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)
We came here for a quick bite after recording a song called “Wired.” Kissing Tom last week hasn’t derailed us.
We finished two more songs without issue, and all I’ve wanted is a repeat of last time, to feel him against me again. To hear the sounds he makes when he comes. To continue proving that acting on our feelings is worth the risk. But I can’t even think about any of that.
Because now my stomach twists uncomfortably, and it feels like someone doused me with ice water.
I’m not seeing a ghost, but I’m definitely hearing one.
Tom faces me, even more concern enveloping his expression. “Is it the chicken fingers?” He pulls my plate and inspects the half-eaten chicken. I don’t know what he’s looking for. Raw chicken? Mold?
His concern almost subdues the panicked inferno coursing through me.
“Do you know this song?” I ask him. When no one uses the old school jukebox, Duke’s on 10th plays the radio.
Tom pauses to listen. “Uhhh…yeah, this is an Oak Bluffs song, right? I think it’s called ‘Somewhere Under an Avalanche.’”
I can’t hide my surprise. “It’s a pop song. I thought it would be beneath you.”
He lifts his shoulders. “It’s everywhere right now. I think it went viral on social media.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m going to be sick.
Tom frowns deeper. “Do you have bad memories attached to this one?”
Music is so powerful that it's deeply understood that just hearing a single song can elicit a complete breakdown for no apparent reason.
Except this song is different, and I can’t seem to find enough air to explain it to Tom.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.” I edge out of the booth. “Can you give me five minutes?”
“Sure. Yeah.” Tom’s worried gaze lingers on me as I leave, and it envelopes me in a way that tries to break through this suffocating feeling. Oxygen is thin. Brittle. I just need to go outside for a second.
When the cool night air hits me, it hardly fills my lungs. Fuck.
I drop into a deep squat, try to inhale, then stand again. My pulse beats hard against my chest, and I dig in my pocket, find my phone and dial a number.
Birdie immediately changes the audio call into a request for video. I accept, and his face pops up on screen. Hair drenched and sweat trickling down his temple. He rubs his forehead with the back of his forearm and pants out of breath.
Before I can say anything, he asks, “What’s wrong?”
“How’d the show go?” I ask him. He must’ve just finished playing. I’ve been keeping up with Nothing Personal’s tour, and they’re at a venue in Nashville tonight.
“Man, you can’t answer with a question. You called me. And you look like you’re about to vomit.” He rotates the camera around to show me a mini-fridge. “What do we think?”
Every shelf is filled with beer. The question distracts me for a second. “Koning Lite.”
“Class.” He grabs the bottle, then swings the fridge shut. I watch him exit the green room and step through a thick metal door into an alleyway. He rotates the camera back to his face. “So are you hugging a toilet right now? Did working with Tom finally cause you gastro problems?”
“It’s not Tom,” I bite back. “Did you know ‘Somewhere Under an Avalanche’ went viral?”
Birdie sucks in air through his teeth in a hiss. “Yeaaaah.” He rubs the edge of his lip next to his hoop piercing. “I would have warned you, man, but I honestly didn’t think you’d stumble on it. You’re not on social media much.”
“It’s playing in this diner, Bird.” My throat wants to close. “A song that released three fucking years ago.”
Birdie tips the bottle to his lips and eyes me. “You’re really shocked it finally got popular? Didn’t we all agree that it was weird it never blew up back then?”
“I thought it was divine intervention. Someone holy looking out for me so I didn’t have to constantly hear this shit on the radio.”
“Sounds like angels are smiting you because you got in bed with the devil.” Birdie smiles into his next sip of beer.
I roll my eyes. I’ve lost count the number of times I told him that I haven’t slept with Tom. But somehow, I’m not exhausted yet, so I go for it again. “I’m not in bed with Tom.”
“It’s been what…” Birdie makes a show of checking his watch. “A week. Since you performed a sexual act on him—”
“And every day you’re making me regret telling you about it.”
“You can’t honestly think I’m supposed to believe you two haven’t gone all the way by now.”
“We’re taking things slow.”
“Slow? You?” He makes a face and swallows a deeper swig of beer.
I rake a harsher hand through my hair. “I didn’t call you to talk about Tom. That song. You really think I’m going to be hearing it everywhere?”