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)
“I hear you,” I tell my mom when she finishes.
“What’s to say Tom won’t drop you in a couple months?”
My stomach knots. “Why would he?”
She tells me she went on a deep-dive internet investigation into Tom Cobalt—something I’ve refused to do—and she didn’t like what she found.
“He’s been through ten drummers in the past three years. Ten.” My mom’s worry has never been delivered in a pretty package tied with a bow. It’s thrust in my face like a hand grenade.
She says the number ten like it’s the amount of murders Tom has committed, and not—you know—just a sign that nepo baby is a pain in the ass to work with.
“I hear you,” I say my favorite reply to her and my dad. I hear you means I’ve received their advice loud and clear, but it’s not a promise to take it. They love being heard, which means it’ll buy me some time before they realize I’m not following their guidance.
At my own peril.
I’m their child who takes the ill-advised path and makes too many mistakes because I don’t listen. I can’t even say she’s wrong. My parents have always been right, and still, I can’t do the easy, safe thing.
Even if it’s better for me.
Very deeply, she says, “I love you. I just don’t want to see you do something you’ll regret.”
“I’ll be okay either way, Mom,” I assure her.
“I know you will. I’m just afraid…” She exhales a soft breath. “I know how hard it was for you after Sophomore Summer disbanded. Do you really want to go through this again?”
“Yes,” I tell her what I told my dad. “I made my decision, okay?” My chest is tight just waiting for her response and hearing her tiny, fragile sighs. It makes me feel like shit every time. “Mom, please.”
“I just don’t want to see you living on microwaved ramen and the false hope that you can become the next big thing.”
It’d be a lie to say reality didn’t hurt.
It hurts every time.
I wonder if I just like the pain. Because she’s showing me the path where it doesn’t exist. The orchestra. The reason I even have student debt was for a degree I’m not using to its full potential.
What a waste.
Me.
My eyes sear. “I’ve got to go,” I say, trying not to sound choked. Or she’ll just worry more.
“Okay, don’t forget the auditions on Friday…”
I tune her out. Guilt twists my gut. “Yeah, yeah,” I tell her. “Mom, I need to go.”
“Okay, okay,” she says fast. “I love you. Have a great day. Tell Birdie I said hi.”
“K, love you too.” I hang up and try not to replay her advice, which just pulses my temple and bears weight on my chest.
I take a couple steps toward the door and water pools around my toes.
Oh fuck.
More water seeps underneath the doorframe, and when I push into the hall, my feet splash against half an inch of liquid.
Yeah…we have a leak.
Our apartment is one long hallway that has seven interior doors. The first three lead to shared spaces (bathroom, kitchen, and living room) while the last four go to bedrooms.
A vintage movie poster of the 1979 film Alien hangs on my brother’s door. I rap my fist against the wood. “Birdie!”
No answer. I twist the knob, but it’s locked.
Fuck.
I move to the next door and knock. “Neil! Steffi!” Nothing. I don’t try to open this one because Neil sleeps in the nude, and I have already met my limit on seeing Neil and Steffi tangled together in bed. Thanks go to the tight quarters on the tour bus for that statistic.
My feet splash as I continue down the hall, skipping my room, and I end up at the last door.
I pound a fist on the wood. “Scally!” No answer. I’m not at all jealous that my roommates sleep like fucking logs. “Scal!” I yell into a frustrated breath.
Just as I’m about to try the knob, the door swings open abruptly.
Vale Scalamonti. He emerges from his bedroom with a mop of disheveled brown hair and a wrinkled Alice Cooper tee. Bracelets run up the olive skin of his wrists along with two sleeves of tattoos.
There are only two things Scally gives a shit about. One, Nothing Personal. The band he created with Steffani Mendoza in their dorm at NYU. Two, having a good fucking time.
Considering it looks like he passed out in his clothes, I’m guessing he went hard on number two last night. I’ve partied with him enough to know it consists of a 3 a.m. binge of cigarettes, alt-rock so loud it shakes the walls, and cheap booze. He bites on the chain at his neck—a tell that he’s still drunk.
He grabs the doorway to steady himself. “What the fuck, Phoenix?” he groans and squints through the harsh light in the hall. His eyes fall to the ground. “Is that—?”