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)
People are dissecting every line of the Petula Clark song I sang, and they’ve deduced my drummer ditched the band. Which is not the truth. Not the truth at fucking all. Even if I’ve had many drummers exit the band before.
Comments immediately flood in. One makes me choke out an aggravated noise:
The Carraways drummer problems
“Ha-ha,” I say under my breath.
Most comments ask if Wolfgang is still in the band and where he went. Since he left on tour with Nothing Personal, we’ve rarely been seen together. Paparazzi hound me outside my apartment, asking if we split—as if the world already knew we were together.
We never fucking confirmed anything. We’ve never even been caught doing more than flirting!
I fall back against my bed and swipe through old videos. I land on one where I’m lying on the sandy ground in Texas. Cacti and a bright blue sky behind me. Phoenix comes into the shot, hovering over me, and he kisses me. My lungs swell, and I feel my smile mimic the one in the video. We didn’t film this for publicity or social media content.
Just for ourselves.
Right now, I want to post it so badly. I almost hate myself for throwing my phone aside and resisting.
“Fuck September,” I groan out loud, then I pick up my guitar.
62
TOM COBALT
OCTOBER
Fuck October.
Fuck every minute of every second when we’re not together. Fuck all the airplanes that have never flown me to him. And fuck time zones. The only time zone should be the one that places me with Phoenix.
The only thing that I don’t want to cast into eternal damnation is our music and our brothers. Which is precisely why I’m at a collegiate hockey arena.
I clap half-heartedly as MVU’s Thrashers score a goal. Ben didn’t make the shot, or else I would gather Herculean energy to spring to my feet. His teammate, however, gets lackluster applause from me.
I wear sunglasses in the stands, and the ice looks dark. My world is dark, so this is very appropriate. Everyone should be wearing sunglasses this month so they can feel my pain.
I will let Phoenix know this later.
63
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
NOVEMBER
Ihelp load instruments in a semi-trailer in Zurich, Switzerland. My headphones on, I hear Tom’s voice message and almost drop Scally’s guitar case on my foot. “I got a back tattoo.”
“The fuck,” I mutter and heave the case into the trailer, sliding it toward Marcus, another backline tech like me, who draws the instruments farther into the vehicle.
The message continues, “And I know you’re asking, what is it? And how big. It’s not a tramp stamp, so save the enthusiasm.”
I roll my eyes and push Birdie’s snare toward Marcus.
“It’s not small,” Tom warns me. “You can’t see it until you see me.” I can already picture the smirk spreading across his face because he knows this is going to torture the fuck out of me. “And this is the start of your obsession with my back tattoo. Mark it on the calendar. It’s a special day.”
He must really want me to fuck him from behind. I’ll be telling Tom that when I’m not on a street curb.
Suddenly, my headphones are wrenched to my neck, and on instinct, I swerve around and shove a chest.
I relax when I see Birdie.
He stabs me with a look. “Go home to your rich boyfriend.”
I glare back. “We’ve been over this, Bird. We’re fine doing long-distance. He wants to be around for his brother too.” I wait for Marcus to jump out of the trailer, then we shut the rear doors. I latch them closed.
Birdie hasn’t moved, so I turn to face him.
His Adam’s apple bobs. He touches the tiny black gauge in his ear. Then drops his hand to say, “Truth?” He motions to me. “Did I want you here? Yeah. Of course, I fucking did. I do, but some things are bigger than my fucked-up feelings.”
“Bird—”
“No, this isn’t only about your sappy cartoon, embarrassing love life.”
“Wow, really convincing me here.”
“It’s about the music. The Carraways—”
“We’re not done. We’re just on pause,” I cut in.
“An idiotic pause. So dumb, man. I’ve seen people sob like babies at your shows. Think of all the people you could be impacting during those ninety minutes, Phoenix. That’s bigger than me. That’s bigger than even you and Tom.”
I rake a hand through my hair and shift my weight. Then I stare deeper at my brother, cradling his gaze with all the strength inside me. “I can’t care about the people I could impact. I care about my little brother standing right here.”
Birdie blinks away anguish in his eyes. His jaw flexes, chin quakes, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “Fine, I’ll try to pull your head out of your ass tomorrow.”
He does try.
He tries the next day and the next after that, but I’m going to see this through. I don’t know if I could live with myself if something happened to him. I don’t even know if Tom could.