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)
I wonder if Phoenix shit his pants when he saw them.
I wonder if they grilled the fuck out of him.
I hate that I missed it.
Why can’t I be in five places at once? Life is truly cruel to me.
Mom glares every which way, even at the furniture like she’s scouting for predators in our den. “This looks relatively tame.”
“The whores come out at midnight,” Eliot says, cutting the tip of a cigar. “And by whores, I mean me, myself, and I.”
Audrey laughs, but our parents ignore Eliot’s quip.
Dad says a warm, “Joyeux anniversaire, mon fils,” to me. Happy birthday, my son. While Mom says an icy, “Happy birthday, gremlin.” In heels, she’s not much shorter than me, and I give her a side-hug and silly air kiss on each cheek.
She clutches my arm to keep me still. Her yellow-green eyes can decay, but all I see is ultimate strength. “I know you have many benchmarks, but you completed an enormous goal. I am very proud of you.”
My grin reemerges, stretching to extreme heights. It feels good to hear, even though I’ve always felt her pride in me. “Thanks, Mom. We’re still waiting for the embargoes to lift on press like Pitchfork and Rolling Stone, so we’ll see how it’s being critically received soon.” These major music critics were sent the album weeks ago.
All reviews are supposed to be posted by tonight.
Phoenix is rigid near the dual espresso-coffee machine. “They might not have even listened to Silver Sweet,” he reminds me. “There’s no guarantee, Tom.”
“Yeah, I know, we might not even be notable enough to be reviewed.” It’s not killing my self-esteem. It’s driving me to want to reach a place where we’re worth a review.
Dad echoes this feeling in me. “Then be someone who can’t be ignored,” he says. “The best you can do is try. The worst you can do is give up your passions. Que serait la vie sans elles?” What is life without them?
“Froide,” I say more to Phoenix. Cold.
He stares deeply into me. I barely hear him murmur, “Oui.” Yes.
“May I cut in please?” Audrey asks with prayer hands. “We haven’t received a definitive answer about the Wolfgang St. Pierre theories, and I, for one, find them very compelling and cute and skewed toward romantic.”
“Wow.” Phoenix’s brows jump, because if she were wrong, she’d be inserting awkward tension within The Carraways. “Bold.”
“Thank you.”
“Wasn’t a compliment—sorry,” he immediately apologizes to my mom who looks like she’s about to rip out his jugular.
My dad isn’t that happy either, but that’s less noticeable.
Phoenix smears his hands down his face. “I should let you all talk alone—”
“What? No.” I go stand beside him. What the hell happened in the lobby? I send a confused look to my parents. “You never gave my other bandmates third-degree burns, so what is this?” It dawns on me fast—I did this. “Mom, I was joking about the crack dens. He isn’t friends with any drug dealers or porn stars, and we did not see green fairies after drinking absinthe together. All jokes.”
Phoenix cocks his head at me. “Absinthe?”
“Bad jokes,” I add.
Audrey and Eliot are too amused. I would rather be on the other side of this and revel in the amusement. Instead, my pulse is on an ascent.
My mom turns sharply on her heels toward my dad. “Richard,” she says with frost, and that can’t be good—her telling him to deal with me.
Phoenix tightens his arms against his chest. He’s a statue of rigid muscle.
My dad has an impossible-to-read expression. “If he were like your previous bandmates, we’d treat him the same, I assure you.”
“Okay…” I frown. “He’s more talented than them. I see the difference.”
“You know that’s not what I’m referring to.”
I’m on fire. Not in a fun way.
Phoenix is so tense, I’m starting to wonder if he’s even breathing.
“You want to finish this conversation in private?” my dad asks me, which grants more unease.
I don’t care what Eliot hears, and at this point, I can’t exclude Audrey without hurting my relationship with her, even if she’s the world’s most mediocre secret-keeper.
“Out in the open is fine,” I say.
“We asked Phoenix if the two of you are more than just bandmates.”
By intensity shared between my parents and Phoenix, I’m guessing my drummer spoke the truth.
“Okay, yeah,” I tell my mom and dad. “We’re just hooking up. It’s not a crime to sleep with your bandmate.”
Audrey catches a gasp with her fingers.
Phoenix finally shifts, just to scrape a hand through his dark hair. Why is my heart taking a hit from a giant sledgehammer?
I twist to him. “We’ve done nothing wrong, dude.”
His head bobs in a nod. “Yeah.”
I can understand the tension. It’s not a comfortable confession to make to someone’s parents: I’m sleeping with my singer, who is your son. I imagine it landed like an asteroid.