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)
The hairs on his bow break as he plays with measured, compressed aggression. My heart hammers just watching him. His trained arms move quick, precise, intense. His fingers crawl up the fingerboard like an arachnid, and his body and head rock into the pulsating crescendo.
He is immaculate.
Spectacular.
A gift to music.
All things his music teachers told him growing up. It was true.
It still is.
I rub a hand against my mouth and wait in agitation for him to finish—but it doesn’t take long.
He breaks a string on the cello.
“Fuck,” he curses as I hear the snap.
I step farther into the room, and he shifts on his stool when he sees me. His plaid flannel is tied around his waist. His black buckled leather jacket covers the music stand. He was playing Shostakovich by heart. Sleeves of his white button-down are rolled to his elbows.
“Well, you’re here now. Make yourself useful and help me restring this thing.” He digs into his backpack.
“How about I go get a pair of sheers?” I ask him, my voice taut. “Because you told me you’d rather cut off both your testicles than have to play Shostakovich again.”
His jaw tics. He doesn’t look at me. “I was drunk.”
“You were honest.”
Birdie’s grip tightens on the neck of the cello. “If you’re only here to cut off my balls, you can go.” He points the bow at the door. “Exit stage left, man.”
I take a deep breath and roll out the strain in my muscles. I came in too hot. I blame Shostakovich. That piece makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
I walk over and grab his backpack from him, so he can work on loosening the pegs to remove the broken string. “How long have you been here?” I ask.
“A couple hours. Not long enough.” He focuses on the cello. “Before you ask, this is for a gala next week.”
“The Manhattan Symphony?” I ask.
He nods.
My brother is not a full-time member of the orchestra, but our parents love to parade him out to galas and events. He’s also on just as many sub lists as me, but not to pay his bills. He made it out of Berklee with no loans, and Nothing Personal earned out their two-hundred-grand advance during their last tour, which Riot Records thankfully paid for (does not always happen). Their second album, Draconian, sold enough that they’re now making royalites. He doesn’t need a side hustle.
My brother reached a place we would’ve killed for—he’s in a successful rock band that’s gaining momentum to become something big.
I know without asking that this gala wasn’t his idea.
“Tell them no,” I say. “They can’t keep trotting you around like a show pony, Bird. You have to end this.”
His jaw tenses again. He’s not blinking as he works on the string. “Maybe I want to do this.”
“Maybe you want to jump off a cliff too,” I snap at him.
“Sounds fun.” His hands deftly remove the broken string from his cello. “Schedule cliff diving next week?”
“Birdie—”
“It’s our last name, Phoenix,” he cuts in. “St. Pierre. Papi will keel over before we end his legacy.” He extends a hand, palm-up. But I catch sight of his fede ring first. Our grandfather gave him the ring. Because he’s the St. Pierre with promise. The gifted one they all believed would honor our last name in the orchestra world.
No one ever put that amount of pressure on me. At times I think my unwillingness to listen to our parents made them cling harder to Birdie. He’s the son they can control when they’ve lost faith in controlling me.
They don’t want two fuckups for sons struggling to pay rent every month. I get it.
But I don’t want this for my little brother.
I place the new steel core string in Birdie’s outstretched palm. “Maybe Papi should just croak then,” I say.
Birdie glares. “You don’t mean that.”
Yeah, I don’t. Guilt chews at my insides even saying it.
Our grandfather is a benevolent old man who has an illustrious history as a world-renowned conductor. He’s the one who encouraged our dad to foster our musical abilities when we were toddlers.
“I’m not just doing it for Papi,” Birdie says as he finishes restringing the cello and picks up his bow. “Mom and Dad also deserve to have the money they spent on us mean something.”
Our parents racked up so much fucking debt sending Birdie and me to the best music schools, hiring the best private tutors, buying the best instruments. It weighs on both of us. They’re nearing retirement age, and they’re nowhere close to being able to afford to leave the Boston Symphony. Not to mention, Mom has arthritis in her right hand. Playing viola is now physically painful.
I harbor just as much guilt as Bird, but I’m also not the one they drag out to these events. I’m not the one in a popular rock band who’s living a dream he had since he was fourteen. Birdie shouldn’t have to strain his life or his time for them.