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)
It is very weird, considering the Cobalts are so loaded they could purchase the entire 21st floor. Hell, maybe even the entire fancy-as-fuck high-rise. Then again, I understand the pricelessness of living with a sibling while you can.
I’m not in a hurry to ditch my brother in Chelsea. Would bail on the burnt-pepperoni apartment, though.
Birdie is only partially paying attention to Tom’s rant. He’s too concerned about the drums. He’s squatting down and twisting a lug on the floor tom.
“Hey, nepo baby,” I call out.
Tom huffs at his phone.
“Tom. Can you shelve the Cobalt Empire drama for two seconds? I need your help.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He immediately shoves his phone in his pocket. “What can I do?”
“My parents are here. I need you to bring them into the green room.”
Surprise jumps his brows and Birdie’s. Then Tom says a quick, “Yeah, for sure. I’d be happy to. No take backs!” He points at me and rushes out with a grin. He’s wanted to meet my parents for a long time. But they still don’t know we’re together.
No idea how this is going to fucking go. I won’t be around to see it, I realize.
Birdie stands up while I test the kick drum. “Cobalts are acting like the sky is falling because why?”
“You know why.” He’s heard the drama every week. “Their little sister wants to move in with them.”
He bends back to the floor tom. “What kind of girl has five brothers in a major tailspin?
“I’ve barely met her, man.”
“Hope to never,” he says, then releases a tight sigh when I lightly tap the floor tom and it wobbles. He needs to get out of my way. I’d just fixed that.
“Let go.” I swat his hand aside and shove his chest back. “I’m doing it. Stop stressing.”
Birdie nods a few times and tugs down the sleeves to his graphic tee. “You should be more stressed. Your Tom-Tom just went to greet Mom and Dad alone.”
“Because I’m helping you, dickhead.”
He has an appreciative look. “I owe you a Future Favor. Don’t waste it. You’ve only had like two this year.”
“It’ll be something good.” I test the toms again. “Better?”
His lip twitches. “Rack tom sounds off.”
I loosen another lug and try not to imagine Tom bringing my parents into the venue. What’s the worst that can happen?
Blood trickles down my face from a three-inch gash in my forehead. The positive is that I banged into a metal truss after the final encore song. We finished our set, and I’m sitting in the green room, pressing blood-soaked gauze to my forehead.
I haven’t even seen my parents yet.
Tom said they didn’t want to bother me and Birdie, so they’d catch us after the show. “They’re very comfortable in their seats next to my parents,” Tom assured. “All parents safe, sound, and accounted for. Also, I nailed it.” He grinned. “They already love me.”
I would’ve thought he was fucking exaggerating if he wasn’t rocking on his feet in excitement when he said it.
Now he’s on the phone, his knee on the couch cushion beside my thigh while he hovers over me and inspects the gash beneath the gauze. “He said he’s not dizzy. No blurred vision. Okay, okay. Thanks, yeah.”
We’re both coated in sweat from the ninety minutes we just spent onstage. Our breathing is still labored, but I think Tom’s is more from worry.
He hangs up and tells me, “A medic is coming from the first aid station.”
Great, so they should be here soon to check out the stupidest fucking injury I’ve obtained in my life. Sorry, no, the one time I cut my hand on a can of tuna was fucking dumber.
I’m more pissed at myself than anything. I wish this happened at literally any other concert. I don’t think I’m concussed. Just trying to stop the bleeding before my parents appear. “My mom is going to freak out,” I warn Tom.
“My mom would too if I looked like Carrie.”
I get the movie reference, but I can’t see myself. “There’s no way I look as bad as a girl who had pig’s blood dumped on her head at prom.”
“It’s pretty bad, dude.” Tom leaves just to return with a wet rag. He wipes my face for me, staining the cloth crimson, and he keeps asking if I’m disoriented.
“No,” I promise, knocking my foot with his since my hands are occupied. “I’m more wired than anything.” It’s not long before the medic makes a quick assessment and sutures my forehead.
Three stitches later, I’m bandaged up, and Birdie is leading our parents into the green room. Our mom has nervous energy. Her head is on a swivel, eyes swinging left and right in search of me like I’m a four-year-old about to be snatched in an airport.
I used to joke with Birdie that we must’ve been kidnapped when we were kids. Now, as I’ve gotten older, I wonder if something happened to her. If it has nothing to do with us.