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)
Therefore, Adderall is necessary. At least until we finish album number two. This is temporary. It’s not forever.
I have a feeling Phoenix won’t agree with that, and his question still hangs in the air. The call didn’t stress you out, did it?
“I’m not stressed,” I answer him. “We can do it all.”
“No, you believe we must do it all,” he contends. “Like letting go of any aspect will deem us less than and not worthy of success. It’s not failure to say we need extra time.”
I exhale a long breath. “You know I’m a perfectionist to like the umpteenth degree. To the point where I was diagnosed with OCPD as a teenager.”
“You’ve told me, yeah,” he nods, listening intently.
I’ve explained to Phoenix that OCPD is a personality disorder, not an anxiety disorder like OCD. Totally different. In group projects, I want to take control because I can’t trust others to do it the right way.
And the right way is obviously my way.
I’ve been working on understanding that my way isn’t always the best way. It’s not easy for me to get there, but I’d like to think I’ve done well this year just collaborating with Phoenix.
“Lowering my standards and compromising has always been hard for me,” I tell him. “And maybe I am struggling to let go. But you can’t deny that the label has a point? Faster releases will keep us relevant. They’re handing us a roadmap to success, and I want to follow it. Especially since they’re just now starting to believe in us.”
Phoenix looks understanding. “We can try, man. I just don’t want you to run yourself in the ground over this.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “Is it stressing you out? Jere’s call about the second album?”
He lifts his shoulders and kneads his muscles against his neck. “Nothing Personal has written on tour, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world.”
He wrote on tour, he means. He’s already done this before, but it was different, I guess. He wasn’t also playing onstage every night. Phoenix just assisted backstage.
As he winces and rolls his neck side to side, I unlatch the table between us and fold it flat against the wall. “I have something for you,” I say, sifting through my backpack at my feet.
Phoenix watches as I hide the item behind my back and stand up. Nearing him, I knock my legs against his knees, and he spreads his thighs open to let me step between them.
His brows furrow. “My birthday is—”
“January first,” I cut in. “It’s practically imprinted on my cerebral cortex. When I’m a corpse, your birthday will be the first thing I remember as a ghost.”
“You said you were immortal.”
“Immortal, incorporeal. I’m really just going to haunt all planes of existence forever.”
His lips twitch. “Jesus fuck. You really can’t take an L, can you?”
“Unless it stands for legendary. No.”
The confused wrinkles between his brows haven’t softened. My pulse suddenly quickens. “Has no one ever gotten you a gift on a random day?” I ask him.
His body stiffens, the corded muscles in his arms more prominent. “No. I can’t say anyone has.”
Uh, fuck. “Not an ex-boyfriend?”
“No.” It’s a hard no.
I open my mouth, close it, reconsidering my response as nerves and uncertainty batter me. Is this too much? No. I would give him a random ass gift again in a fucking heartbeat.
Phoenix shifts tensely upright in the seat, but his posture is already too strict. “It’s okay. Whatever you got me isn’t a big deal, man. We’re just bandmates.” He motions for the thing behind my back.
I can’t move a muscle.
It isn’t a big deal.
We’re just bandmates.
Each word is a harpoon impaling my chest. Right into the heart. “I don’t think we’re just bandmates,” I mutter out.
Phoenix narrows a scalding look at my face. “Yeah. We’re bandmates who fuck.” He juts out his hand more impatiently. “Just give it, Tom.”
“I wouldn’t have said it like that.”
“How did you want me to say it?” he challenges. “How, Tom?”
I don’t know. “We’re only sleeping with each other, dude.”
“Okay, then we’re bandmates who only fuck each other. Good?”
No.
That doesn’t encompass what I feel for him either. I swallow hard and frown at his glare, one he pins to the airplane window and not on me. “Why are you so pissed?” I ask.
“I’m not pissed.” He rakes a hot hand through his hair. “I’m always pissed, okay.” He looks up at me.
“No, this is different.” I spot angst in his eyes.
“Please stop,” he says like I’m torturing him. “Please.”
Does he want more? I hadn’t considered how much Phoenix would, but I’m wondering just how much he does now. Truthfully, I’ve been content with where we’re at. It’s been working for the band. Anything more could cost us energy or mental fortitude we should be putting into music and not into each other. Right?