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)
My chest aches while I hear his unsteady breath. I reach for my journal, biting off the cap to my red pen.
“Probably to torment me, right? Anyway…” He clears his throat. “I’m not fucking crying. I know, I know, you really want to see me finally shed a tear, but it’s like a shooting star, dude. Okay. Jerk off to this later. Bye.” It ends.
I jot some lyrics, his words crackling and flaring inside me like sparklers in a dark end-of-summer sky. Then I answer with a quiet voice memo. “I’ve already seen you cry, nepo baby. When I railed you so hard, you came.”
He responds about twenty minutes later. “I professed my undying love to you, and you talk about fucking me. Love is dead. BYE.”
I laugh under my breath, doing my best not to wake up the band and crew sleeping on the bus. I send him another audio message. “Guess your love wasn’t so powerful after all, Cobalt god.” I pause. “And I hope you never doubt how much I love you, Tom.” I rub my red-stained fingertips together. “I like what you said earlier. To torment or to protect. Think it’d make good lyrics. I know we agreed to hold off on the second album until I get back, but maybe we make music like this.”
Music has always welded us together. It has the power to fold all miles between us, shrinking them down to nothing. Until his heart is where it’s meant to be. Beating against mine.
“Second album material?” I ask. “What do you think?”
His response comes in the morning. “I think yes. Send me the lyrics you’ve written. Listen to this guitar riff. See if you like it.”
The sound is sad and melancholy.
I just want to hold him.
61
TOM COBALT
SEPTEMBER
Ising a slow, soft rendition of Petula Clark’s “La nuit n’en finit plus” on my bed. Another night without him, I feel emotionally suspended as love travels and I remain. Nothing captures the desire and yearning burrowing in me as well as this song.
I strum my guitar and look up at my phone, recording this for Phoenix.
My cell is propped against a bunch of Harriet’s science textbooks I borrowed from Ben’s side of our room. When I reach the last verse, my voice breaks a little on the French, but I keep singing to him.
Finishing, I stop the recording, and I text the video to my boyfriend. Then my chest tightens at the several emails stacked in our inbox from our publicist, manager, and music label.
I just glance at the subject lines.
PRESS! Rolling Stone long-form interview request [prioritize please]
Spotify Session: “Killer Ultraviolet” (Stripped) request for November
Forest Hills Stadium Show in Queens, NYC – HIGH DEMAND!
PRESS! GQ Photoshoot request
It goes on and on.
Even if Rolling Stone was willing to just interview me solo, I’d hate it. The Carraways isn’t just about me. It’s us.
It’s been us.
So I confidently reply to Sheela and Jeremy in email, reminding them that we’re not doing any press or events until next year.
Jeremy is quick to call me. Even at 10 p.m.
“Sheela will work her magic. Some of these outlets could agree to wait,” he says. “But the Forest Hills show can’t. Riot wants to market it as a December holiday pop-up concert.” Off my silence, he adds, “This would be your first stadium show. Forest Hills, Tom.”
Salt, meet my wound.
My manager knows I’ve dreamed of Forest Hills since I was a teenager. The outdoor stadium in Queens is where I first saw Sepsis Ink—the band that made Jeremy’s career skyrocket. Maybe the venue has meaning to him too.
But I’ve never wanted to sacrifice my brothers for my dream. Birdie might not be my brother, but he is the little brother of the person I love. So it’s not much of a decision.
“We can’t this year, Jere,” I say.
The long, long pause stretches a deeper ache into this night. “Okay,” he sighs. “Okay…okay.”
I fall asleep to Petula Clark singing “La nuit n’en finit plus” in my ears, and I wake to Phoenix’s response to the video I sent him.
“You should post it,” he says in audio message. “It feels selfish to keep the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard you sing to myself.” His voice sounds choked. “So…post it, nepo baby. Talk later. J’aime ta voix et ce putain de stupide sourire que je sais que tu es en train de faire.” I love your voice and the stupid fucking smile I know you’re making.
I am grinning now.
Without much thought, I caption the video: for my drummer. And I post it.
Twenty-four hours later, I attempt to smother the flames I just fanned. “The Carraways are not broken up,” I say firmly, recording myself on my phone. I save the short clip, and I post it on our socials to reestablish we’re just on a hiatus.