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)
“Let’s figure this out backstage,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his waist to lift him up.
The crowd claps and cheers for Tom. It hurts him more when he has to hobble away. He wants to just pick up the mic and act like nothing fucking happened.
His wrist is really, really fucked up. The bone is bent out of shape. Thankfully there isn’t blood or a puncture.
Tom vomits in a trash bin backstage. I rub his back and see Birdie sprinting toward us.
“The light didn’t turn on,” my brother says in a heavy pant.
“What?” I frown.
“Spotlight never lit up where he usually lands. It was pitch black.” His concern sweeps Tom, then me. “Show over?”
“No,” Tom spits in the trashcan. “Just get me a T-shirt or something to make a sling.”
“Is he for real?” Birdie asks me.
I smear a hand down my face. “Tom. You broke a bo—”
“I know, dude. But I’ll go to the hospital after we finish our set.”
Birdie looks impressed. “Rock and roll.”
“Not helping,” I snap.
“Fine, I’ll get him a shirt.” He’s quick to nab a Carraways long-sleeved merch tee.
I rig up a makeshift sling for Tom. His bone is not in the right spot.
He’s squeezing his eyes shut. “I can feel you glaring at me, and it’s not nice,” Tom says with a wince. “I’m in pain, dude. You should be kinder.”
I try not to smile. “Let’s just get through this set. Then you can whine about it later, nepo baby.”
“We’re so good at compromising,” Tom muses like these ego-boosts are a morphine drip. Whatever makes him feel better, I’ll take it.
One problem. Several songs are still left in the set where Tom is meant to play guitar. Now, he can’t. But Birdie can. My brother has heard the full album enough that he nails every intricate riff when he goes onstage with us.
We finish the set without skipping a single song, and later, after a trip to the emergency room and an X-ray—Tom learns he has a distal radius fracture. His wrist. No surgery, but he’ll need to be in a splint for six weeks. After a short back-and-forth with our label, we’ve agreed to cancel four shows.
Just four.
Tom would opt for one. Not just for our fans, but because he feels like he’s hurting Scally and Steffi. Nothing Personal is being told to pull out too.
During the car ride to the jet, I hear my brother speaking French to our Papi, telling him that he’ll be in the city for the next week.
And then, like clockwork, Birdie agrees to play cello for the New York Ballet Company’s summer benefit performance.
Tomorrow.
Feelings are conflicted, but I want to see him play. Birdie’s been under too much stress for me to be anything but a supportive big brother right now. I might hate it—but this is his choice.
In the backseat beside me, Tom wears a blissed-out gaze, doped up on painkillers. He babies his splinted wrist. “Want to go to the ballet?” I ask him.
His smile says yes. He rests his temple on my shoulder. “I miss my brother.”
It’s one of the few times I’ve heard him mention Beckett.
57
TOM COBALT
“He’s really good,” I whisper to Phoenix in our velvet-lined box seats at the Whitney Theater. Classical melodies surge from the orchestra pit in powerful crescendos. I’ve seen Birdie play the cello countless times now, but never in this formal setting.
He seems so contained, unlike when he’s playing rock on the cello. His head never thrashes too much in the pit. He’s so hyperfocused, not even glancing at the sheet of music on the stand.
“Your brother,” I clarify off Phoenix’s silence.
His eyes are glued to the stage. “Yours too.” He’s watching Beckett perform a technically demanding variation I’ve also seen countless times. Swan Lake Act III pas de deux. His technique is always flawless. To the point where every leap looks sky-high and weightless. It causes the crowd to intake a breath. “Damn,” Phoenix murmurs.
I bow into his arm again to whisper, “Talent spreads wide in the St. Pierre and Cobalt lineage.”
Phoenix takes a moment to respond. “That looks like more than just talent.”
“Dedication and commitment,” I agree.
Phoenix tilts his head a little so I can whisper better in his ear. I love that he’s not pissed I’m talking during the ballet. Proof I’m acing life: I chose a boyfriend who values my thoughts enough to want to hear them.
“He’s why I work so hard,” I admit, more hushed. “I grew up seeing Beckett give everything to ballet, and I figured if I wanted something as badly as I did music, I’d have to put in the time and effort like he did.”
Phoenix almost responds with an arm around my shoulder. He stops himself short. We’re not onstage or at a concert venue where being overly physical can just pass as friendly camaraderie. Just bandmates goofing around. Having fun. Lightly flirting.