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’d rather it be me.
I hate that it isn’t.
“How’d it go last night with that bonehead?” Birdie asks, repositioning the cello against his chest. “Tell me you cut him down to size. Sledgehammered his ego.”
I scrape my tongue over my back molars. Yeah. I just masturbated to the mental image of Tom. Recalling my morning shower has confined my entire body in a straitjacket. I can’t move a muscle.
Birdie freezes, his eyes widening in horror. “No. Tell me you do not like Tom—”
“I don’t like Tom,” I snap. “I like his music.” Because I definitely did not just picture pushing him up against a wall.
“You have the look,” he accuses.
I glower. “The fuck, Bird—”
“Man, you are turning red.”
I scrub my throbbing temples with two fingers of both hands. “I am too tired for this shit.”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” He springs up from his chair, places the cello against it, and yeah, I wanted him to desert the instrument but not for this fucking reason. “You are not falling for that rich fucker.”
A groan scratches out of my throat. “I’m not falling for him. He’s my bandmate. I barely like him. And maybe you can jog my memory—but weren’t you the one who said you’d tell him to drop to the floor and blow you? So don’t come at me for finding him somewhat hot.” Somewhat, right. I struggle not to roll my eyes at myself.
Birdie narrows his gaze intensely like he’s reworking an intricate puzzle or playing a 7 against 5 polyrhythm on his cello. “Is it the money?” he asks. “Because if you’re trying to find a sugar dad—”
I shove his chest.
He pushes my chest just as hard. I sway back but don’t stumble. “For fuck’s sake, Birdie,” I snap. “No. I don’t want his money.”
“You just want his dick,” Birdie reasons. He’s not even trying to incite me—this is just who Birdie is.
“If I argue with you, will you even believe me?”
He shrugs. “Probably not. You’re a shade of crimson I’ve never seen on you. The face doesn’t lie, man.”
“Great. Glad we have that cleared up.”
He outstretches an arm toward me. “Look, if this is just sex, I get it. I’ve slept with more annoying people than Tom Cobalt. Fuck each other until you see shooting stars. Take him in the mouth. Take him in the ass. Invent new sex positions together. It’s the other stuff I’m worried about.”
My muscles tense. “The fuck does that mean? Other stuff?”
“Feelings. Emotions. Inviting those into your life with him—not a good idea. I wouldn’t be shocked if he dumps your ass in two months after he builds you up with hopes and promises he’ll never fucking keep. It’s the rich prick playbook. They’re bored, and they only care about themselves. You’re just a toy for them to gnaw on for shits and giggles.”
God, our mom said something similar. My heart is pumping so hard, it’s becoming harder to breathe.
I glower. “We’re not in a fucking eighties movie where the rich kid is playing a prank on the loser—not that I’m a fucking loser.” Jesus Christ.
“Life isn’t that far off from the movies. And it concerns me, as your brother, that you’re not even a little bit worried about this scenario.” His gray eyes fill with a heaviness that evicts humor. His hands skate across the sides of his skull. Gravity bearing down on him in an avalanche.
“You don’t need to protect me. You can stop worrying.” He’s majorly stressing and struggling to intake the next breath. “Birdie. This has nothing to do with you. Forget Tom.”
He cringes like he’s ready to toss my advice in the dumpster. “My Future Favor—I know it. I want to speak to Tom.” He takes a step toward me and outstretches his hand. “Let me see your phone.”
I walk backward, and my shoulder knocks into the music stand. It clatters to the ground. “You’re not getting my phone.”
“I won’t embarrass you—”
“I’m not fucking scared of that,” I cut in. “I’m more worried you’re going to piss him off, and I won’t hear the end of it. I have to work with him every day, Bird.”
“More reason for me to talk to him. Make sure his intentions are good.”
“He’s not my fucking prom date—”
Birdie lunges for my cargo pocket. I force him into a headlock and then shove him back. He angrily thrusts his hands against my chest. Something animalistic chews us. Something rawer. Soon, we’re pushing each other with furious, aggravated hands, and then we’re wrenching each other’s arms.
Our refusal to throw punches means we’re yanking and pulling, and we find ourselves on the ground. I wrestle my brother like we’re back to being fifteen. At every age, I’ve been stronger than Birdie, and I have him beneath me quickly. I bring the back of his white button-down up and over his head, shielding his face. A move I used to always do when we were kids.