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)
“Suzuki.” I’ve had my bike since I was sixteen.
“Not getting on that thing. Fucking donor cycle.”
“Didn’t think you would.” I know his feelings on motorcycles.
Last time Birdie rode on the back of my Suzuki, he was fourteen and broke out in a cold sweat by the time I took him to school. Nothing scared him more than the idea of breaking an arm and being unable to play cello for weeks on end.
Nothing scared me more than hearing “I told you it was dangerous. You should’ve never gotten that bike, Phoenix. Look what you did to your brother” from our sensible parents.
We exit the Whitney Theater and end up walking a couple blocks to a nearby park. An ice-skating rink filled with the last guests of the night. Lights twinkle in trees, and I try to hang on to the magic of the holidays before it’s all stripped down soon.
We snag a couple hot dogs from Sabrett’s and land at a bench overlooking the rink.
“Cheers.” Birdie licks mustard off his thumb and holds out his dog. I tap mine with his before we both take bites.
I glance over at him for a beat.
We barely look alike. I took more after our father’s side. The French. He took after our mother’s. The Irish.
Birdie’s hair is a warm brown color, much lighter than my nearly black, and it’s buzzed against his scalp. He has steel-gray eyes, a black 6mm gauge in his ear, and a red birthmark shaped like a slow breaking cloud on his neck.
I’m mid-chew when I say, “I told Jere I wanted to play in a band again.”
I’m technically not a member of Nothing Personal, but I’ve been with the band just as long as Birdie. When my brother signed on as their drummer three years ago, I joined the stage crew. I’ve been on tour with them. I test and set up their equipment before each performance. I’ve been to most studio sessions.
And I’ve written eighty percent of their songs.
A hundred percent of their hits.
Birdie swallows slowly. “For real?”
“For real.”
He frowns. “The drums?”
“What the fuck else am I going to play?”
“You’re right, you suck at guitar. And your bass playing sounds like a cow slowly dying in its sleep.”
I laugh. “Fuck you.”
“I’m not wrong.” He smiles over at me.
I almost smile back. Almost. My stomach cramps at the uncertainty of how the rest of this news will go. “Yeah, you’re not wrong,” I say lightly.
My brother’s talent outpaced mine when he was three and I was just five. Young, but our parents are professional musicians. They first met in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Miriam O’Toole on the viola and Philippe St. Pierre on the cello. Naturally, they threw me and Birdie—their only two kids—into music as fast as possible.
One of my first memories is playing a toy xylophone and rocking out with my little brother.
Birdie wound up being their musical prodigy. He could play any instrument and sight-read most pieces. He was the one who landed a full ride to Berklee College of Music, whereas I’m still taking as many extra gigs I can to pay off my loans.
But despite his hard work and high aptitude, there’s one instrument I’m better at than him—and that’s the drums.
I pick some of the onions off my hot dog. Not feeling them tonight. “With my history, Jeremy said it wasn’t going to be easy to find someone who’d take me.”
“You mean your history blowing up Sophomore Summer.”
The name of our first band together sends acid up my throat. I slide him a glare.
Birdie shrugs. “Call it like it is, Phoenix. You lost it. You detonated. You—”
“I remember, man. I was there,” I cut him off. “It was the worst night of my fucking life.” Resentment, bitterness, rage accumulates like I’m one volatile step away from combustion, and I hate this feeling. I hate being brought back to that night where I just want to punch something.
“You also remember the stupid ass vow you made that night?” he asks.
Yeah.
I promised my brother and myself that I’d never play in another band again. “At the time, it wasn’t fucking stupid.”
“It was stupid,” Birdie argues. He shoves the hot dog in his mouth, chomping half of it before licking more mustard off his fingers. No way to sugarcoat it, he eats like a barbarian. “I’m not shocked you’re breaking that vow, seeing as how it was idiotic to even make. But why now? What the hell changed?”
I wrap my remaining hot dog back in aluminum foil. My stomach in knots. I can’t tell Birdie the actual reason without descending into a deeper, darker rabbit hole from my birthday on New Year’s Day.
He has no idea what happened.
It’s not what I want to get into. It’s not what I even need to tell him tonight anyway.