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)
“He has a mic built into the helmet. He literally has sent messages using speech-to-text on that bike. It’s never stopped him before.” My stomach churns, and it’s not from all the alcohol last night.
There’s a good chance Phoenix is angry that I called RJ. Plus, whatever else I said or did in the car ride that could’ve turned him off. I blew up a perfectly fine night—and I don’t know how Phoenix deals with personal conflict.
Revenge. Retribution. Putting me in my place by making me wait around for him all day. It’s not something I thought he’d do to me. At least, I hoped he wouldn’t. But he must know it wouldn’t destroy the album. I’d put up with just about anything—even being ghosted by him—if it means he stays in the band.
I push some damp pieces of hair out of my face. I rose from the dead to drag my aching limbs to the shower. Muscles I didn’t even know I have still feel tenderized. If someone told me I did a full Olympic-style gymnastics routine last night, I would believe them. I probably took home gold for sheer effort.
I’m a winner. A competitor. So yeah, I’m not going to just collapse into a heap from being stood up.
Eliot squeezes my shoulder. “Tom. Tom.”
I’m chewing my thumbnail when I’m smacked in the back of the head with what feels like a book. I almost drop my phone. Eliot wouldn’t slap me with anything but a high-five, so I’m unsurprised to see Charlie enter the kitchen with a worn paperback of The Great Gatsby.
“Hitting me over the head with my namesake?” My middle name comes from Nick Carraway, the novel’s narrator. “Real funny!”
Eliot watches our older brother press buttons on the espresso machine. “Don’t be shy, Charlie. Admit you’re trying to usurp me as the most humorous of the family.”
“Why would I compete for title of jester when you so naturally fit the fool?” Charlie responds, sliding a cappuccino cup beneath the spigot.
Eliot laughs, “See, you are hilarious.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, then searches the fridge for milk. “Beckett left for work already, so he’s not here to tell you to stop spiraling.”
I glance up from my phone. “Who? Me?”
“Does Eliot look like he’s obsessing over his text messages like he’s about to throw himself off the balcony?”
“Okay, first off, there is no balcony in our apartment, dude, and secondly, I would find more creative ways to off myself, and thirdly…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “We should not be joking about suicide with Ben in the apartment.” I pause. “Right?” I’m asking my genius brother for confirmation.
“Do I look like your therapist?”
“No, you’re not bald.”
Charlie bends slightly to a shelf, shoving aside the extra fruit we store for the bird. “I bought a half gallon of milk last week.” His accusatory eyes land on me, then Eliot. “Where’d you put it?”
“I did not thieve the milk.” As much as I would love to blame this on Mister Feathers, I come out and admit, “I gave it to Luna. Okay, she was out of milk and trying to make cereal, and I was about to leave, so I did the neighborly thing and delivered it to our cousin—who you like. You like Luna.” I point at him, accusing him of having a friendship with my friend.
Charlie has an expression like he just smelled a nasty fart. Eliot and I don’t contain our laughter. Not even as Charlie slams the fridge, makes a shot of espresso, and takes it back to his bedroom.
It was a good distraction.
For a moment, anyway.
So is the short minute when Ben hikes his hockey bag over his broad shoulder and fits his blue baseball cap on backward. “I’m out for practice. See you for dinner.”
He reaches out to me as he passes, and we exchange a jock handshake: two slides of the palm, hook the fingers, casual fist bump, and I throw up a peace sign. “Later, Ben Pirrip.” For the record, he taught me the handshake, and I perform the bro ritual like I’m a professional athlete. No one would know I spent seventh-grade soccer crushing on the goalie and making excuses to hang back by our team’s net.
When he’s gone, I stare at the door, the time on my phone, and Eliot, who starts marinating chicken breast in balsamic and garlic for tonight. He makes a separate tofu thing for Ben.
I should be helping him.
I should.
But I bow over the counter and reread my messages. I see the time ticking by. “I’m sending him a voice memo,” I tell Eliot, and I click the microphone button in the text chat before I can conceptualize what I’m going to say. Gripping my phone to my mouth, I just word vomit. “Fuck you, dude. If this is your petty way of getting back at me because I what…called my longtime hookup who isn’t you? Get over yourself. Fuck off. Fuck you and your brother and your dog—I don’t think you have a dog, but your future dog. Okay, fuck him too.” I end the memo and press send. “I’m done.” I set the phone on the counter and back away.