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 still do.
It’s not like I’ve looped in my parents tonight. They’re both business-savvy. My mom with her fashion line. My dad with Cobalt Inc., a Fortune 500 he’s helmed since his early twenties.
I just want to prove I can solve my own problems. At this day and age in my life, running to a parent feels like needing help zipping up my own pants.
Slightly humiliating. Very demoralizing.
I’d just rather turn to my brothers.
At the fashion show, Jeremy’s eyes smiled first. “Let’s see if you have the voice to back up the ego.” He passed me his business card, and the rest is history.
Jeremy Shaw gets shit done. Without him, I would’ve never signed my first record deal.
Being a hot second from losing it makes me feel like I’m letting him down too. The guy who believed in me and not just because I’m a Cobalt.
“Two things,” I repeat so Jere knows I’m listening. I almost jog to keep up with his long legs, and I’m not that short at six-one. But he’s as tall as my brother, Ben, who’s six-fucking-five.
“One.” Jeremy stops at the door to Control Room A, his hand on the brass knob. “This is your last chance. Understand that he is your only option left.”
I blink out the scratchy sensation in my eyes. “Only option left, yeah.” I swallow hard. “But I mean, I could—”
“Tom.” Jeremy clutches my shoulder, and I meet his pragmatism head-on. “You want to stay with this label. Riot Records Music—the biggest rock label I can land you in this industry—then he is your last chance. You’ve burned their time, which is money. This is the only realistic way to convince them The Carraways won’t be a financial loss.”
I need Riot Records. Smaller labels don’t have the same type of power if I want to make it big. It’ll also be a crater-sized ding to my reputation if other labels hear I had a falling out with Riot. I could be branded as a liability.
“Okay,” I nod, accepting this and trusting Jere. “He’s my last chance.”
“And two.” He cranes his pierced brows at me. “Give him an hour before you walk out.”
I flinch. “What’s wrong with him? Is he ugly?” I hold up my hands fast. “Because I can deal with ugly. It won’t bother me.”
He has an amused smile. “I told him to give you an hour too.”
My mouth plummets. “Why would he walk out on me?” I side-eye the control room door. “Is he already in there?” Who the fuck is this guy? I don’t even know what instrument he plays or if he does vocals.
“He’s waiting for you.” Jeremy opens the door, and I’m starting to believe he’s purposefully evading dropping this dude’s name. Which means I must know him and already dislike him.
Except I enter the control room…and I can honestly say that I’ve never seen this guy in my life.
Near the mixing console and desktop computers, he’s seated on a long black leather couch, bent forward and cupping his cellphone between two hands. As he sits upright, he pries his eyes off the screen and fixes them on me. I try not to intake a breath.
I’ve definitely never met him before.
Because those are eyes I’d never forget. Angry, intense, unusual. Around his pupil, the brown hue bleeds into blue.
His face is also one I’d remember. Pouty pink lips and a razor-sharp jawline and unfriendly, furrowed brows. He has a dark edge that fastens my gaze, and I instantly realize he’s ten times hotter than Phoenix, who gave me a hard-on in a thirty-second 2D video tonight.
Yeah.
I’m very fucked.
Last thing I want is to have a schoolyard crush on a fucking band member. He’s probably straight anyway. No, I hope he’s straight. No distractions.
It would’ve been better if he were butt ugly.
I run my stiff fingers through my hair. Neither of us speak yet.
Sleeves to his gray Henley shirt are pushed to his elbows. Various black tattoos scatter his fair skin. From bat wings to roses, thorns, snakes, a spider and skull. The etched ink resembles old woodcut engravings. Little Roman numerals underline some of them, making all his tattoos come together like an ancient, unexplored tapestry.
I can’t read it fast enough.
A black backward baseball cap holds down his dark brown hair. Based on his muscled forearms and cut biceps alone, I assume he’s a drummer.
His eyes flit hard to Jeremy. “Him?” He’s pissed.
I glare. “Oh great, you know who I am. Don’t know who the hell you are.”
He doesn’t even offer a sharp look back. I’m offended that he’s acting like I’m unworthy of his fucking attention.
“One hour,” Jeremy reminds this dick. “I’ll give you two time alone. Call me if I need to referee. I’ll be in the upstairs lounge.” He exits before we can respond.
Mystery Guy’s brown-blue eyes shift harder onto me. “I’m guessing Jere didn’t mention who he was pairing you up with either.”