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)
Awesome.
“Empty your pockets,” Beckett says.
“Again?” My face twists in confusion while I set my helmet between my feet, and I turn out my pockets. “No drugs.” I motion to Oscar with hostility. “You need to pat me down? Or are we good?”
“This’ll be a lot easier on you if you don’t come in hot,” Oscar advises.
My short fuse is directly related to my lack of sleep right now. “Excuse me for feeling attacked when I’m being cornered in a fucking elevator.”
Charlie props his arm against the wall. “You think we should trust you with Tom? Beckett isn’t so sure.”
“Yeah, I think you should.” Though I understand why they wouldn’t considering I’ve been arrested. I can see Beckett clearly isn’t wavering, so I ask Charlie, “And what about you?”
“You’re as relevant to me as the fifteen-day lifespan of a housefly.”
“Glad I asked,” I snap, then I stare down Beckett. “What have I done since the club that’s put you on edge?”
“Your eyes are bloodshot.”
“I’m tired.”
He doesn’t believe me. “You look strung out.”
“I’m tired,” I emphasize. “I’m not a fucking junkie.”
“Pull up your sleeves.”
Oh my God. I press my fingers to my eyelids, then I intake a harsh breath and end up shrugging off my moto jacket. I shove up my long sleeves. Beckett checks the inside of my elbows and forearms for any track marks.
“Take off your shoes,” he asks now.
I look him over. It’s an interesting request. Because I wonder who he’s been around who’s shooting up. Quickly, because I don’t want to be here, I pry off my boots and socks. He checks the tops of my feet for bruising.
“Good?” I ask him.
He nods once.
While I stuff my feet into my boots and the elevator descends again, I tell them, “I get why you think I’d be into drugs. Cliché rockstar bullshit, and sometimes it’s not bullshit, sometimes coke is easy to find. But I promise I’m going to keep Tom away from that while we’re on tour.”
“Promise us in French,” Beckett says. “Si tu romps cette promesse, on ne te fera plus jamais confiance.” You break this promise, and we will never trust you again.
Without pause, I say, “Je vous le jure.” I swear to you. “Je vous le promets.” I promise you. “I will keep your little brother safe.”
33
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“This is happening too fast,” Tom’s words slingshot through me. For a second, I think he means us. Every intimate second we’ve shared since our first kiss a few weeks ago.
But that worry is squashed as soon as he waves a hand toward the set behind us, the backdrop of a frozen tundra. My drum kit is positioned on top of a fake glacier, Tom’s mic stand resting below it.
We’re currently seated at two vanities. Makeup artists huddle a few feet behind us in a sudden disagreement about the brand of metallic body paint they’re using.
I swivel in my chair to face Tom.
His hair is already styled in an artfully messy “fuckboy” way with damp-looking strands layered in fake hoarfrost, giving the illusion he’s been living in the frozen wilderness. He is undeniably beautiful, and I resist the urge to plant my hand against the back of his skull and bring his lips to mine.
Nothing in public, we agreed.
I take a hit off my vape. I barely slept last night. My head throbs, and my fingers are doing a twitchy thing that I hate. “If it feels fast that’s a good thing,” I tell Tom. “It means Riot believes in us.”
Tom extends a hand for my vape. It wouldn’t be the first time we shared one or a cigarette, but my promise to Beckett from the elevator is an alarm blaring in my sleep-deprived brain.
But I’ve seen Beckett and Charlie smoke, so they shouldn’t fucking care if Tom does. I pass the vape over.
I watch him put it to his lips and suck deeply. He doesn’t break my gaze, and my blood warms my entire body. I glare at his rising cocky smile.
Very slowly, I lean into Tom. My lips brush past his jaw to his ear, and I whisper, “You look really smug for someone who was on their fucking knees last night.”
His eyes descend to my lips. “I could’ve sworn you were the one worshiping me, dude. You are one second from pinning my poster in your bedroom. Admit it.”
“Using your face as a dart board does sound fun. Thanks for the idea.”
His grin never dims. “I have plenty of other great ones.”
“Hmm,” I glare. Fuck. I am dying to clutch his face and kiss him, but I stop myself. Especially because Tom suddenly side-eyes the set director, who’s busy dealing with the snow machines.
I lean back, my muscles burning at the resistance.
His neck is bright red while he blows smoke upward and clears arousal out of his throat.