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 look in his eye could wither all of Ben’s plants. And it’s not directed at me. It’s aimed at the bedspread.
Fire ignites inside my lungs. I have no fucking clue what this dude did to him, but I’m imagining fun ways to make his life miserable. “Should we slash his tires? Fork his yard?”
“Sure, we can egg his door next too,” he says dryly.
“I’m open to egging.” I take his sarcasm and run. “Two cartons or three? I’ll buy since I’m loaded. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” He gives my arm a small push, and every muscle in my body responds like he’s slid on top of me. He adds, “I can afford a carton of eggs.”
“Obviously.”
His lips tic upward, then they flatline as he admits, “I already wrote about my ex. ‘Tragic Hold’—ever listened to it?”
Holy.
Shit.
“Yeah…” I nod in a daze. “Over the radio. On accident.”
“Bullshit,” he calls me out.
“Dude, I do not actively listen to my rival band and give them a hike in streams.”
“Fucking petty.” I swear he almost smiles.
“Thank you for defining what I am. I concur, and just so you’re aware, I am not a fan of the guitar riff during the bridge on ‘Tragic Hold’—it takes away from the lyrics.” His lyrics. Which is the only redeemable thing about that song, but what do I even know? “Tragic Hold” is Nothing Personal’s biggest hit yet with three hundred million streams on Spotify.
“It’s not my favorite song of theirs,” Phoenix admits. “I would’ve arranged it differently.”
Maybe this bodes well. I stare off as some of the lyrics crash back into me.
When you said, ‘I’m always here’
Did you mean, ‘you should fear’
Rubble inside tunnels, you buried me
You buried me
I can’t get out from underneath
The dirt, the rage, the tomb, my grave
You buried me
Your tragic hold
Release me
You buried me
Phoenix tries to read my features. “Say something.”
“Not every line rhymes.”
“I don’t always do the rhyming thing, yeah.” He stares deeper into my eyes like he sees the rhyme scheme isn’t what’s circling my head. “Don’t hold back now. Just say it.”
I nod a couple times. “Has he released his hold on you yet?”
“No. When I think about him, I want to tear his head off his body.”
“Metaphorically,” I add.
“No, literally,” he snaps. “Yes, Tom. I’m not going to commit murder. Don’t worry.”
“I was about to run to Home Depot for a chainsaw. Decapitation isn’t beneath me. Heads will roll.”
Phoenix smiles a little, then he must see my next question because he says, “I’ll tell you what happened if we make it through a tour.” It’s clearly a painful past, so that’s fair. He adds, “Don’t let this go to your head, but ‘Fire You Feel’ is better than ‘Tragic Hold.’ I thought maybe your demo had been about an ex, but you don’t have one.”
A knot balls in the back of my throat. “It’s about Warner, my former bassist.” The thought of wading through that low is already causing me internal distress. My abs tighten, and oxygen feels scarce. “I’ll tell you what happened if we make it through a tour,” I echo what he said.
“Deal,” he says, then taps his pen on the journal. “We should at least get on the same page with what we want this album to say.”
I feel restless without my guitar. Instead of taking out my Zippo lighter, I just place my palms on my knees. “I’ve thought a lot about where I want the album to go, especially since you joined the band. It’s only us on stage. Just two people. I think there’s a lot of vulnerability in that, and maybe this album should speak to our insecurities. Our fears. Maybe someone can relate.”
“You want to be relatable?” Phoenix asks in surprise.
I laugh dryly. “Yeah, right, I know it’s a fucking joke. The trust fund kid wants people to relate to him. I get it. Hardy har har.” I collapse back on the bed, my hands on my face. My insides twist painfully. I know he thinks I’m a rich brat, and it’s not even because of the whole nepo baby thing (which I don’t mind), it’s all the other comments. I hate that I care what he thinks of me, or that there was some part of me that hoped I’d already changed his mind. But who am I kidding? It’s been a week. He doesn’t know me.
Phoenix exhales softly. “Tom?”
“I’m fine,” I say into a frustrated breath. I drop my hands off my face, so he knows I’m not crying. I don’t cry, especially not over him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He sighs. “That sounded…not the way I intended…I’m an asshole.” He leans back on his elbow to get closer to me. I’m aware we’re both practically lying down on my bed. “I do agree with you,” he adds. “I think an album covering our insecurities and our fears is the direction we should go.”