think anyone was watching us. We’re in a back corner, dude.” I stare out at Beckett as he produces a faint smile at an older gentleman. His gaze seems lost. Like he senses me, his yellow-green eyes shift around until they find mine.
I open my mouth like I can call out to him, but he’s so far away. I can’t shout across a ballroom, and even if I could, what am I going to say? I wouldn’t want to force him to open up to me.
My lips shut.
Beckett is unblinking, our eyes still locked. He’s too difficult for me to read, even now. His face fissures ever so slightly, then seals up again. His lips form the words, Excuse me, and it takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to the wealthy donor.
Because his eyes haven’t left mine. Not once. His stride is so commanding and purposeful that people naturally step aside for him. Beckett never has to weave around anyone, and he reaches me in one straight line.
“Can we talk?” he asks, then looks gently over at Phoenix. “Just me and Tom.”
Phoenix nods with so much understanding. “I think that’s a great idea.”
I must be wearing every emotion externally, and I’m blaming Vicodin. Never again. I can’t even hide my internal breakdown.
“Yeah, let’s talk,” I say, hearing my strained voice.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” Beckett suggests. Then I’m following my older brother out of the ballroom. The Whitney Theater is his second home. He spends so much time here that it could very well be his first, but he’s always said nothing could take the place of our family.
My throat feels too swollen to talk.
Thankfully, when he brings me into an empty rehearsal studio, he’s the first to speak. “You want a chair?”
“Is this a sit-down conversation?” I ask.
“It might be.” He’s assessing me.
I gaze around at the wall-length mirrors, the wooden barres, and the large windows overlooking the glittery city. At night, the lights from outside cast a bright blue glow into the otherwise dark space. It smells faintly of old wood and sweat, the floors scuffed from pointe shoes, probably.
“Tom,” he says with a sharp inhale.
My brain is reeling so fast. Through a million observations from the past and even more questions. “You don’t owe me anything,” I manage to say. It’s the least selfish thing out of a mountain of selfishness inside me.
If I were a better person, maybe I wouldn’t look so torn up. The mirrors—I can clearly see my red, swollen eyeballs.
Beckett releases a staggered, almost hurt breath. “I do, though. You’re my little brother.”
“Maybe that just means something different to me—and that’s okay,” I add fast, realizing too late that my words are gutting.
I’ve never seen Beckett blink back tears.
“Beck, I love you. Je t’aime avec la force de mille frères.” I love you with the strength of a thousand brothers. “Nothing would change that. I know I am a broken dam when it comes to everything about my life, but I don’t expect that from you. Okay? You do not have to share with me who you sleep with, dude.” My face twists. “Even if that someone is Leo.” It seems so unbelievable.
Beckett has powerful dancer lungs, and he sounds out of breath right now.
I start feeling protective. “Has he hurt you?” My eyes flame. “If he has, Beckett—”
“No. I hate him, but…I also enjoy fucking him.” He searches my face for my reaction.
I am stunned. In neck-deep shock.
“A hate fuck,” he says like that’s going to make sense to me.
“I don’t really know what that means,” I admit. “Like rape—?”
“No,” Beckett forces, his eyes blown wide. “Consensual sex. It’s always consensual.”
I rub the spot between my brows. “I guess I’m realizing why you never told me. I’m handling this so well.”
“That’s not the reason.” His gaze is pained again. “It’s not because I thought you’d react poorly. I’ve wanted to tell you…there’ve been so many times I almost did.” His normally composed voice carries a tremor.
It’s hard to breathe. “You were scared I’d tell Eliot?” I ask. “Because I can keep a secret from him. You know, we aren’t the same person. We don’t share a brain—”
“Tom.” My words hurt him even more. “I know what it feels like to be lumped in with someone. I’m a twin. I’ve never, not for a single fucking minute, seen you and Eliot as one person. I never will. It’s not why. It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”
I try to relax.
“It’s felt like…” Beckett wants to touch his hair, but he notices his black leather gloves. Ones he must’ve put on to shake hands with strangers tonight. He tugs them off, finger by finger. “It’s felt like an unraveling, and I just couldn’t get it out. And it’s made me…” He stares at the floor, sliding the gloves into his back pocket.