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)
“Look, it’s not the reason, but maybe I need to play again,” I tell him something. “Like actually play in a band and not tune equipment for someone else.” I swallow harder. “It’s been three years since Sophomore Summer, Bird, and it still…”
The pain of that night still gnaws from the inside.
Music helps seep all these toxic emotions into something that won’t harm, and I haven’t really had that in years. Writing songs for Nothing Personal just isn’t the same as pouring out everything on stage.
Birdie bobs his head in understanding, but he says, “You aren’t going to tell me the real reason?”
“Not tonight. Maybe not ever.” I glare out at the ice-skating rink.
“If someone fucked with you—”
“You are my little brother,” I remind him sharply. “If someone fucked with me, I will fuck with them back.”
Birdie tries to relax. “I think you’re right, though. You need to be playing in a band again.”
“Jeremy found me one,” I tell him.
“Obviously. That’s why you were MIA tonight—you were fucking around with a new band and lost track of time, right?”
“Not fucking around. Just…brain consumed, I guess.”
Joining The Carraways was not on my radar. I thought maybe Jeremy found me a cover band. Hell, I was gearing up to play yacht rock with how much Jere kept the whole meet-up covert like he knew I’d hate the plan.
I did not anticipate he was pairing me up with…Tom Carra-fucking Cobalt. For Christ’s sake, he introduced himself with his middle name. Who does that?
I steal my brother’s water since I didn’t buy a drink, and I wash down the ball in my throat.
“Brain consumed,” Birdie repeats after he finishes his hot dog and crumples the foil in his hand. “So what band has got you this riled up? Is it new or an established one?”
“It’s The Carraways.”
His eyes flame in a hot beat. “Say that again.”
I cap his water bottle. “I’m not repeating it. Saying it once already boils my blood.”
“And yet you’re still going through with this?” He rises to his feet just to tower over me. Maybe forgetting I’m two years older than him. Two inches taller. I stand up and have the height advantage easily. But my brother carries himself like he’s seven feet tall scoring dunk after dunk in the NBA.
I push my hair out of my face. Tension grips my muscles. “I know what you’re going to say,” I tell him. “Tom is—”
“An egomaniac,” Birdie cuts me off hotly. “And an actual certified bonehead. Because there is no way he doesn’t have dick for brains. I have been rejected once in my entire life at an audition, and it was by that fucker.”
Birdie auditioned for The Carraways right after Sophomore Summer imploded. He’d been in a bad place, just like me, and the drumming position seemed like a real light at the end of a dark tunnel.
So I know it hit him extra hard when Tom told him he didn’t get the spot—and that was three years ago. And even though Birdie ended up with Nothing Personal a month later, he never moved past the anger. He still flips off the television screen anytime a Cobalt appears on entertainment news. I’ve been equally annoyed by Tom and, by association, his family. It truly makes no fucking sense why he’d reject my brother other than elitism.
I honestly wonder if I’m setting myself up to be kicked out of the band for some silly reason. Like maybe Tom has a thousand-and-one pet peeves or is a true diva that needs his M&Ms color-sorted by an assistant.
“He’s all those things,” I agree with Birdie. “Believe me, he’s not my first or second choice.”
“So call him. Tell him to fuck off.”
I waver. Only because I heard Tom’s song. The one that’s fusing itself to my brain stem.
Birdie groans off my hesitation. “Tom Cobalt—”
“Tom Carraway Cobalt. He likes to be referred to by his full name.” I force a tight smile.
Birdie’s brows hike. “Wow.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“Just so you know, Tom Carraway Cobalt called me a year ago to ask if I’d reconsider joining his band.”
I step back like I’ve been pushed. “What?” I didn’t know that. I just thought the sum of their interactions began and ended at that audition.
Birdie nods. “Oh yeah. Your new little bandmate changed his mind about rejecting me. Realized the error of his ways. Apparently, The Carraways has had a drummer problem for years. Can’t land a good one. Kept cycling through shitty ones.” He grins triumphantly. “What I call karmic justice.”
My brain is buzzing. “So he called you? And you told him, what?”
“To beg me.”
Yeah, that sounds like my brother. I let out a short, dry laugh. This is great. So fucking great. How am I supposed to work with Tom when my brother and him have this kind of animosity. Is it already marked for ruin?