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’m confused why he wouldn’t want to take his bike. Maybe he doesn’t like riding with other people. Maybe he doesn’t trust me on the back of his Suzuki. But it’s not like I haven’t ridden motorcycles before, and I own a Yamaha. I just don’t ride it all that much.
“You don’t want to take the Suzuki?” I ask, eyeing the bike parked on the street.
“It’s fucking freezing.”
Of course, Tom. What a reasonable explanation that has nothing to do with you. Fuck, why am I so bad at figuring him out?
At the pharmacy, while Phoenix is at the checkout, I linger in the allergy aisle and, out of curiosity, look up Klonopin. It’s an antianxiety med.
I know I also signed an NDA and am legally bound to not leak personal info about Phoenix’s life, but I’m still shocked he trusted me with this. I’m glad he did.
It means more to me than he probably realizes.
17
TOM COBALT
How many times can I get into a disagreement with my drummer?
The answer: there is no limit.
We’ve been arguing for an hour over the extra reverb in “Fire You Feel”—the two of us seated together in a booth. The neon PBR sign in the dive bar brightens our sticky table, but the glow of the laptop between us hurts my eyes.
It’s February, and Eliot still hasn’t met Phoenix.
None of my brothers have.
Phoenix and I have been working around the clock. Mostly at dive bars. I could’ve suggested The End of the World, a grimy bar that plays NYC-centric films on a projector screen and where Harriet and Ben bartend on the weekends. But I never offered it.
Phoenix and I have found a solid rhythm alone together, focusing on the music—just me and him—and it feels tenuous. Like every move I make is a wooden block I’m yanking out of a Jenga tower. I’m on my toes, ready for it all to topple down. I guess it’s why I find ways to still be there for my brother and also keep Phoenix separated from my family for now.
I’ve never finished an album, and I’m currently four songs deep into one.
I force my aching eyes to stay open.
Lines blur on the sound mixing software.
Phoenix runs his fingers through his hair. “If you don’t want more reverb, then we should drop in with your backing vocals.” He lifts my headphones to my ears for me, wanting me to hear right away, and my pulse jolts every single time he does this.
To the point where I wonder if I keep pulling my headphones to my neck, just to feel him do it again.
I listen, fighting through the throb in my eardrums.
His muscled side presses up against mine. His bicep slips behind me in the booth. He closes in to hear the melody stream out of my headphones. Neither of us tries to give each other space. We are here for the music.
For the band.
His head subconsciously shifts to the pulsing beat. His concentrated gaze pins to the table. It’s all I see for a second. Phoenix in the zone. It’s arresting, and I try to focus on the sound against my ears and not the sound in my chest.
I exhale slowly.
The song ends. I yank the headphones down, and before I open my mouth, he says, “It’s missing something.”
I agree with that, but I can’t tell if we’re butchering a great song or making an already great one absolutely, unquestionably amazing.
I express this, then say, “We don’t have time to test out the extra reverb and the backing vocals and the twenty different options we’ve posed tonight.”
“I have the time, nepo baby.” His fingers drift along the laptop’s track pad. “Go to bed.” His voice is cutting, a knife to the chest. I’ve been enjoying his blades.
Then his eyes graze my face as he searches for signs of fatigue, like he feels guilty for keeping me awake. “Seriously, Tom—”
“I can work another hour. Just let me get an energy drink.” I slide out of the booth and go to the bar.
When I come back with a slim Lightning Bolt! can, Phoenix is packing up and telling me, “I’ll do this at my apartment. Get some sleep.”
“No, dude, I’m fine.”
“Come on,” he snaps. “You’re about to keel over.”
I extend my arms, showing my great balance. “I can walk a straight line too.”
Phoenix sighs out a breath. “Just let me work on this, Tom.”
I shake my head, grimacing. “No.”
“No?” He runs his tongue over his teeth. We’re both breathing too hard. “I can’t invite you to my apartment.”
It tries to tank my stomach. “Why not?” He did not just reject you. I lower my voice while we stand out of the booth. “We’d just be working. Nothing’s going to happen.”
He tightens a hand on his backpack. “I didn’t say anything would. My room is a shoebox compared to yours, and I have a full-size bed—don’t say anything about it.”