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)
The crowd detonates into an uproar—bellowing with life while we perform “Killer Ultraviolet” with everything in us.
All the heart, the blood, the emotion-stricken hours and minutes and seconds we spent led to here.
To right now.
We don’t end there this time. Phoenix has to gather his breath before the final song, so while he swigs water, I speak to everyone.
They fall hushed when I say, “We thought about how we wanted to say goodbye to all of you, but then we realized, there are no goodbyes when memories like tonight will live on forever. So when you walk out of here, keep on remembering how you felt in this second, this moment, with the people around you. Don’t let that feeling go.” I peer back at Phoenix, my chest swelling. I know I never will.
He looks me over, then gives me a nod.
I turn back to the audience. “This is our last song tonight. Thank you all for being here. We’re The Carraways.”
We close out the show to our cover of “Under Pressure”—the only song where Phoenix sings too.
They recognize the classic Queen and David Bowie hit the second the melody strikes. Everyone goes wild. I don’t even have to guide the crowd to clap. They already add to the beat. Hands in the chilled air.
We all create a fire in the cold.
I use up the whole stage, guitar set away, and my body is free as I belt out every verse from my core. Like always with “Under Pressure,” I find myself singing to Phoenix with a grin so wide my face aches.
He plays drums. His unguarded, soulful eyes are on me as he sings, his tenor haunting and honeyed. Pleasing to the ear.
To my ears.
This song—this song resounds inside my body. I hit the high note, and Phoenix smiles as bright as the glittering lights speckling the crowd. He smashes his sticks voraciously into the drums, and I sing lyrics of “love” to him. His long verse, where he sings it back, has uncoiled me. Every word leaving his lips tugs at my heartstrings.
I’m floating by the time we finish, and he’s at my side. Bathed in purple light, we face the stadium together while black and silver roses soar at us from every direction. The dark night sparkles in thousands of tiny lights.
I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted.
Looking to Phoenix, I soak in his awe.
I laugh as so much joy overcomes me. He shares in the laughter, his eyes caught on mine, and I see our breath in the frigid air.
Yet I’m on fire. Combusting.
Time ceases to exist when I rise up and kiss Phoenix St. Pierre. The fanatic eruption stumbles us together, but he curves his arm around me, bringing me even closer. I grip his back, and I feel his smile against mine. I feel his hands as they lift and frame my face.
He deepens the kiss to the most legendary music we could ever make.
This night will last forever.
EPILOGUE
TOM COBALT
It’s January 4. The day I met Phoenix.
Officially one year of knowing him. So technically speaking, it’s our anniversary, and I would like to file an official complaint regarding all little sisters everywhere. Because mine is usurping my day with my boyfriend.
But it’s fine—it’s okay. I’m very happy about Audrey’s arrival. I’m not at all concerned hell may break loose. Because if it does, I thrive best there.
I jolt from my guitar when a strange tap sounds against my doorframe.
Phoenix laughs. “Scare you?” He must’ve tapped his motorcycle helmet on the wood. Before I can answer, he’s already saying, “I let myself in.”
“Your key does need exercise.” I hop off my bed and set my guitar upright in its stand. “You should keep using it. Make sure it doesn’t grow weak and frail. Or else you might have to break and enter.”
“I’m sorry—you can’t open the door for your boyfriend?” His snappy tone makes me smile.
“Yeah, no, Phoenix, those duties are beneath me. I am a Grammy-nominated artist who might be a winner come February.”
“Then what the fuck am I?”
I inch toward him. “Grammy-nominated artist, dude, which is why your feet should really only be touching red carpets.” I gesture to the wooden floorboards. “Beneath you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You will?” He won’t.
“No.” His sharp-eyed gaze scans the walls of my room in unfamiliarity. His fingers skim the sound-dampening foam boards attached to the charcoal paint. “Breaking and entering,” he repeats. “You would just love for my rap sheet to grow, nepo baby.”
“Not true. But I would bail you out of jail for defending my honor.” I take his helmet from him. “And I like the chaos.” I think about today and scrunch my face in a grimace. “Most chaos. You sure you want to be here today?” As if Phoenix isn’t almost always with me since the Forest Hills show.