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 disagreed. “As soon as the album drops and you gain momentum on tour, Riot will probably add dates. They’ll send you to Europe, South America—hell, probably Australia and New Zealand.” I would never call my brother a hopeless optimist, but it’s hard for me to adopt the same relentless positivity.
Even if I love this album with every fiber of my fucking being, it’s hard to believe the label will back us to that degree. They can’t funnel that type of money to every band on their roster, and being chosen is like being dubbed Prom King.
There is only one out of the student body.
About a hundred factors play into being picked. Presales, marketability, trends, and maybe our music just doesn’t fit the current stasis of rock. Maybe it’s not going to be everyone’s thing. Maybe Riot knows that and would prefer a sure bet.
Maybe my parents are just in my head. Feeding me spoonfuls of realism from miles away.
Michelle finishes with my body paint, and I get behind the drums on the fake glacier. I feel better here. Worries float away as soon as I have the sticks in my hand.
Tom gives me a supportive nod from below.
I nod back.
The director says, “We’re running playback for this take. Wolfgang”—he points to me, and it’s slowly sinking in that the world will know me by my middle name—“start at the chorus. Tom, same for you.”
“Nuclear Winter” sounds loud over the speakers with Tom’s guttural vocals silencing the whole room.
34
TOM COBALT
Something needs to change.
The end of March is days, not weeks, away. Our deadline is an ugly gargoyle staring down at me, and I can’t concentrate enough to flesh out the last song. I’m so paranoid we won’t finish that it’s become debilitating. The only thing that snaps my brain away from impending failure is Phoenix.
So I have a brilliant thought when I wake up on this rainy Friday morning. I text my drummer.
TOM CARRAWAY
Green light
Fuck roadblocks. Fuck yellow lights. I’m not proceeding with caution anymore.
The band is better for it.
“Tom?”
My heart rate instantly spikes, and I jump out of my skin at Beckett’s voice. I knock over several hardcovers on Charlie’s wooden bookshelf.
“Shit,” I curse.
“And you wonder why you aren’t allowed in my bedroom,” Charlie says, very irritably. More than usual.
“No, look, it’s fine.” I situate all his precious books in their upright positions. I try not to regret texting Phoenix while I’m in a house meeting with my brothers. The timing, fine. Could I have chosen better? Maybe, but I will overcome the hurdles I create.
I will conquer.
“Tom isn’t allowed in here?” Ben asks in confusion. He’s on the floor eating a banana and icing a bluish bruise on his ribs. Hockey injury, but at least his team is dominating the playoffs and on track to be in the Frozen Four. Even if Ben acts like it’s not the Stanley Cup of college tournaments, I looked it up and it’s a big fucking deal.
“Neither am I,” Eliot chimes in from the windowsill bench seating. “A true mistake on Charlie’s part. Tom and I would provide much-needed levity to this grim space.”
“Undeniably,” I nod a lot, checking my phone. No response from Phoenix.
Great, great.
I try to focus and not on Beckett, who’s making a scrunched face at me and my phone.
This is a rare event where Charlie is letting me and Eliot hang out for more than two seconds in his bedroom. We’ve been banned from stepping foot in here since we accidentally (truly an accident) left a half-eaten turkey sandwich on his bookshelf. Which he found molding and stinking weeks later.
In my defense, every wall is a bookshelf. Where else was I supposed to put my sandwich? Even his bed is framed between shelves. Maybe he shouldn’t have renovated his room to resemble the Oxford library. The arched wood beams overhead are cool in their extravagance, though.
I would totally crash here for a night. If he’d let me.
Smacking my phone in my palm (not at all nervous), I say, “Dude, you should be asking us in here every day, all day, to spread merriment.”
“And cheer,” Eliot adds.
“And love, because we love you,” I finish.
Charlie is unamused. He’s seated at the foot of his bed beside Beckett. Bowing forward, he tells me, “And why would I want a wrecking ball anywhere near me?”
Ouch. Why did that one hurt? I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Let’s stay on topic,” Beckett says with the raise of his hands. “Tom, did you hear that last part?”
I nod. “Yeah, the rager—”
“The party,” Beckett corrects fast. “You’re not throwing a rager.”
Ben smiles up at me. “I appreciate the attempt.”
I assure him, “No, this is going to be as good as, if not better, than our typical parties.”
“One hundred percent,” Eliot chimes in. “Far better.”
“Far grander,” I add.