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)
Which is bothering him.
Severely.
He was okay with missing his family’s summer yacht vacation in the Med (yes, a yacht)—but not the little things with Ben. Like just showing up at the End of the World while Ben bartends. Just watching some new nature documentary with him. Just being there in the morning to say hey and slip dried-fruit treats to Ben’s bird.
But Riot has us massively booked with huge media outlets. We’re scheduled to perform on a late-night show next week.
Half of our album is trending. We have five—five songs on the Billboard Hot 100. “Nuclear Winter” is sitting at number six.
It is powerful upward momentum. We fucking took off like a rocket ship, and Tom is trying to block out the voice that says we’re going to plummet if we don’t keep pushing at a voracious speed.
He’s trying.
I know he is. I see it even now, when we’re in the green room in Miami. Nothing Personal is onstage, and he’s just nursing his throat.
He’s not trying to write a song for our next album. He’s not fixated on our socials or opening his emails. Though, I’ve been responding to them for us.
Tom frowns. “How do we even take ‘Hellbent’ out of the set, Phoenix? We don’t have anything to replace it with.”
“Sure we do.” My lips rise. “You had an EP before I came along, nepo baby. How do you think I recognized you the day we met?”
I had no idea what some of his brothers looked like, but I knew of Tom. I listened to his music.
“Let’s play ‘Get Lost,’ off your EP,” I suggest.
He begins to smile. “You think fans will like it?”
“The oldest ones will. For nostalgia.”
The Fourth of July lands us at a huge venue in Charleston. The staff here are treating us like rock royalty. There’s a fucking catered spread of artisanal cheeses, roast beef sandwiches, gourmet burgers, and seven bowls of different chips. We’ve been asked, “Do you need anything else?” about twenty times.
It feels weird. Probably because two months ago, I was fishing dollar bills in a vending machine for stale Doritos.
Before I grab food, I stretch out my sore muscles with a resistance band. The aches and pains suddenly wear off the second Tom speeds over to me with his phone. “Phoenix, Phoenix.”
His panic spikes my pulse. I drop the red band on the floor. “What’s wrong? Tom?” I catch his waist before he can stride past me.
His eyes are plastered to his phone. “Phoenix.” He’s barely breathing.
“Tom.” I pinch his chin and force his sheet-white face upward.
“We got a review.”
I’m about to kill him. “Do not do that ever again. I thought someone died.”
“Dude, I’m about to die.”
“Literal death.” I wrap my biceps around him in a boa constrictor-tight hug because fuck. I never want to lose him. My heart rate slows. I glance down and see his growing smile. Oh my God. “You’re going to keep being dramatic as fuck just so I hug you, aren’t you?”
He gapes. “I’m not on the verge of death just so you can fucking dote on me, Phoenix.” He says my name with more heat. He strides toward the couch. “This is serious. Backbeat Ledger wrote about us.” He plops down on the cushion.
“What’d they say?” I ask. “Bad?”
He’s still ashen. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked. You read it.” He’s pushing the phone into my chest when I sit beside him.
Then he leans backwards with his fingers laced over his eyes.
“Take a breath. It’s not the end of the world,” I assure him.
He lifts his shoulders, still covering his eyes. “I mean, if they say we sound like garbage, that’s on them, right? They obviously need their ears checked. We could send them boxes of Q-tips. That’d be funny.” He mumbles, “I feel better already.”
“Before you go plotting your next petty move, let’s see if they’ve drug us through the mud.” I unlock his phone using his passcode: 060119
The first thing I see is the rating, and I almost black out. Me—the guy who didn’t fucking care about what critics say.
I don’t alert Tom yet.
I just start reading parts of the review to him, “‘The New York duo’s genre-blurring debut album is an emotive, seething cry of frustration and release. Ending on a gut-punching note of raw passion, this behemoth is a firestarter.’”
His fingers slide off his face. His surprised eyes shift to me.
I continue, “‘Lit by the undeniable, incendiary chemistry of its makers—a hell-raising singer/drummer pair—Silver Sweet has already begun taking the world by storm.’”
His lips part in shock. “That’s legit?”
“It’s legit,” I nod. “Don’t die on me because there’s more.”
“Keep going.”
I skip the middle section praising our songwriting (it will put Tom in a coma), and I read the end, “‘A sidestep from traditional punk rock while still paying homage to the emo greats, My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy, with a fusion of synth-pop and an alt-leaning nod to gritty staples like Cage the Elephant—The Carraways have made a beastly first stamp with one of the best, rawest, and most captivating alt-rock records of the year.’”