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)
“Yeah, but how much are hotels actually? Morale is important, dude. The label won’t pay for it, but I can.”
Phoenix cocks his head at me. “What about Roland Fairchild?”
I wince. No regrets in telling him the story about Roland—but I knew it’d bite me in the ass.
Roland is another trust fund baby, but he had a dream to become a big fashion designer. Dumped all his money into his company and it never took off. Anytime I see him, he’s always on the phone with his parents, begging for a deposit into his account.
He’s not even an anomaly. So many of my rich party friends blow their allowance trying to start a company or fuel a passion that goes nowhere. I’ve tried to be smarter for my own pride and because my money isn’t bottomless. Even though my parents’ wealth is in the billions, I’m personally not worth that much, nor do I have that kind of cash to spend.
Still, I have more than enough to live beyond my means, but my trust fund has actual rules. My parents give me a giant lump sum every May, and it needs to last me through the year.
Not all my siblings are good with their finances. Ben gave all his savings away in a mental breakdown. Eliot spends exorbitant amounts on clothes, food, and luxury brands. Dude has like five pairs of red-bottom Louboutin oxfords in his closet.
Mostly, I invest what I’m given and put as much as I can into retirement. For the tour, I set a cap on what I’m willing to spend out of my personal finances, and I even sat down with Phoenix to discuss where the money would be put to best use. We mainly amped up the staging for the show. Special lighting, custom risers and backdrops, stage outfits, the jean jackets I give to fans, and I’m flying in a videographer for weekend shows.
It’s safe to say—I’m at my cap.
“Dropping the Roland Fairchild card is a dick move,” I tell Phoenix.
“If you didn’t want me to use it, you wouldn’t have told me about him.” He shoves his feet in a pair of sneakers and watches me zone out. “Stop thinking about it, man. You’re not breaking open your personal piggybank for some hotel showers.”
“It’s a big piggybank, dude.”
Phoenix glares at me. “Yeah, and it’s going to be an empty one if you use it to make this tour feel like a luxury cruise. We agreed that’s not even a good use of your money if you wanted to spend more. Which you shouldn’t. You aren’t.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I let out a heavy sigh. “I just feel guilty, I guess. Like Hannah said she can’t shave her legs in the bus shower. That has to be annoying.” I change into a tee and sweats.
“We’re all making concessions,” Phoenix says. “Once we start selling more tickets and book bigger venues, the band will be able to afford the comfort upgrades. This doesn’t have to be a forever thing.”
“Great, another bullet point on why I’m desperate to become the next big rock band. List is getting way too long—longer than my Christmas naughty list by the time I was ten.”
“Jesus Christ. I do not want to know.” He has a shadow of a smile, so he definitely wants to know.
I tell him that, and Phoenix retorts, “I’m sure you would love to tell me every minute of your life like it’s a nine-hundred-hour movie.”
“And you would love watching it.”
“While I’m taking a nap, yeah.”
He doesn’t relent and let me have the final word, not even when I tell him he’d be sleeping through an Oscar-winning Best Picture. We banter for maybe five minutes, and before I know it, we’ve closed the distance, and his lips are on mine.
I fist his shirt. Dizzy. Holy shit, why does he still make me feel like I’m about to fall over?
My lips sting when we tear away from each other. My thoughts are jumbled, but I don’t try to sort through them right now.
We both grab our duffels and head outside. Midnight closes in on this cool California night, and a black Escalade idles by the tour buses as it waits for us.
Gunther leans up against Evening Glory’s bus, smoking a blunt. “Hey, Tom!” he calls out. “When are you going to invite us on the PJ?!”
When you stop smelling like skunk.
“TBD!” I yell back. “Not my jet! I don’t have control over the manifest!” I make an aw-shucks face.
Clint and Asher approach with two girls laughing on their arms. I am more than happy to be leaving for the next couple of days. Tonight was our last show in California, our twenty-second day on tour. And like every Tuesday night, Phoenix and I drive to the nearest hangar to fly back home for our two days off.