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)
When his tongue reaches my sternum, he drops back down and wraps his lips around the shot glass near my cock. He pries it out with his mouth, then as he stands, he throws his head back, taking the liquor like a body-shot pro.
I’m enamored by him. He sets the shot glass by my thigh and moves toward my face. I think he’s about to kiss me. Until his lips veer to my ear, and he whispers, “Happy birthday, Tom.”
This.
This.
This.
I’m…undone. It’s too much. Does he feel it too? Is that why his eyes never return to mine? He wipes a hand across his mouth like we kissed. We didn’t kiss. I can’t even banter. I can’t even speak.
He’s just twisting away. Then he’s gone, slipping between my party friends.
Thundering noise reaches my ears again. Cheering blends with the heart-racing beat of our song “Wired” and various exclamations and shouts like:
“That was so hot!”
“Who was that?!”
“Drummer for The Carraways—Wolfgang something!”
“Oh shit, I’ve seen him on social media!”
I try to reanimate. Before Creighton gets any ideas, I hop off the table.
“Tom?” Eliot puts a hand on my shoulder, checking in with me.
“I’m good. I’m good.” Just in a daze. “Keep this up.” I wave toward the lively crowd, and he nods.
Maybe Phoenix just needs a minute to cool off alone. Yeah, yeah.
I might need that too.
41
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Fucking hell, I am sweating. And it’s not just because the number of bodies in Tom’s apartment has increased the noxious heat by twenty degrees. I could very well blame it on the body shot I just took off Tom, the one that will be ravaging my head for years to come. But that’s not it either.
Two hours ago, before this party even started, I fucked up.
It’s been itching at me.
Clawing.
I just need to tell someone, and that someone cannot be Tom.
I’m in Tom’s bathroom after waiting in line for what felt like twenty minutes. Phone on video call, I have it propped up against the mirror.
My brother runs a towel over his damp hair, grown out just past the awkward stage from a couple of months ago. The brown strands are at a short, workable length now.
“You look freaked.” His voice is so full of rasp, it catches me off guard.
“What the fuck happened to your voice?” I ask.
He makes a face. “Deep throated too hard.”
“No, seriously,” I say.
“Seriously,” Birdie says with a grin. “Scratched up my throat bad. Hell of a blow job though. Thank God, I’m not a singer. Hey, Tom’s going easy on the head, righ—”
“Fuck off,” I cut him off hotly. “Did you get checked for—”
“Yeah, all negative. It’s really just a sore throat. Don’t freak.” He tilts his head and narrows his gray eyes. “But you are freaked about something.” He motions a hand at his own face. “You’re all scary grimace lines.”
I run a hand through my hair, about to tell him, but my resolve drops for a second. “You coming to the party?” I ask instead.
He’d been invited personally by Tom, which wasn’t the biggest shock of the century. Tom knows how close I am to my brother, and I think he respects that relationship a lot, the same way I respect his with Eliot.
Not to mention Birdie is on the album.
I brought my brother into the studio and recorded him playing cello for “Killer Ultraviolet.” I prepared for a verbal bloodbath between my singer and my brother. But it never happened. Birdie was so professional, you’d think he was auditioning for The Manhattan Symphony. Tom holstered all weapons in favor of finishing the song on a strong note.
I’m not deluding myself into thinking they’ve established a permanent truce, but it was nice to see them get along for a stretch.
“Was going to, but then this happened.” He motions to his throat. “And while I’d love seeing Tom absolutely fawn over you like you’re the second coming of Jesus Christ—”
“He does not do that,” I cut in.
Birdie smirks. “You’re right, at the studio he looked like he wanted to take a guitar pick and wedge it in your eye socket, but the Cobalt Empire speaks in code, man. I think that’s code for ‘I’m obsessed with you.’”
I don’t have the energy to disagree. I’m not even sure I do. “So you’re not coming to the party?”
“Man, I’m not setting myself up for Batman jokes. Hard pass.” His graveled voice does sound like a Bruce Wayne impersonation. I get it. Birdie can take being the butt of a joke—but probably not in a room full of Tom’s rich friends. His expression sobers into something more serious. “Can we stop talking about me and go back to why you’re all freakishly freaked out? I thought you were having fun at your boyfriend’s little birthday party.”
There it is.
Boyfriend.
I grip the marble sink counter and expel a heavy breath. “He’s not my boyfriend.”