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)
“You said it just like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, I honestly should have told him to grovel. Get on his knees. Kiss the ring.” Birdie wears a St. Pierre family heirloom on his index finger. A silver fede ring, what our grandfather calls a bague de foi (faith ring). “I feel like I went too nice on him.” He evaluates me like maybe he should go harder now.
“Bird—”
“I want to cash in my Future Favor. You call him. Tell him that you won’t be his drummer unless he grovels.”
I release a constricted laugh. “That guy is never going to grovel. If I could get him on his knees, don’t you think I’d try?”
“Not as hard as me.” Birdie rests a foot on the bench, just to retie his shined black loafer. “Positions swapped, I’d literally tell him to drop to the floor and blow me.”
I seriously doubt that, and not because Birdie wouldn’t receive head from a man. His sexuality has been undefined since he went down on his TA in college.
I pick up my mallet bag. “Yeah, well, I’m not looking to get sucked off, Bird. I’m just looking for a fucking bandmate.” Tom isn’t someone I’m interested in dating or even sleeping with—not because he’s not my type. I’ve destroyed one band already, and fucking a band member is like throwing dynamite into any formula for success.
Birdie sets his foot on the ground. “The Carraways. You need to say the name out loud for it to really sink in what you’re about to do.”
I take a deep breath through my nose. “Nepo baby isn’t who I want to work with. But I do want to play drums, and Jeremy set us up, so I’m not going to let Jere down at least.” I slide a rough hand through my hair. “Tom is who I have right now, and maybe it doesn’t work out. He might not have any time for a band. I have no idea what his schedule looks like.”
“Probably eating steak dinners at the Metropolitan Club. Sitting at board meetings for his family’s companies. Tee time at nine a.m. with Daddy.” Birdie looks me over. “You know all the things we hate. You’re getting into bed with that.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.
5
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
What the fuck is this shit?
Tom.
Tom.
Motherfucking Tom Cobalt. If I say his name in my head enough times I’m hoping that this email can magically transform into something that makes sense.
He gave me his calendar, and full days have black boxes in them. What is he, a part of the CIA? Did someone give him a secret clearance? What could possibly be so important that he’s marked up four days of every week with these fucking boxes? No explanation. Just black boxes. Surely, if he were playing golf with his dad, it wouldn’t need to be redacted.
What’s weirder—all the redactions seem to land on random dates except for Wednesdays, which are infinitely blacked out for the entire year.
What the hell is he doing on Wednesdays? Is that the day he jerks off?
Jesus.
I’m so confused.
I sling my laptop aside on my bed. The gray sheets and comforter are bunched at the end of the mattress, which, by the way, is the nicest thing I own outside of my Suzuki. After wasting money on three different sleep studies, I thought it’d be better spent splurging on joint-cradling memory foam and luxe cooling technology. To be fair, a seven-grand mattress feels spectacular, but it hasn’t cured my insomnia.
It’s 6 a.m.
I slept for about an hour last night, I think. That’s going to be hell later, but right now I’m wide awake and staring down the enigma that is Tom Cobalt’s schedule.
I’ve resisted the urge to Google him. I’m sure there are dozens of articles and at-length Wikipedia entries about the guy. But I’m a firm believer of the “don’t believe everything you read” philosophy, and I’m not about to play a game of What’s Bullshit with him. It’s easier just to treat this the same as joining any other band.
Fuck it.
I’m calling him.
We exchanged phone numbers at the end of the studio session yesterday. I scroll down to where I added him in my contacts as NEPO BABY, and I put the call on speakerphone.
He answers on the second ring, and it shocks me. I thought he’d be sleeping in way past six on a Monday.
“Phoenix?” Tom asks, no just-woke-up grogginess in his voice. “Or is this Fake Phoenix? The other bird guy. Maybe Eagle? Falcon? Do you have another brother named Turkey?”
I’m going to kill him.
My hand squeezes tight on my cell. “Why the hell are you a singer when it’s clear you’re aching to be a stand-up comedian? Scared of being booed off stage?”
“Dude, you don’t think I’ve been booed before? I’m not scared of that.”