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)
Conquering some doubt also made writing the next song easier. I haven’t been able to shake the mesmeric beat to “Your Epidemic” from my head, even though it makes me want to strangle Phoenix. Or maybe…him strangle me. We wound up writing about our frustrated, pent-up feelings that’ve been climbing to air-thinning heights.
About how we’ve been burrowing into each other’s skin, slipping into each other’s veins, infecting the bloodstream like a contagion. About the uncertainty of whether we’re killing each other and carving out a tragedy in the end.
Jeremy not so secretly admitted to loving “Your Epidemic” the best, and he said this with an obnoxiously wide, Cheshire Cat grin. He is the cause of this virus between me and Phoenix.
Without him, there would be no partnership. We wouldn’t have a reason to celebrate tonight.
We made it halfway through the album. Six songs written with music composed for each.
“Fire You Feel”
“Nuclear Winter”
“Dirty Rise”
“Territorial”
“Your Epidemic”
“Hellbent”
Once we have the final six songs arranged, we’ll go into the studio to record those. It’s the farthest I’ve ever been in the process, and it makes me want to try harder not to fuck it all up.
That doesn’t mean not celebrating milestones.
I down a Jell-O shot. The consistency makes me gag. “Dude, this thing tastes like curdled milk.”
Phoenix slowly sips his vodka cranberry, watching me double fist the shots. “What did you think it would taste like? It’s congealed Baileys.”
“Forgive me if I like to try new things.” I throw back the second shot into my mouth and crush the plastic container. Did not cringe this time. Small success. I narrow my eyes on his drink. “You are painfully predictable.”
Since we’ve been writing most songs in the back of dive bars, I know Phoenix’s order by heart. Beer: Guinness. Liquor: vodka cran. He always orders a water bottle with his alcohol, and if we’re standing, he’ll shove it in the ass pocket of his pants. Like right now, he has an Aquafina sticking out of his dark cargos.
He leans an elbow on the edge of the bar. “I know what I like.” His eyes never detach from mine. “Forgive me.”
Heat rises against the back of my neck. Yeah, he’s flirting. We haven’t exactly quit flirting. It’s fun. It’s harmless, according to Phoenix. And I agree—as long as I can stay strong-willed and not do something stupid.
Red lights bathe his sharp jawline, as if warning me to stop. Do not proceed any farther. I’m afraid it’s doing the inverse. It’s beckoning me to clasp his neck and bring his lips crashing into mine.
Don’t. Don’t.
I tear my gaze off him. It’s Y2K night at The Trench, a popular dance club in the Lower East Side, and the DJ is spinning remixed songs of pop hits from the early 2000s. The bartender passes me my mixed drink: a rum and Fizz.
I exchange the crumpled plastic cups for the new drink and turn to Phoenix. “If you’re asking for forgiveness, only our Lord and Savior, Richard Connor Cobalt, can do that.” My joke twists his face into a grimace, and he takes a heartier swig of his drink.
He hates when I refer to my dad as God. Not that he’s met the man, but I think any reference to my family being celestial makes Phoenix want to drag me by my wings back to planet Earth. Which is fine. I like when he looks like he’s seconds from putting his hands on me.
It urges me to dial it up to twelve. I open my mouth to make another comment, but he says, “Shut the fuck up for five seconds.” He leans over the bar to pass his credit card to the bartender. “Keep it open,” he tells her, then rotates to me. “I came here to dance. Not to talk about your dad, nepo baby. This way.” He seizes my wrist and pulls me toward the dance floor.
Holy shit. I hate when he does things like this. Things I’m going to have to root in my memory for later when I’m alone with my hand. Why does the guy who’s off-limits have to be so…much?
Too attractive.
Too unrelenting.
Too unapologetic.
Too much of what I want.
My pulse beats with the jackhammering tempo pumping through the club. Phoenix trashes his vodka cran and pulls me through the sweaty throngs of bouncing and gyrating bodies. Behind me, my bodyguard trails like a shadow, but I don’t keep track of him. Not as my mind fixates on my drummer holding my hand…okay, my wrist. Same thing, right?
When it becomes impossible to shift farther in the pit without elbowing our way through, Phoenix lets go of me. We have just enough space that I can bring my drink to my lips without bumping into anyone.
We’re throwing our heads and bodies into the music, and it’s been clear since I first met him—Phoenix has strong, impeccable rhythm. He might be a pillar, but when the music courses through his body, he is the heady beat.