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)
My chest hurts with the pressure compounding. My muscles stiff. My heart shattering. “Birdie,” I choke. “Let’s try to change the story.”
He laughs as his face cracks. “Okay.” It’s a weak, helpless, defeated okay. He waves a hand at me as tears slip out the corners of his eyes. “And are you changing your story? Or are you still sleeping the same amount as a newborn baby?”
I sniff hard, trying to stop the emotion from barreling into me. “I get it. I’m a hypocrite—”
“A big one.”
I glare at him. “Don’t fucking turn this on me. You’re burning yourself.”
My gaze falls to his inner thighs. He pulls down his boxer-briefs, realizing they’re still rolled up. Scars mar his skin. Some pale, others brown, and the new one is a nice deep red. I’d kill the person who hurt him, and it terrorizes me that I can’t. That I could never.
Birdie can’t stop crying now. He keeps running his hands over and over his face. His skin turns redder. His eyes more swollen.
I want to bring him into my arms, but I know he’ll shove me away.
It’s been so long since he’s done this. The last time was years ago after the collapse of Sophomore Summer, when our dreams were shattered by my violent act. He’d hated that I refused to be in a band again, but I promised I’d be by his side as crew. I promised I’d always be with him.
Our dreams have been the same since we were teenagers in a garage, letting rock sew up the torn pieces of our souls.
In my head, if we ever got big, we’d do it together. Our parents would have no choice but to be happy for both of us. But then I quit Nothing Personal’s crew. I joined The Carraways. And the fact that they gave me approval and withheld it from Birdie in the very same fucking breath—I know it’s messed him up. Bad.
How do I fix this?
I need to fix this.
“Just fucking talk to me, man,” I beg. “If the Klonopin isn’t working anymore—”
“I had to stop taking it.”
My heart quits beating. “You what?”
He wipes his runny nose with his shirt. “I was doubling my dosage, Phoenix. What the fuck do you want me to do? It’s a benzo. I’m not getting addicted to that shit.”
“So get on a different med.”
“No,” he growls angrily. “You know how long it took me to find something that didn’t wreck me with side effects. I’m not going through that torture again. I’m taking a break from the Klonopin so I don’t get hooked, and then I’ll get back on it.”
“How long will that be?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Great. Sounds like a failproof plan. And I’m leaving him. He’s leaving me. We’re going on separate tours for months. How can I trust he even goes back on his meds?
He looks to his left and sees the sausage pizza splatted on the floor. His eyes hit mine in another surge of emotion. “You brought me pizza?”
“I wasn’t going to let you starve.”
He cries again, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “I hate being a fucking burden—”
“You’re not, Birdie—”
“Just go be with your little boyfriend. Get out of this hot box, man.” He reaches over and starts scooping the pizza back on the plate. He rises to his feet, and I follow him.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re going to have to,” Birdie tells me. “Because you wear your emotions on your fucking face. Tom is going to ask what happened. And I will push you into the ocean if you lie to him.” He grinds his teeth, his voice tight as he tries not to cry again. “So you have to go tell him you caught your brother burning himself—and I would rather be buried alive than be around for that conversation.”
I love my brother. I love him so much. I don’t know what to do.
“Can I hug you at least?” I ask him.
“No,” he tells me. “You are disgustingly sweaty, man.” I’m already going in for a hug anyway, gripping the back of his skull.
He lets out a deep exhale against my chest. “I’ll be with Steffi. Please try not to fucking worry.”
He’s really asking for the impossible.
Birdie was right. I couldn’t hide the emotion on my face, even if I tried. Tom immediately questioned what was wrong like I’d been plowed down by a steamroller. We walked a few yards from our bus to the edge of the peninsula, beside a park bench and an oak tree.
The full moon casts enough light to see in the darkness. Water laps at the shoreline. The heat, surprisingly, I’ve gotten used to.
It barely fazes me now.
Tom’s chest caves. “Fuck, dude.” His hands splay on his head. “He’s been burning himself since he was fifteen?”
“Off and on. Yeah.” I lean back up against the oak tree, arms crossed stiffly. “I caught him the first time in our bedroom. But I’m telling you, this is different. He’s always held onto the hope that one day he could focus solely on rock music. One day he’d make our parents proud enough that they’d stop pushing him toward the cello.” My face breaks in pain. “Pretty sure that hope evaporated. I don’t know how he pulls himself up this time. I don’t know if he even wants to.”