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)
Birdie would tell me I’m setting myself up for it.
Each step away from the SUV feels like swords piercing me through the back. You’re an idiot, I tell myself. Truly this is so fucking stupid.
25
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
I’m ordering at a self-service kiosk, the fast-food joint packed with New Yorkers who’ve been drinking past 2 a.m.
Common trend tonight.
I tap the screen and look up just as the door opens. Beckett strides through, a dark blue Yankees ballcap somewhat obscuring his features. He’s shrugged on a leather jacket over his white button-down and keeps his hands in the pockets.
What makes my finger freeze over the kiosk—he’s alone. No brothers. No bodyguard trailing after his expensive-looking loafers. Shock is an undercurrent to my confusion.
Beckett stops at my side, but his focus trains to the kiosk. “What do you want? I think Tom will be good with nuggets.”
I turn my head to the door, then to Beckett. “I thought you said you were waiting in the car?”
“I was. For my bodyguard. He’s three blocks away in a different SUV.” Beckett’s eyes pierce me, and in the bright lighting, they look more yellow than green. “But you got out of the car. Charlie made a comment about leaving you, and Tom flipped out. So I’m here to show my little brother that we’re not going to ditch you.”
“Charlie was about to though.”
“He wasn’t serious. And if Tom weren’t drunk, he’d know that.” Beckett side-eyes a loud cluster of college-aged girls. The one slurping on a soft drink is squinting at him. He shifts so his back is to her, then he surveys the kiosk. His brows knit. “Let’s order at the counter.”
“This is faster.” I swipe through the menu, quickly adding a bunch of random food to the order. Nuggets, Big Macs, a Filet-O-Fish. Lots of fries.
“Any of you vegetarian?” I wonder.
“No,” Beckett says. “Youngest brother is vegan. I assume you haven’t met Ben.”
“Nope.”
“Swipe over.” His hand comes out of his pocket as he points. I notice his black leather glove. “Get the Peanut Butter Crunch McFlurry.”
It’s on the limited-time menu. “For Tom,” I say, knowing.
Beckett slips me a subtle look of surprise.
“Guy brings 18-ounce jars of SKIPPY and organic nut butter to the studio. With baggies of pretzels, apples, celery. Every time. All the time.” I tap the McFlurry. “I thought it was a superstitious thing at first. A lot of musicians have their rituals, but he’s just obsessed with peanut butter.”
Beckett listens intently but says nothing.
I remember now. One of my earliest conversations with Tom. He said his brother, Beckett, was extremely private. Trust must be the hardest earned with him. I don’t know how much he values RJ’s opinion and whether the “don’t leave Tom with him” is a red flag still flapping in his face.
Once the order is filled, I click on the payment screen.
“I’ve got it.” He’s so quick, I have no time to even reach for my wallet. He uses his phone for contactless payment. The screen beeps with Order Complete! and displays an order number.
We find a spot by the drink machine while we wait—farther away from the shrieking laughter and guys double-fisting quarter pounders—but the soda drinker cranes her neck, scanning for Beckett, I think.
“We need to move somewhere else?” I ask him.
“This is fine.” He’s tenser and more rigid than the typical ballet dancer I’ve seen from the orchestra pit.
In the light now, I realize he is familiar to me. I’ve seen his face on posters inside Whitney Theater for different productions like Swan Lake and The Sleeping Beauty. He’s one of NYBC’s star male dancers.
Despite being so stiff, his posture is still very NYBC. Shoulders slightly drawn back, core engaged, the length of his body seeming to stretch taller. Hell, he appears taller than me right now because I’m bent slightly against the wall, and he’s not slouching even an inch.
His eyes dart around before he dips the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.
Tom told me that his siblings need personal security for more than just crowd control and some super fans who don’t respect boundaries. Their parents are worried about extortion and kidnapping. Something like that happened to one of their cousins. Luna Hale, I think. It was all over the news last year.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have made that comment in the car. I knead at the tired corners of my eyes.
“You’re twenty-four?” he asks me.
“Yep. You?” I already know the answer from Tom.
“I’ll turn twenty-five in September.”
“Older than me by four months. Point taken.” I nod. “You like having your bodyguard around?” I ask.
“Security isn’t a preference so much as a necessity.” He lifts the brim of his ball cap to meet my gaze. “My bodyguard saved me from being assaulted a couple years ago. Three guys with a baseball bat.” He checks the window and entrance again. “It put him in the hospital for a month.”