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 didn’t think he’d ever bring it up. My throat swells. “I remember.”
“This is a bad night,” he tells me with a strong nod. “I know that. I’m probably to blame for a part of it.”
I shake my head. “I was going to say about eighty percent.”
“Valid. Yeah…” He lets out a deeper breath, and his face morphs into a grimace. “It destroys me to admit, but I have no backbone with those guys. I’m just not used to being in these situations without…”
“Your brother,” I say for him. Eliot.
He clenches his jaw as he nods. “He always knows what to do and say—and I’m not saying you don’t. Because, holy shit, I don’t want you to be Eliot. That’s like the last thing I want.”
I adjust one of my IEMs into my left ear. “The feeling is mutual, Tom.”
He glances cautiously at the stage, but I can see a tech guy fixing one of the pedals, so we at least have some time. “I guess navigating this without him is harder for me than I thought it’d be.” He swings his hands and claps them together. “But I don’t want to ruin us onstage. This…tension or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” I tell him. “It’s not tension. I’m just struggling watching you make stupid decisions.”
“Yeah, thanks. Me too.” His lips lift softly.
Mine follow. “You know I’m usually the one fucking everything up, so this is a nice little change.”
“There’s still time, dude. I’ll give you this crown.” He fits an IEM in his right ear, and big, vibrating screams thunder the floor. The audience starts chanting, “Carraways! Carraways! Carraways!”
Tom’s gaze never leaves mine. “It’s just you and me on that stage,” he says over the noise. “We have the ability to turn bad nights into great performances. I believe that.”
My chest swells. “Is this your pep talk for me?”
“Yeah.” He searches my eyes. “Is it working?”
I nod. My throat closing. Words lost to the way he’s trying to comfort me.
“You’re on!” Hannah says. I’m not sure when she slid up behind me. But she places my drumsticks in my hand and gently pushes my shoulder, urging me on the stage.
I give Tom one last look. Kiss him, my heart begs. I can’t. Even if Hannah has seen us slipping in and out of each other’s bunks on the bus, there are other people backstage that aren’t a part of The Carraways crew.
“I know,” Tom tells me into a nod with an arresting smile. “I know.”
I nod back, adjusting my IEMs. “See you out there,” I say, and our hands brush as I leave. He hooks my fingers for a short beat, then distance tears us apart. Adrenaline already courses through me. I walk into the gray lights and fog rolling across the ground. The chants cut off to shrill, ecstatic screams.
Everything about the show goes well tonight.
Tom was right. We turned it around somehow, and the performance was electric. Every thump against the snare felt more emotional. More savage. And when he sang, it was soul-fisting.
So as soon as we finish our encore songs and I’m heading to the edge of the stage—I think I’m over the hurdle.
Nothing’s going to go wrong.
I toss one drumstick out into the crowd like I do every night. Then the other—and I hear a sharp, brutal fucking scream.
I squint through the crowd, and when I see a tall girl holding her nose, blood pooling between her fingers, I connect the dots.
My drumstick hit her in the face. I can’t even tell how hard I threw the thing. I’m strong but fuck.
I’m not thinking. I jump off the stage, then hop the barricade. Fans let me through, but they’re also grabbing onto me, snapping photos. My ears are ringing as I’m moving through the crowd. The last time I was down here—nothing good happened.
That’s a fucking understatement.
The worst night of my life happened.
I can’t breathe. My vision tunnels. I’m just trying to make it to the girl. The crowd parts a little for me, and I see her. She has her hair up in two buns tied off with metallic silver scrunchies. She’s crying through the pain. Blood soaks her purple The Carraways tee.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Elsa.” Her hands are trembling, her eyes watering.
“Can I pick you up?” I ask. “I can get you to medical.”
She nods over and over. “Yes, please.”
I scoop her up from underneath and brace her back with my other hand, cradling her. I find her friend, and we’re making our way toward the barricade and out of the general admission pit. Somehow, I pull this off. It feels like an out-of-body experience. Once I’m backstage, there are so many voices. People scrambling and barking into walkie-talkies.
By the time I blink, I’m back in the green room with Elsa, and she’s getting checked out by a medic. Her friend holds her hand on the couch. I apologize to Elsa a couple of times, then sign some band posters for her and her friend.