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’m starting to think celebrating small achievements should be a prerequisite to life. It feels so much better than always counting the miles left to go.
“Buffalo!” Gunther yells, breaking the moment.
Fuck. He’s pointing at Tom.
My singer holds a water bottle in his right hand. Buffalo Club. It’s a drinking game we’ve started playing. The best part: it’s pulled Gunther’s attention away from pranks. He loves this game. The rules are overly simple. While on tour, you must drink with your non-dominant hand. In Tom’s case, he needs to be drinking with his left hand.
When caught using the wrong hand, someone—mainly Gunther and Roy—will be sure to notice and scream “Buffalo!” in your face. This incurs a penalty. You have to chug whatever you’re holding.
I glare at Gunther. “We’re going on in less than twenty.”
Gunther makes a face. “It’s water.”
My muscles are coiled. Tom doesn’t like to drink more than a couple sips of anything before a show. He doesn’t want the urge to piss onstage—and you know what, I get it. Will Gunther give a fuck? No.
Tom shrugs like it’s nothing, but I see his fingers tightening against the plastic bottle. He meets my gaze. “It’s cool. I can chug it.”
I know that he can. It’s not the point. Maybe I’m irritable from lack of sleep. The bus shakes too much on the road. I forgot how much harder it is to catch any decent rest on tour. I can’t stop myself from speaking. “Hey, Gunth, weren’t you the one saying how this is unlucky thirteen? Maybe we should cut the stupid drinking game for one night, all right?”
“Dude, it’s fine,” Tom tells me casually, but he slides me a fierce look like drop it.
Peer pressure was not something I thought Tom would succumb to. But this is different, I think. Tom is so wrapped up in his identity as the “fun” brother of his family that he can’t imagine a scenario where he’d be the unfun one ruining a fucking drinking game. Not laughing at a prank. Not being the life of the party.
Tom presses the water to his lips and starts chugging the entire thing.
I hate watching this.
But I’m not about to rip the water bottle out of his hand and embarrass him.
I’m not his big brother.
I’m just the guy fucking him.
I grind down on my teeth.
Gunther turns to me. His long blond hair clings in sweaty strings to his torn muscle shirt. “Stupid drinking game, huh? Funny you think that when your old band taught it to us.”
Tom chokes halfway through, which causes Clint and Asher to cackle with laughter. I shoot both of them a death glare. “Shut the fuck up,” I snap.
They go instantly quiet.
Tom’s neck stains red. He rubs his lips with the back of his hand, then looks to me. “Nothing Personal?”
“Yeah. My brother…he started the game.” I haven’t spoken to Birdie in a week. That weighs on me suddenly. This conversation. Tonight.
Thirteen.
Fuck, I’m not superstitious. What is wrong with me?
I exhale deeply, trying to ground myself. I blink. It’s not working. I light a cigarette instead.
“No smoking in the green room,” Roy tells me.
“Fuck off, Roy,” I snap and blow smoke up in the air.
Clint puts a hand on my shoulder. “You need a good lay, my man. What kind of dudes are you into? I can scope the audience for you.”
“He likes the skinny guys,” Gunther says. “That’s what he went for last tour. Right, St. Pierre?”
My brain hums with static.
Tom’s not looking at me.
I shrug Clint’s palm off my shoulder. “Do not scope anything for me. I don’t need to get laid. I need the drums.”
Asher howls.
Then Roy.
Gunther next.
These stupid fuckers. My lips twitch, and then I see Tom finishing the water off, and I’m back to feeling like a ten-car pile-up. All wreckage and smoke. I take another drag from my cigarette before putting it out on the abused and graffitied coffee table.
Delia comes into the green room, and her nose curls at the smell of smoke. “Roy.”
“Sorry, Delia,” he grins and gives me a wink. I suppress an eyeroll.
“We’re ready,” Tom tells her, chucking the empty water bottle into the trashcan. I follow him out into the hallway, and Delia disappears while we wait stage right.
It’s just us for a second, and Tom rotates to me.
His earnest blue eyes puncture even the toughest parts of me. “You told me that there would be bad nights,” he says. “You remember that?”
My pep talk before we went on tour. I told him that with 67 cities and three months, we’d be facing some bad nights where we’d probably be fighting, irritable, and hating each other’s guts. Maybe we’d be hungover or just fucking done with the travel and the bullshit.
But we’d have to go out there anyway. I told him not to expect every night to be the best show of his life. To expect ones that don’t go well. That feel off. That aren’t up to his standards. Just bad fucking nights.