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)
“Made you what?”
“Feel like a horrible brother to you.” His bloodshot eyes tunnel through mine. “You’ve sought advice that I could’ve given—that I wanted to give.”
My jaw unhinges. “I might need that chair,” I say as realizations rock me. “Holy shit…” I thread my hands on my head. “You’re way more experienced than I am…this whole time? How long?”
“I’ve had casual sex with men for a while.”
I blink hard. What the fuck? “Leo isn’t the only one?”
“No, he’s not.” Beckett slips his bare hand through his dark, wavy hair. “But he is the first guy I ever slept with.”
I’m pummeled with the truth. My brain cycles through so many questions, but I land on this one, “When?”
“I was nineteen. So was he,” he says. “I was his first experience with a guy too.”
“Five years ago?”
“Almost six.”
Right. I drag my hands down my face, hoping this all sinks in soon. “You’ve had anal sex? Like received? Given?”
“Both,” he nods.
I think out loud, “You’re not straight.”
“I’ve never really thought of myself as anything. I just fuck who I fuck. That’s it really. It’s simple to me.”
Our dad is very similar, so I ask, “Does Dad know?”
Beckett shakes his head slowly, but then says, “I suspect he does know.”
I nod. “Because he knows everything.”
“Because he sensed something between me and Leo. The same way I think Phoenix must have too. Honestly, I’ve really only ever told Charlie everything.”
I push my hair back a few times, trying to process. My gaze rises back to Beckett’s with a much deeper question. “Do you love him?”
His brows spring off his face. “Leo?”
“He was your first, Beckett.”
“It’s not romantic. It’s sex, Tom.”
I think about me and Phoenix, and sleeping with him has never been unemotional or purely physical. I can’t imagine having sex with him like that.
But I know Beckett has been into casual sex with zero commitments since forever. “Okay, yeah.” I worry, “Is this triggering your OCD telling me everything?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay,” I exhale a tight breath. “Okay, good, because tell it to fuck off. We’re having a one-on-one here, and it’s unwelcome.”
Beckett starts to smile. “I’ll let my mind know.”
“Good,” I nod. “Fuck OCD.”
“Fuck OCD,” Beckett agrees deeply, his eyes glassing. “Je t’aime avec la force d’un million de frères.” I love you with the strength of a million brothers. “Pas seulement mille.” Not just a thousand.
It almost breaks me. “Well, now I have to go up to a billion.”
He laughs, and my lips lift. Nearly at the same time, we converge into a hug. I embrace him a little tighter than usual, gripping the back of his suit jacket. I feel his arms strengthen around me.
All this time.
I take a much deeper breath. His chest rises like he’s taking one too. Beckett draws back just a bit, his gaze softening on mine. We’re eyelevel, exactly the same height, and he says, “Charlie and I really like him. Phoenix.”
I let out a skeptical noise. “Charlie doesn’t like anyone.”
“He likes him enough.”
“Because Phoenix got me to throw out my Adderall,” I realize.
“Not just that,” Beckett states, smiling again. “Ever since we met him, he’s been genuine with his feelings, never really guarded them.” He nods to me. “I also like that for you. I can’t imagine you being with someone who would guard themselves.”
It swells up inside me. My nose flares, and I let out a little laugh in thought. “Who knew I’d end up with a bleeding heart?”
58
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“It sounds like shit,” Birdie says about thirty minutes before doors open in Midtown Manhattan. The only people milling around are venue staff and band crew.
I’m behind my brother’s drum kit onstage and playing Nothing Personal’s “Tragic Hold” with a cringe. Not because I hate the song. I immediately hear a boingy noise and a warble.
“So bad,” Birdie shakes his head, hearing it too.
“Your rack tom is choked,” I say, then shoot him a warning glare. “Don’t mention my Tom.” I clarify quickly, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
“I should give him a business card with my full name, just so he sees mine is cooler. Birdie Haydn St. Pierre,” he says while scrutinizing the kit. “Hit the floor tom again.” I do, and he frowns. “That’s so floppy.”
“I’ve got it.” I loosen the lugs on the rack tom before tightening the ones on the floor.
Birdie checks his phone. “Fuck, they’re here.”
“Mom and Dad?”
“Yeah. Dad said the line is wrapped around the block.”
We’re at Radio City Music Hall, an iconic, intimate venue with all theater seating. A great concert for them to attend. Moshing is unlikely.
I can’t go grab our parents while I’m in the middle of tuning Birdie’s drum kit. There are backline techs in our tour crew, but my brother is particular about sound and wanted me to fix it.
The answer to this problem comes onstage. Tom walks toward us, texting on his phone, his left wrist still splinted. “I am not, am not, am not sharing a room with my sister. Ben Pirrip is losing the plot here. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He should not be sleeping on a pull-out again. This is so messed up.”