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)
We reach the back corner—pizza boxes stacked on tables. Most are empty except for two pies with sausage. “Where’s Birdie?” I ask Scally, since it’s just him, Neil, and Steffi on the couch.
“Probably trying to fix the bus himself,” Scally says. He has a soaked bandana on his forehead, cooling off.
“Lost cause,” Steffi adds. “They’re bringing in a new tour bus. Should be here in an hour.”
Tom licks his thumb after piling three sausage slices on a paper plate. “Why don’t you guys stay in a hotel tonight?”
“All booked. For thirty miles.” Neil wraps an arm around Steffi. “Faster to bring in a new bus.”
More crew slide in to get pizza, demolishing one of the boxes. “Has Birdie eaten?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so,” Steffi says.
Before it all disappears, I put a few more slices on my plate. Then I touch Tom’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later? I’m going to take some food to Bird.”
“Sounds good, dude.” His eyes flit to the sweat dripping down my temple. “Just don’t melt on your way there.”
“I’m already melting, nepo baby.” I head into the scorching heat. The sun is down, and it still feels stifling. Thick, muggy air. How the fuck is there not a breeze? We’re near the ocean.
It plagues me all the way to Nothing Personal’s bus, and by the time I open the door, I have a late-onset epiphany.
Birdie might have used the whole “fixing the bus” as an excuse to get laid.
Cockblocking my brother—not on my to-do list. I climb a couple steps, taking it slowly and quietly. I plan to just leave the pizza on the empty driver’s seat and text him about it. But I’m halfway up when I realize how quiet it is.
Not a laugh.
Not a grunt or a moan.
Hell, not even a footstep.
Something doesn’t feel right. Pressure compresses my shoulders. My muscles lock, and my pulse stutters as I keep climbing the stairs. I have a full view of the long corridor to the back lounge. Not a single person is here.
And it’s obvious why.
The heat suffocates. I’m having trouble taking in deep breaths. I remain quiet because in the back of my mind I’m thinking maybe he’s slowly fucking somebody in his bunk in some sensual, silent kink. Who the fuck knows?
I walk farther. Leave the pizza in the fridge, I tell myself.
My muscles don’t comply. I pass the kitchenette and give up on not cockblocking my brother. I’m too paranoid and worried now. I hurriedly check the back lounge. Nothing. I confirm his bunk is empty after yanking aside the curtain. There’s just the bathroom left—and it’s so quiet that I’m almost positive he’s vacated this sauna trap for actual breathable air.
He must have, but I check anyway. I turn the knob and pull the door open quickly.
Then I see him. My heart collapses through the bottom of my chest. My hand falls to my side, the pizza sliding onto the floor.
Birdie has a foot planted on the toilet lid, his boxer-briefs rolled up to his groin. His Zippo lighter out, a flame licks the inside of his bare thigh. His eyes shoot to me in panic. “Get the fuck out,” he chokes, shoving a hand at me.
It dawns on me he’s not even attempting to close the goddamn lighter.
“Birdie. Stop. Fucking stop.” I push my way farther into the bathroom and start wrestling him for the lighter.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” He’s screaming. We’re elbowing. Shoving. Emotional agony infiltrates the sharp angles of his face. “Phoenix!”
“No, Bird…” We pull each other to the ground, halfway out of the tiny bathroom. The lighter slips through my fingers and skitters across the floor. But it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re all soft fury and jagged pain. Our fight moves to the hall, and we wrestle, choke, pin, and slam.
He’s kicking me in the kidney, and I finally force him into a headlock. When I pull his shirt over his head, he just collapses forward against me. A sob rumbles through his body, and I wrap my arms around my little brother. Tears scald my eyes.
He clutches tight to my back like he’s holding on, and then after a second, he shoves a hand at my chest, pushing me away. He tugs down his shirt, his mop of hair grown out to be unruly now, and he ignores the messed strands to smear two hands down his face. “Great talk,” he says sharply. “You can go now.”
“We didn’t talk, asshole,” I snap.
He works his jaw, trying not to cry. His shoulders lift into a shrug, his nose flares, but he doesn’t break eye contact from me. “You don’t think I hear you in my head?” His voice cracks. “My big brother, pulling me into his arms, begging me to stop hurting myself. Man, I hear you. I see you. You’re seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Same story, different day.”