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)
“You can disturb me,” I say strongly. “I’m not too busy for you. I will never be that busy.” I can’t stomach my passion taking away from this brother—the brother who I would rather die beside than ever live without.
His grin emerges like a blinding headlight. “I hope you’re busy fornicating—”
“Absolutely no—”
“—le batteur le plus canon de ta vie.” The hottest drummer of your life.
I’m mid-groan, my head slung back. “Eliot.” I huff out a breath and start to smile when I see his humongous grin. “You know I’m here for you.”
“I’d never forget,” he says.
“Then you should’ve asked me. I am actually, seriously, pissed off you didn’t try to disturb me for the most important role you’ve ever had.” I don’t sound angry because starting a fight with Eliot takes rage that I can’t muster with him. Wrath is absent inside the love we’ve built.
“Me, you, Luna.” He speaks more hushed when he names our cousin in public. “We’ve all made goals this year that’ve stolen time, and so, I took the opportunity to seek someone who is goalless.” His devilish grin spurs mine.
There is only one aimless brother in our apartment. I mean, I am sure there are goals inside Charlie’s genius brain, but he hasn’t shared them with us. Other than the goal of disappearing from vital obligations. Which he’s not achieving as much anymore.
Which makes him very goalless.
“Dude.” I rock on my feet in excitement. “You did not ask Charlie to record the script in audio for you.”
“I did.” He might as well be giggling.
I am having a giggling fit on the inside. “Please tell me he said yes this time.” Charlie has rejected Eliot’s plea for a sad decade, citing the fact that he has me to record the audio for him, but we’ve dreamed of hearing Charlie recite an entire stage play.
“Every line.” Eliot pulls out his phone. “I’ll email it to you.”
Some dreams are easier to come true than others. “Does he get super into it?” I quickly check my phone to download the file. “Or is he just flat-out monotone.”
“Neither. It’s better.”
I can’t wait to hear this shit. “He’s going to really regret this.” I go still at a thought. “You want me to keep this a secret? Because if I tease Charlie over this audio, he’s not likely to do you another favor.”
“Tease and taunt all you want,” Eliot says, pushing off the wall. “He didn’t record this from the scant kindness of his cruel heart.”
My smile fades. “What the hell did he ask from you?”
“I have a curfew.”
I cough on surprise. “You have to be home by a certain hour?”
“Eleven p.m. when I’m out alone.”
“Dude.” I lace my hands on my head, not sure if I should laugh or be irate. Charlie isn’t doing this to help Eliot in any way. This is purely because he’s been aggravated trying to kick out Eliot’s clingy dates. “He doesn’t want to deal with you stumbling home with Regina—”
“Lara—”
“So he’s putting an eleven p.m. curfew on you and killing your fun? Bars aren’t even alive until midnight.”
“Just more reason to stay out with all of you instead.” Eliot grins at the phone in my hand. “It’s already worth it. Fais-moi confiance.” Trust me.
With my AirPods in and my feet taking me away from Eliot and toward my work, I quickly discover how right he is. I’m rolling in waves of laughter over Charlie’s bitter, dry recitation of Amadeus. It’s a play that Eliot and I have sincerely loved ever since we were kids.
But Charlie—he sounds over it. Like he couldn’t care less about Salieri’s jealousy with Mozart, or Mozart’s man-child behavior inside his musical brilliance. His rushed, irritated tone says the whole play should just be trashed. I’m almost shocked he doesn’t interject with commentary about how fucking stupid it is.
This audio is a thing of comedic beauty.
And he wasn’t trying to be funny.
It keeps me in good spirits when I enter the control room. I’ve almost forgotten about Phoenix’s text and the jumbled emotion from this morning.
The hurt fragments abruptly resurface when I interrupt his conversation with our producer, Gage Driscoll, at the mixing table.
I’m ten minutes early. “How long have you been here?” I ask him, and in full transparency, I sound accusatory. Because I am accusing him of meeting our producer behind my back.
Phoenix tears his headphones off. “Hi, Phoenix. Thank you for mixing twenty variations of our song for me. How about you open with that?”
“Hi, Gage,” I greet our sandy blond-haired, too-easily-amused producer who wears round wire-framed glasses and loose-fitting graphic tees. He’s as bad as our manager—who thinks these arguments I have with Phoenix are ha-ha funny and not clear signs that we’re a tragedy in the making.
“Tom,” Gage says, rocking in the Herman Miller office chair. “You should hear the mixes. They’re fucking dope. The label might want to release variations of the single.”