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)
A Craigslist ad.
We’re offloading some free signed photos of Fizzle royalty, the Calloway sisters! Just call this number and say, “I’d like to crack open a cold can of Fizz on you.” We’ll save your number, and you’ll be automatically entered to win a signed photo.
Gunther included my cell number in the ad.
“Diabolical.” My hands are on the back of my head, fingers threaded together. “If I wasn’t so annoyed, I’d almost be impressed.”
“How’d he get your number?” Phoenix asks me.
“Uh, he asked for it?” I say with a weird look. “Dude is touring with us. What was I going to do—say no?”
Phoenix scowls. “I’m calling Gunther and telling him to fuck off.”
“You are not doing that. You said it yourself that pranks are normal on tour. I don’t want to be the guy that can’t take a joke. That’s not me, okay? I can take jokes.” My chest rises and falls heavily. Fuck, why is this getting to me all of a sudden?
Phoenix frowns. “I know you can take a joke, Tom.”
“Okay. Cool. So I’m going to just block the numbers. Laugh about it with Gunther tomorrow, and we’ll move on.”
Phoenix winces like the plan physically hurts him. So I’m surprised when he forces a stiff nod. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want.”
45
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The heavy bass of Evening Glory’s final song thumps the green room floor. I stretch my biceps behind my head. Tom bounces on his feet and shakes out his arms. My in-ear monitors (IEMs) are small earpieces that hang from the cord over my shoulder. I’ve already stripped off my shirt, and the aggressive air conditioning pricks my skin.
Tom has on his signature The Carraways black jean jacket. The back design is more intricate than the earlier ones. Blue flames with purple tips now lick the band logo. He tosses the jacket into the crowd at each tour stop, and it’s blown up on social media to where we’ve seen a change at shows. Fans are now clamoring to be the one to claim the jacket. A fight broke out in Fresno over it, and Tom had to stop singing to deescalate the situation.
When Tom said he was going to use his own money to buy 67 jackets to give out, I didn’t think it’d become this.
It’s pretty fucking cool.
“Ready?” Tom asks.
“Think so. You?”
He nods, and we converge in the center of the room. Only an inch away. Like we’ve done before each show, he hooks our pinkies. Our eyes land on each other, and Tom says, “Your flesh.”
“Your bone,” I reply.
“Something good is going to grow,” he finishes like a promise, and I bring our hands up. We kiss our thumbs.
Then I pull him into my body. We’re hugging, a deep, chest-welding hug where his arms pin against my back and mine tuck tight around his shoulders. Everything sounds hushed except for the steady thump of his heart against mine.
I’ve had pre-show rituals with bandmates before where we all take collective breaths and share a silent minute, but this isn’t just an encouraging hug of camaraderie.
I know what every night on that stage means to Tom. What he gives to the crowd. What he gives to our band. He knows what playing music every night means to me.
It’s our thirteenth show. Our nineteenth day on tour.
The nerves before a performance haven’t changed. They’re still riding me hard. Maybe even more tonight when Gunther made it a point to remind everyone this is unlucky number thirteen. Most of our crew are superstitious, and they’ve been extra vigilant today.
As my brother would say, the vibes are off.
Less chatter. Fewer high-fives and less friendly banter. It’s been putting me on edge.
All this is happening when I’ve just started to not worry during Tom’s crowd-surfing and choreographed falls and jumps.
Nothing will happen, I tell myself. I suck in a deeper breath, squeezing him tighter just once more before I let go.
Tom attempts to hide a smile, one that reddens his face.
It upturns my lips.
The bass in Evening Glory’s song dies off, and it’s our sign to break farther apart. Tom grabs a water bottle from the mini-fridge as the doors blow open to wild screams and laughter.
“Goddamn!” Roy howls.
Clint and Asher make wolf noises in response, and Gunther trails the pack. “Boys, you are not going to believe it.” Gunther’s talking to Tom and me. “We’re almost at a full house.”
“Bullshit,” I say. We’re in Los Angeles. One of the bigger venues on our schedule.
“Not bullshit, St. Pierre.” Roy catches the fridge door before Tom can close it. He bends down and grabs four beers. “It’s packed.”
Tom’s eyes light up in excitement. Whenever he meets even the tiniest crumb of success, you’d think the whole sky exploded in comets and shooting stars. It’s one of my favorite sights.