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)
My chest rises in overwhelming excitement.
We’re in the air somewhere over Kansas in the smallest jet of my parents’ private fleet. Outfitted with eight white leather club chairs: four by the galley and four facing a varnished table at the back of the plane.
No flight attendant. All self-serve. My bodyguard sleeps reclined in one of the forward club chairs, while Phoenix and I sit at the table.
“Your parents own four planes?” Phoenix’s jaw is still on the floor.
“They’re all different sizes.”
“Like that changes anything. Four planes.” This is not computing for him. But unless he actually attends a trip with my entire family (aunts, uncles, cousins) it’s hard to grasp how many people we’re flying around. With personal security. It’s my normal. Definitely not his.
“And one helicopter,” I add. “But the helicopter is a new addition from late last year.”
Phoenix frowns. “Your dad is a CEO of a massive company. Doesn’t his type fly in helicopters every day?”
“Maybe, but he hates them. Says they’re loud, shaky, and grounded too often because of bad weather. But my mom bought one after Audrey got slipped fentanyl. She doesn’t want to be stuck in traffic again trying to get from Philly to New York. So you know—if I OD on anything, my parents will be here in under forty-five minutes.” I flash a smile.
“That’s not even a little bit funny.” Phoenix glares and studies me for a second. He’s sitting across from me, my vocal steamer on the table between us. I just finished using it for twenty minutes. Singing “Hellbent” for five days straight every week has swollen my vocal folds. I considered calling my ENT for an appointment tomorrow, but I don’t want to worry Phoenix. If I keep consistently using my steamer, I’ll be fine.
He’s still examining my face. “Are you doing coke?”
The question comes out of left field; it might as well sucker punch me in the jaw. I rock back against my seat. “Hello? What? Because I made a joke about OD’ing? Yeah, I get that it’s probably insensitive and in poor taste due to a variety of reasons. So I apologize for that—but what the fuck?”
“It’s not because of your unfunny joke.” He rubs at the edge of his eye. “We’re nearing three a.m., Tom, and you aren’t even yawning.”
“So I’m on coke?”
“Maybe, yeah? You haven’t exactly refuted that you aren’t, man,” he snaps at me. “And I’ve been around you twenty-four-seven for the past three weeks. I know your sleep schedule. You get tired between one and two. You might fight to stay awake, but you’re exhausted. That all changed two days ago—you haven’t been tired at all.”
I didn’t realize he was so perceptive of my sleeping habits.
I try to think about his, but really, he’s a weird sleeper. He naps at random times. Stays up super late. Always wired or strung out on coffee and energy drinks. He’s been that way since I met him, so I haven’t assumed he’s on anything.
“I think I’m just riding a high from Jere’s call two days ago,” I tell him. “It’s natural adrenaline. I promise I’m not on coke. Gunther offered me some. I said no.”
I did say yes to the Adderall, but I don’t mention that.
My stomach cramps.
Phoenix looks like he’s staring through my fucking soul. I’m not lying to him exactly, but I do feel like bottomless shit omitting a fact.
I’m about to change the subject when he does for me. “The call didn’t stress you out, did it?”
The call. Jeremy rang us up when we were in Anaheim. I didn’t delude myself into thinking it’d be “pop the champagne” kind of news. Nothing monumental like record-breaking streams or charting the Billboard Hot 100.
But it was amazing news in my book.
We have momentum in our sales. A positive upward trajectory. Jere thinks it could be from so many different factors: the viral video of Phoenix carrying the bloodied girl out of the pit, the ongoing speculation of Phoenix and me being a thing, my high-octane performances, or maybe even the music. It’s hard to pinpoint one thing.
Riot Records has taken notice, and they want a second album. Fast. Before the end of the year. “The sooner, the better,” Jeremy relayed. “They want to capitalize on the attention.”
And while it bums me out that we can’t just focus on the tour and Silver Sweet, I am beyond ecstatic that Riot sees enough potential in us that they want the next thing. There’s going to be a next thing.
I don’t want to fuck it up.
Don’t want to waste any time.
So I’m already planning to work on the album after shows, which means I can’t be yawning and about to pass out at 1 a.m.
I consulted the list of essentials to my life. Things I’m unwilling to sacrifice. Sleep isn’t on it.