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)
5 p.m. in Munich, Germany, and the only sound in this large venue’s green room is Birdie crunching on a potato chip beside me. We’re all standing while Steffi streams the live Grammy nomination announcement on the TV above a well-stocked mini-fridge.
I glance down at the phone in my fist. Tom is on video call with me. He’s squished between his tallest brothers, Eliot and Ben, on the couch in his Hell’s Kitchen apartment. His eyes are on the television they recently bought for their living room.
“And the nominations for Best Rock Performance are…‘Nuclear Winter,’ The Carraways—” The shrieking on Tom’s end and mine drown out the other nominees. Birdie is jumping around me, chips go flying, and Eliot is rattling Tom’s shoulders so much, he drops his phone.
Shock has frozen me. I can’t look at anything other than my phone. If I can’t wrap my arms around him, then I just want to see him. Tom must scramble to pick up his phone because his overwhelmed smile is back on mine in seconds.
“Dude…” He nods to me. “We did it.”
I laugh. “Was this the goal?”
“One of many.”
Yeah. He’ll never stop making goals, even the tiniest fucking ones, and I never want to stop chasing after them with him.
I wasn’t sure if the Grammys would recognize us, given how new our band is, but “Nuclear Winter” has been sitting at number one on the charts for several weeks.
“Dirty Rise” and “Killer Ultraviolet” are in the top twenty now too.
Birdie calls it a cultural phenomenon. Whatever the fuck that means.
“Wait, shhhh, there’s more,” Steffi says, smacking Scally in the chest to be quiet. He chuckles at me, his chain necklace in his mouth, and I laugh with the shake of my head. My smile softens on my phone. Tom’s eyes glitter back at me.
Eliot ends up filming Tom for me, freeing his brother’s hands since they’ve settled on his head in anticipation.
Even an ocean away, I get to see my singer absolutely lose his shit when we’re nominated for seven Grammys. Including Album of the Year.
64
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
DECEMBER
“Absolute insanity,” Birdie says at LaGuardia. We’re caught in a crush of paparazzi as we stride toward the baggage carousels. Luckily, Tom sent his security for my arrival at the airport, and they bulldoze a path for us.
One week off tour. I’m back in New York for a short stint after what feels like eons. With Nothing Personal’s schedule so tight in Europe, I haven’t been able to come home since early October.
Now it’s the beginning of December. I haven’t physically wrapped my arms around Tom in two months. We haven’t touched. Haven’t kissed. The anticipation of finally seeing him in person and not over a screen has my pulse racing like I’ve been shot with epinephrine.
There’s no way I would’ve been able to sleep on the plane, even if I wasn’t an insomniac.
Birdie and I wait for our luggage to appear on the carousel, and he cringes at several cameras crowding around us, then leans into me to whisper, “You ever notice all these fucks are old men? That’s weird, right?” He mean-mugs an annoying pap behind me.
Flashes ignite around us.
“Put your sunglasses on and ignore them,” I snap in a low octave. I’ve learned from Tom’s family what not to do regarding the media. Acknowledging their existence at the airport is on the list.
This circus is also why Tom and I agreed to meet later tonight. No cinematic reunion at the airport. I’m fine with it.
I wouldn’t even care if we met in a back alley. I just want to see him.
Birdie slides on Ray-Bans and tugs his duffel off the conveyor. He throws mine into my chest before I can grab it. On our way out, I slow down, seeing posters advertising various New York City shows.
Tom’s brother fronts one.
AMADEUS
Eliot Alice Cobalt
as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
I smile up at an achievement I haven’t seen in person. I’ve heard Eliot’s Broadway performance has opened to raving critical reviews. Tom said tickets are so hard to find that he’s only gone to seven shows so far.
Like that’s a low number.
In his mind, it might as well be one and a half.
He can afford the jacked price, but the scarcity made him feel like he was taking away an experience from someone who should be awed by Eliot. Otherwise, I think he’d pay well over a grand every night to support his closest brother.
I was worried I’d miss out on the Amadeus run, but Tom says the play will extend into next year. It’s too successful not to stay on Broadway.
Once I’m back at my apartment in Chelsea, I wash myself clean of the long flight, brush my teeth, shave, and throw on a Henley and cargo pants from my closet.
I’m stuffing my feet in boots when I listen to a missed voicemail from my mom. “I know you’ll want to see Tom first thing when you land, but please check your mailbox. I sent you something. I love you so, so much. Tell Bird I say hi. Please eat something too. You looked really skinny on the news.”