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)
“You want a warning next time I touch you, prima donna?”
“You could start with an apology.”
“Sorry I didn’t kick you harder.” He stabs a potato.
Yep, he’s still an ass. “I could be averse to touch. You could’ve just irreparably traumatized me.”
“Oh sorry.” He lets go of his fork, the silverware clattering loudly in the diner. I try not to smile. “Do you need me to wear a hazmat suit too? Should I fuck off to Australia with the kangaroos? Will that be enough space for you?”
I give him a middle finger. “I appreciate your willingness to comply with my boundaries.”
He picks up his fork. “If you have real boundaries, Tom, say them now.”
“None that should concern you.” I finish slicing up my waffle. “I tend to push boundaries, not create them.”
“Ditto.” That casual admittance has my curiosity on fire, but before I can press him, he asks, “How dead set are you on the name?”
“The name?” It takes me a full revolution around the sun to realize he’s talking about my band name. “Wait…The Carraways? That name? The name of my fucking band?”
“Our band.” Phoenix swallows a bite of egg.
I drop my silverware on the table. Hunger evicted from my body. “I’ve had that name since I was fourteen.”
He washes down his food with iced coffee. “Technically, you’ve had it since birth. It’s your name. Your middle name.”
I nod repeatedly. “Thank you for demonstrating the importance. And you want to change it because?”
“Because we’re a two-person rock band, and I’ll forever be known by your middle name.”
“You’re welcome.”
He drops his silverware now. “Tom.”
“Phoenix,” I snap. “Non-negotiable.”
He laughs. “You were about to lick my boots.”
“Over an NDA. A document. A piece of fucking paper. Not my legacy.”
“Jesus Christ.” He picks his fork back up, but it hovers over his plate. “If you want the name that badly, then give me something.”
“What do you mean?” I frown. “Is this like Medieval Europe? You want the rights to my firstborn?”
“Man, you are so dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic?” I point at my chest. “You just made a whole display of flying to fucking Australia to give me space.”
He rubs his pouty pink lips back and forth. Is he trying to restrain a grimace or a smile? “Fine.”
“Fine,” I nod, but I feel out of breath like I’m being chased. “And just a reminder, I’m a Cobalt. I come from drama. You haven’t even met my brother.”
“Don’t you have like ten of those?”
“Four. And I meant Eliot.” I wait for him to ask me more. Most people would be dying for details. I don’t even know why I’m itching to share them, and it comes as a complete pie-to-my-ego when Phoenix dodges over the topic.
“There’s only two of us in this band,” he says. “We don’t have a mediator. We can’t call Jere every time we have a fight. This has to be a collaboration or it’s not going to work.”
I agree with that. “So you want quid pro quo,” I say. “You get something. I get something.”
“Exactly. We compromise.”
“Seems fair.”
“Great, so we’re adding synths and tracks to our live setup.”
It’s not a question. It’s not even an ask. Blood rushes out of my body. “Hell no.”
He growls. “Tom, we just went over this—”
“The Carraways is an emo punk-rock band. We don’t play synth.”
“We’re only two people. We don’t have the manpower to do this without synth pads and backing tracks.”
I think about one of the most successful two-person bands of all-time. “The White Stripes used to play live without backing tracks.”
“I don’t want to be The White Stripes. Our sound could be more complex live if we don’t limit ourselves. Look, I’m not saying we have to use tracks for the bass. You can still use a pedal to drop the octave on your guitar. It can mimic a bass when we need it, but there’s more we could do.”
I grind my jaw, feeling emotion sputtering through me. I’m trying not to cry because fucking hell, I cannot shed a rare sad tear in front of Phoenix St. Pierre. He’s too hot, and he’s called me a “nepo baby” too many times for me to fuel that insult.
It must be obvious though that this is hitting me hard because Phoenix isn’t slinging any snide comments my way.
I find my voice to respond. “What if we could try to figure out a way to do it without the synth?”
“Even if we could, it’s my demand in exchange for the band name. I want synth pads.”
I wince. “You like pop music?”
“Some pop music. Yeah, I do. And you can be all purist about your punk rock, but obviously something isn’t working. Your EP is good, but it didn’t chart.”
My muscles are tight. My stomach uneasy. I stare at the waffle, feeling like someone took a spatula and splatted me face-down on hard cement. “This has been my band for seven years,” I tell him. “It’s been your band for one day. Change is going to feel different for me.”