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)
I’m too tired to make a comment, honestly.
Phoenix shifts his weight, his eyes all over my face. I feel like he’s moving at a hundred miles an hour and I’ve slowed to ten. “Please, Tom.”
I must nod.
He walks with me back to my high-rise.
I’m a zombie when I enter my apartment. I can’t even tell if Harriet is here. Did not check to see if there was a tie on the door. So I shove my headphones on my ears and just pass out on top of my comforter.
I wake to frustration and hurt. I can’t tell the origins of the emotion other than it’s Phoenix. I’m on my phone in the bathroom, recording a voice memo. “We are equals here,” I say strongly. “That does not mean you being equal parts annoying and impatient. I could have worked an hour longer, even in your shoebox. All right? Bye.” I send the memo, then add a second one very fast. “Also, fuck you.”
I brush my teeth, shower, and when I’m dressed, I check my phone to find Phoenix has responded with twenty different mixes of the song, a middle finger emoji, and a text I reread ten times.
PHOENIX WOLFGANG
You want to work on your bed again? That’s the only way I’m keeping you up that late.
I want to respond: we kept each other up that late. But semantics. And honestly, I cannot detach the visual of Phoenix on my bed. Again.
Of course I tell Eliot everything.
My brother and I walk side by side along the busy streets in Hell’s Kitchen. The collar of his peacoat is lifted to block the chilly February wind. My black hoodie beneath a jean jacket does its job, but I’m mostly warm because Eliot insists on discussing Phoenix.
He knows Phoenix has been bothering me this morning. Okay, fine, maybe more than just this morning.
“He clearly wants to fuck,” Eliot says while our strides match the powerful flow of pedestrians who have somewhere to be. I’m headed to the studio. Eliot, to the theater.
“I think he doesn’t want me falling asleep in a bar’s nasty booth.” Which…is thoughtful, if true. “And dude, there is no fucking to be had.” I lower my voice while we bypass a lingering gaggle of tourists trying to locate Times Square.
They do a double take at Eliot. We never slow enough for them to figure out who we are. I don’t check my surroundings too much. Not when my bodyguard outpaces us by a couple feet and Eliot’s bodyguard is a foot behind.
I tell my brother, “The real question is how he was able to finish those mixes that fast.” I wince in confusion. “Did he not sleep?”
Eliot taps his nose.
Cocaine?
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve spent too much time around him. I would’ve seen it.”
Shouldn’t I just be happy that Phoenix completed a task that would’ve taken me twice as long? My ex-bandmates would’ve never stayed up to finish this, let alone entertain different variations of one song that’ll never be used except to give me peace of mind.
Eliot pulls me toward the stone wall of the theater. Oh, we made it. I didn’t even fucking notice. Holy shit, I am so in my head.
We’re early, so he’s not rushing inside yet. Beneath his coat, his slim-fit, tailored navy suit looks sharp and expensive. Eliot wears the billions we’ll one day inherit, and he wears it well.
I shove my cold hands in my jean jacket. “They give you a revised script yet?” I ask, and then I switch to French in case any of his theatre friends or coworkers suddenly sneak up around the corner. “Je peux m’enregistrer en le lisant ce soir.” I can record myself reading it tonight. I highly doubt I’ll be toiling over the album as late if Phoenix just pulled an all-nighter.
He rests a shoulder on the stone. “Ne t’inquiète pas pour ça.” Don’t worry about it.
I frown. “Pourquoi?” Why? “N’as-tu pas galéré pour trouver le livre audio du script?” Weren’t you struggling to find the script in audiobook?
“Oui, oui.” Yes, yes. His posture says he’s unbothered, and his deep blue eyes carry mirth and light. “Tu étais occupé. Je ne voulais pas déranger ton génie créatif.” You’ve been busy. I didn’t want to disturb your creative genius.
A sharp pain cramps my side, and I wince. Eliot never shares with people that his dyslexia is so severe, he cannot read anything. He’ll use context clues to try to deduce information. Like if a text is short or long, he can determine brevity, curtness—the tone. But he can’t read the words without audio.
He’s really good at convincing people he can read with his eyes alone. Sometimes he’ll fool Ben and Audrey, our youngest siblings.
But I’ve always known the truth. And when he can’t find his scripts in audiobook, I’ve always recorded them for him so he can listen and memorize his lines.