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’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
He pauses. “Is your brother okay?” He knows nothing about Ben’s issues, but he must’ve detected my concern for him.
“Yeah. All good.”
“It should feel more explosive,” Phoenix tells me three hours into our rehearsal session.
I don’t disagree. I just really hope he can’t tell I’m struggling to concentrate. And it has absolutely nothing to do with Ben. Or Harriet. Or the rager I agreed to throw.
It’s him.
It’s Phoenix.
The concern he showed for me over the phone was like Cupid’s arrow. He shot me in the chest, and it’s not the first time he’s struck an organ. It reminded me of the recording session. Of how much he cared about what Warner did. It reminded me of his arms wrapped around my body in a hug I’ve replayed on my route to sleep, and now I feel stupid around him. My face feels flush whenever our eyes meet.
It’s dumb.
So dumb. And I’m a Cobalt. I’m not fucking dumb.
I waft my black tank away from my chest while my blood simmers. I ditched my jean jacket an hour ago, and I try to stare at my Vans, the chain on my belt loop—fuck, even the waistband of my underwear peeking out from my pants. Anything other than him.
I fail.
Phoenix grips both sticks in one hand while he stands up behind the red drum kit to check part of the equipment. Sweat bleeds through the gray fabric of his Henley, accentuating the lines of his abs. I can practically see every ridge of carved muscle.
I know he’s almost reached the point in our practice session where he’ll pull his shirt off. Which is about the same time my brain loves trying to take a vacation. As if he’s not distracting enough.
In my lingering silence, he explains, “I don’t like the tom fill right before the drop.”
The tom fill. He’s talking drums.
We’re working on the arrangement of an adrenaline-fueled song. The one about Phoenix trying to escape the tragic hold his ex has on him. We’ve named it “Dirty Rise.”
“What about a snare-tom fill?” I propose, crouching down to my pedal with my guitar strapped across my chest. The pedal alters my mic to sound like a grainy radio filter, which we’re using just for this song. I’m still not sold on it.
“Yeah, let’s try it out,” Phoenix says. “This song should have the crowd jumping, not just bobbing their head.” He fiddles with his snare.
“What are you doing?” I plug my pedal back in.
“It’s too high.” When he catches me staring, I swear we both intake a breath. His throat bobs, but he clarifies, “The sound, not the position. I’m tuning the snare lower.” When he tests it out with the tap of his stick, it sounds dead. There’s almost no bounce. He loves the deep snare sound, and it’s so unique that I’ve fallen for it just as equally.
I’ve been inspired by plenty of punk-rock singers, but Phoenix has built a sound on drums that’s all his own. Together, I’m hoping we can stand out as something familiar but new.
I test out the pedal with my mic and curse under my breath when it crackles. I’m back on the ground unplugging the thing. Only to find Phoenix coming around to help me.
I tense. “I have it, dude.” His dark, smoldering presence prods me to go faster because I really can’t have him brushing against my body right now. My skin hums like I’m one electric shock away from flatlining.
I just want to be in the music with him.
Less than thirty seconds later, I have the pedal hooked back up. “This is probably a sign we should ditch the filter,” I tell him.
“We haven’t even tried it.” He glares as he sits back behind the drum kit.
“I’m telling you, it’s not going to sound clean.”
“The song is called Dirty Rise.”
I regret using the word clean. “Exactly.” I motion a hand at him. “It’s not called Disorderly Rise.”
He tips his head with an unamused look. “Just sing with the filter, nepo baby. Then you can reject it.”
I’m only using the voice filter for the intro, so when I go into the chorus without it, I’ll sound crisper and the lyrics will hit harder. That’s what he thinks will happen. I’m predicting a clunky mess.
“I was always going to test it out,” I tell him, since we’ve agreed to entertain each other’s ideas, no matter if we personally think they’re shit. I’ve swayed him about as much as he’s swayed me on this album, so I can’t even claim being right all the time.
Even though I know I’m great, I’m not looking to be right. I’m just looking for the best sound possible. Which means I can accept being proven wrong.
“Ready?” Phoenix asks, antsy. “You fix it?”
I test out the pedal first. “Yeah, it’s working.”