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)
Tom and I exchange more than one look. His wide eyes say, Holy shit. Mine have to say the same thing because this is fucking nuts.
All the people I can see near the stage—they know every single song we’re playing. Off the entire album.
Tom bends close to a girl—silver streaks down her cheeks, mimicking the ones painted on mine—and she sings “The Arcadian” with him. Tears glass her big, awed eyes and drip down her jaw.
It’s reciprocal. I’m in awe of them.
Not even thinking anymore, I just play and feel the music pulsing within me. I forget how much I used to hate this part. Where Tom steps into the crowd.
He’s never been dropped, but the second they grip his ankles tonight, hands claw up his thighs, his waist. Pulling at him.
Fuck.
I pop up while playing—because Tom is still fucking singing—but he’s being tugged downward by the audience like a swarm of ants gathering over a hill.
Our security hops over the barricade to unearth my boyfriend, and when I lose sight of him completely, I ditch my drum kit and pry my IEM out from my ear.
I hear the shrill pitch of elation as I charge toward the crowd. Sliding off the stage, I’m on the concrete general admission floor, and my ears ring from adrenaline and my past.
Security is clearing a path for Tom.
I reach my arms over the barricade, grabbing Tom while he stretches toward me. I pull him over, hands clawing at both of us. They’re torn off the minute Tom’s feet land on the concrete. We’re in the security pit between the barricade and stage.
He breathes hard.
As soon as he’s safe, oxygen rushes into my lungs. I cup his face, and he nods to me like, I’m good. “You?” he asks, his mic shut off.
“Good.” I nod back strongly, feeling weight release from my body. I’m not as wrecked as when my sticks hit one of our fans.
This is getting easier.
Before we climb onstage, I slap his ass—not thinking. So not fucking thinking. The audience is screaming.
I hear, “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” at a piercing decibel. Phones are out recording us. They’re always recording. Tom doesn’t care. He’s laughing into a grin, beating me onstage and whipping the mic cord.
I smile a little and hop back onstage with him.
We exchange a much longer look while I trek to my drum kit. Our secret is alive between us, and it’s unconsciously being teased here and there to our fans.
Tom is eating it up.
He loves toying and taunting, and I wonder if he’ll be satisfied with never confirming our relationship. Of always keeping pieces to himself.
Then again, he’s Tom.
He’ll likely always dream of more.
I don’t care what we do. I just want him and for us to play music together.
Our music.
“Wolfgang St. Pierre, everyone,” he says as I settle behind the drums and twirl my sticks. “Should we do that one again, Wolfgang?”
“OH MY GOD! OHHHH MY GOOOOOD!” I hear before I fit my IEM back in.
I answer with a countdown.
Tom says to the crowd, “Looks like we’re never stopping. Stay with us. All fucking night!” They go wild as he screams into “Your Epidemic” and I thrash against the toms and snare, my foot pounding the kick pedal.
Cincinnati is the last show where the crowd grips Tom’s ankles. We have the audience hold a gym board that he stands on instead. Scally’s idea—which Tom runs with immediately and calls, “Genius.”
“Wow, that rivalry with Nothing Personal really sputtered out,” I tease him. “Almost like it never even existed to be begin with.”
He flips me off.
As we carve our way through the Southeast, these days on tour with my boyfriend, my brother, and my friends become fuel for my soul. The green room before each concert is flooded with bright laughter, silly videos, and sound.
So much sound.
None of us can seem to stop making music, even when we’re not onstage. Birdie has his cello out, and Tom and Scally sing “Thunderstruck” to the melody behind my brother’s bow.
I’ve hated seeing the cello, but in this capacity, I love it.
He brought the instrument on tour to play the cello parts in “Killer Ultraviolet.” My brother comes out for the encore song in every city.
By Miami, Tom and I are feeling the effects of being on the road for so long amid flights back to New York—plus giving a hundred and ten percent at every concert. It’s our fiftieth show, and Tom is doing his best not to get sick.
He’s practically attached to his vocal steamer.
“You have to quit singing ‘Hellbent,’” I say, icing my shoulder. “It’s not an option anymore.”
His reddened eyes meet mine. He’s already stressed about the second album. The one we’re barely working on because during our off days, we’re back in New York—and not always there to hang out with his brothers.