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)
“You don’t need to apologize twice, let alone one time,” I cut in. “It’s a fucking towel. Not the last drop of water on Earth. Which I’d probably give to Tom anyway—don’t tell him that.” I rolled my eyes at myself.
She eased so much, her shoulders sunk down and she appeared even shorter. “I’d rather listen to babies wailing for forty-eight hours than stroke Tommy’s ego.”
I laughed. “We have that in common then.” I reached for her towel. “If you don’t care—”
“It’s all yours.” She handed it over. “Godspeed, St. Pierre.”
Once, when we found ourselves alone in the living room, I asked her what her childhood was like because she seemed so hyper-aware.
She just shrugged and said, “Most of it was just me, my mom, and whichever dickhead she was dating.” Harriet had these defensive eyes, but I pushed because the worst she could do was tell me to fuck off.
“Dickhead how?” I asked.
“He threw shit,” she said. “My mom kicked me out when I was sixteen, but it’s not that big of a deal.”
I nodded in realization. “You don’t want me to make it a big deal, you mean.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She chewed the corner of her lip, and we talked a little more about drums, how she got into them in Pittsburgh where she grew up. I told her most of my friends from high school were into music. Scally, being my closest friend. She recoiled as soon as I said his name and mentioned Nothing Personal.
“You hate their music?” I guessed.
“They’re okay.” She poorly hid a cringe.
“No, you look like you ate a fucking rotten egg.” I almost laughed. “I’m sleeping with someone who calls Nothing Personal their mortal enemy. I think you’re okay to dislike whoever around me. But I will judge you if you have a problem with the Rolling Stones.”
“Sorry to say, they’re in my bottom tier, St. Pierre.”
I choked on a sound. “You’re joking?”
“Nope.”
I gave her shit the rest of the night, and she took it in stride.
Harriet and I haven’t really hung out one-on-one outside of the Cobalts’ apartment. Ben or Tom has always been around, but there’s no hesitation about wanting to change that now.
PHOENIX
Sure. Send me the location.
She texts back quickly, and I sputter to a stop right at Tom’s door. Towel knotted at my waist, beads of water roll down my chest. The fuck. She just sent me the address to the Cobalts’ building—but a different room number.
This dinner is happening down the hall.
Who the fuck lives down the hall? To afford even the smallest square-foot apartment here, you’d need more than a million bucks.
It doesn’t take me long to jump into a pair of cargos, a Henley, and walk the twenty steps to room 2172. The last door on the hall.
My hair is still wet when I knock.
The door flings open, and I get a waft of a sharp, putrid odor. I pull my Henley over my nose.
“Fuck,” I curse harshly.
“Shit,” the curly-haired brunette grimaces at the door. She shouts back into the apartment, “Harriet, the shrimp is confirmed spoiled!” She twists to me. Loose raven-dark curls frame her heart-shaped face. I’m drawn more to the bruise purpling the golden-brown skin underneath her left eye. She explains casually, “We couldn’t figure out if it was normal-shrimp smell or bad-shrimp smell.”
“Wow. Feeling great about eating dinner here now.”
“Warranted.” She swings the door wider for me. I already considered she might be a trust-fund brat who’d judge my attire, but she’s not dressed up. Just in black sweatpants and a cropped hoodie with fuzzy pale purple socks.
When I walk in, I see Harriet in her usual 2000s low-rise plaid pants, and she’s throwing shrimp into the trashcan.
“St. Pierre,” she nods.
“Fisher,” I greet and watch the brunette, who looks around my age, move to the marble counter where food is piled unsystematically. Cheeses, grapes, salami.
She uncorks a wine bottle. “I promise we won’t poison you. Intentionally, at least.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly, taking in the dark woods, vaulted ceiling, and industrial lighting. The studio apartment resembles more of a standard bachelor pad, and I can see a bed in the loft. It’s still fancy as fuck. The view.
Just wow.
“I’m Joana Oliveira, by the way.” She pours a glass of white wine. “Master of picking out the spoiled shrimp at the supermarket.”
“Oliveira…” I recognize the last name. “You’re related to Charlie’s bodyguard?”
“Oscar, yeah,” she says into a nod. “Big brother. Also lives here when he’s in New York. He coerced me to move in so that he could keep an eye on me. As big brothers do.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Harriet says.
“I am one,” I say and explain to Joana how I have one younger brother. I take the wine that she offers me, staring too long at her bruise. It looks like she’s been sucker punched in the face. I’m not against throwing fists at someone I don’t know. If I find out who hit a girl—