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)
Harriet balls her sleeves up in her fists. “I hate her.”
“Don’t let her bury you,” I say. “I know what it’s like to have someone destroy you and take the things that really matter. Don’t let her.”
She inhales a long breath through her nose. “Yeah, maybe…I just can’t go back in there tonight.” She winces, her face contorting. I barely hear her mutter, “I’m so fucked up.”
“Okay. Enough of this pity party shit. Give me your keys.”
She digs them out of the middle console.
“You care if we make a pit stop on our way to the Cobalts’?” I ask.
“Does it include driving into the Hudson?”
I blink. “No, and I can’t wait to tell Ben you want to go swimming.”
She has a pinched smile. “I think he’d like the joke. He taught me to swim.” She tosses me the keys, and we switch sides.
I drive us out of MVU and make a couple calls. One to Tom, letting him know we’ll meet them all back at the apartment. They’ve made it inside her dorm without breaking and entering (I asked). They go back and forth with Harriet to see what she needs from her room, and then I call Birdie.
“Future Favor,” I say. “I’m cashing in.”
He groans out of sleep. “Man, it’s almost three a.m.”
“I need it now.”
Birdie is how I gain access to a rehearsal studio space in the middle of the night. He’s friends with the owner.
On the drive there, Harriet and I blow out her car speakers jamming to The Offspring. “Fuck,” I curse at the crackle, then I park on the curb.
“We’re here?” she asks, peering at the dark building. “Don’t murder me.”
“I would’ve brought Tom for that. He would’ve been pissed he didn’t get to say he slaughtered his…whatever you two are.”
“Nemesis.” She steps out in her pajamas. It doesn’t take long to get inside with a passcode. Thanks, Bird. I flip on the lights, and all the instruments illuminate under the fluorescent glare.
Her puffy eyes land right on the drums.
I pick up a pair of sticks. “Let it all out.”
She doesn’t hesitate when I toss her the sticks. Harriet is behind the kit, and she unleashes on the drums. At first, it’s not a song. It’s just her rage. Her blonde hair whipping with the thrash of her arms into the toms and snare. Then she plays some blink-182 classics and eventually starts to tire out.
Tom was right. She’s amazing on drums, but I’ve known that. I’ve seen her play a few times now.
Harriet finishes with deep breaths. Her sweaty bangs stick to her forehead.
“How was that?” I ask.
Her face breaks with emotion. “You don’t even know.”
“I think I do,” I murmur. “Why do you think I brought you here?” How she plays reminds me of myself. Drums have been my gateway to releasing all the pent-up, choked feelings inside my body.
I need to play. I’ve realized that this year.
“Go on stage with us.”
“What?” Her eyes widen.
“One show next year. Play drums.”
“Seriously?” She’s about to cry.
“Seriously. Any song you want. Even ‘Hellbent’—but only one time. I do want to preserve Tom’s voice.”
Her lips tic upward. “Not ‘Hellbent.’” She wipes her runny nose with the back of her hand, then she says, “‘Dirty Rise.’”
I almost start crying. “Fuck, we really are emo.” The last noise we leave in the rehearsal studio is laughter.
67
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Multicolored Christmas lights are strung haphazardly on the walls, sagging over a Sapporo poster beside Tom’s left shoulder. We share a high-top table tucked away in the back of my favorite restaurant. Eating ramen during a very cold winter night is my type of holiday staple.
In New York, everyone seems happier this time of year.
The iconic Rockefeller tree is erected, festive music flows through Central Park, and laughter rises from ice skaters. It’s been so long since I haven’t felt like the only miserable Scrooge.
This week with Tom has left me in a state of bliss.
And I’ve been dreading its end. Nothing Personal flies to Liverpool in two days. I have a ticket with my name on it. Tom knows I won’t be back until next year.
No one bothers us in the restaurant.
Shades over the windows block out the several cameramen who’ve followed us here, snapping photos and shouting questions. They keep asking if Tom and I are together and the status of The Carraways.
We never reply.
I forget they exist. The same way I forget Tom’s bodyguard is at another table.
I just keep looking at my boyfriend.
“You hear that?” Tom asks. The kitchen is sizzling, and other oblivious couples chat at high-top tables. But he’s referring to his pair of AirPods we share, music coming out of them.
“I hear you slurping a noodle,” I say.
Tom huffs. “I don’t slurp.” He eats a radish very politely.
He’s not looking up, so he can’t see my smile.