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)
His golden-brown hair, the same color as mine, is so unruly.
“Tugging at your hair?” I quip back, then focus on my laptop. “Something you always do, Charlie Keating.”
“Sitting alone is something you never do.”
“I’m not alone.” I smile and motion a hand at him. “You’re here now. Take a seat. Relax. Help me with my dilemma.”
“No.” He throws his keys onto the marble kitchen counter.
I make a face. “What’s the point of having a certified genius as a brother if he’s not flexing his intellect for my benefit?”
Charlie appears annoyed. “Because I’m only smart so I can help you.”
“Right, yeah. Your brains were given to aid me in life. Aid me. Please.”
He arches his brows. “You want a solution to your band problem?”
“One that’s better than finding a musician off Craigslist,” I add.
Charlie lets out a sharp laugh of unsurprise, his darkened eyes narrowing on the laptop like it’s a bomb. Yeah, I definitely knew he wouldn’t approve of the Craigslist idea. The last time I considered it as a solution, Charlie straight up said I was an idiot.
Taking a risk does not equal being a dumbass, but I don’t care to defend my intelligence to anyone. I’m smart enough to know he’s a resource I could use.
I raise my hands in the air off the keyboard. “Give me your wisdom, and I’ll ditch Craigslist.”
“You’ll ditch it even if you hate my advice,” he adds, seeing I would’ve slithered out of that deal.
I exhale. “Fine.”
“Promise,” he doubles down.
“I promise.”
“In French.”
I glare.
He cocks his head. “If you weren’t so conniving, I wouldn’t have to ensure you’d be held to your word with some ridiculous childhood pact.”
“That we all made,” I remind him.
Promises in French are blood oaths engraved in the heart, we all agreed. None of us have ever broken a promise in French. We wouldn’t. Not even Charlie.
“Alors promets,” Charlie says. Then promise.
I run my tongue over my molars. “Je te le promets.” I promise you. “Heureux?” Happy?
“Rarely,” he answers in English.
Charlie is always honest. Never wears kid gloves and never tells me what I want to hear. I must really want his brutal advice.
“Lay your genius on me,” I say. “How do I fix this?”
He locks eyes with me. “Throw in the towel before it strangles you.”
My face falls.
It’s a gut kick. I blow backward, my hands lacing on top of my head. It hurts to hear Charlie tell me to quit, even if I knew it was the easy path. “I can’t do that.”
“Then go solo.”
“I can’t do that either.” I’ve never dreamed of being a solo artist. “We’ve just established I don’t like being alone, Charlie Keating.” My voice sounds softer than I like, and I might be dramatic to the hundredth degree, but it takes a lot for me to shed actual tears.
“Learn to be alone,” he says.
I feel my features contort. That can’t possibly be the solution here. Out of me and my brothers, Charlie would likely flourish in total isolation, but not forever. He’d wish for Beckett, his fraternal twin, to cut through the loneliness. Just like I’d wish for Eliot.
That’s the thing about growing up so close to one brother. Your whole world feels tethered to them in a weird way. Like alongside the existence of air and water is him. Without him, life can’t go on.
“Want to teach me your hermit ways?” I ask Charlie.
Just like that, Charlie disappears to his own bedroom.
Leaving me alone.
“Funny!” I shout after him, then mutter, “Someone should give him his own late-night show.” I pound on the keyboard, my stomach in knots. “I’d watch it.”
I exit out of Craigslist.
Despite the nagging sensation of wanting to respond to the ad, I don’t break my word. Setting my laptop aside, I doom scroll on my phone since my guitar is back in my room unfortunately witnessing my brother getting laid.
“No,” I groan out as I land on a 30-second viral video the algorithm keeps showing me. At this point, the owner of this app must have it out for me. I should swipe away, but instead, I’m stuck watching a shirtless drummer.
I grind my molars while I try to ignore the beads of sweat rolling down his masculine jawline, buff arms, and washboard abs. A red birthmark colors the side of his neck. I kind of like that about him. This imperfection. His white skin is a shade pinker as he puts his whole body into playing drums, exerting maximum effort.
His brown hair is buzzed, and I imagine clutching the back of his skull for one second.
One second.
I am so fucking gay, and fuck, the one guy who does not deserve to be held by my hands or by my eyes is Phoenix St. Pierre.
I force myself to stop checking him out, but my cock strains against my jeans. I palm myself just to kill the brief hard-on.