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)
“He didn’t mention I’d be with a diva, no.”
“A diva?” He leans farther backward. “If only he warned me I’d be with a judgy nepo baby.”
I grimace.
Being called judgy stings more than the nepo comment. The latter I’m more used to hearing. I’m born into billions since my family owns a ton of companies, the most notable being Fizzle—the most popular soda dynasty in the world.
I nod a few times and suck down my oversized pride.
He’s your last chance.
I don’t cut the distance between us, but I formally introduce myself, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
“We’re doing middle names?” He doesn’t stand. He just threads his arms, his legs still spread open. A confident, incensed masculine posture. I can’t even call it a slouch. He’s sitting too upright. I hate that I find it even remotely attractive.
“Yeah, middle names. First names. Last names. Not in that order.” My tone is harsh. “Are you going to give me yours or do I need to guess? Because you look like a Patrick.”
He glowers. “Why? My hair isn’t even red.” It’s so dark brown, it’s almost black, and his skin is pale.
“You’re Irish though.”
His jaw twitches. Holy fuck, I’m actually right about his ancestry. I was prepared to be wrong. I contain my surprise and just smirk. “And I meant you look more like the pink starfish Patrick. Friend of SpongeBob.”
“How old are you? Fourteen?”
That shot almost penetrates my tough skin because he sounds seriously worried that I might be young.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Because I referenced a cartoon? Dude, adults watch SpongeBob.”
He gives me a once-over that solidifies my joints.
Heat tries to bathe my face. “You must know my age. You clearly know everything about me. I bet you did a research paper on my family. Or you have a shrine to the Cobalt Empire in your bedroom. You kneel at my poster?”
“You want me to worship you, nepo baby?” He sounds hostile. I crave to fan the flames.
“We can start there.”
“We’re not starting there. We’re not even finishing there.”
“You don’t like being on your knees. Noted,” I snap.
“You ever get on yours?” He aims and fires fast.
“Cobalts don’t kneel.”
“The fuck,” he mutters, eyeing me in a rough up-down. “We need to start with the fact that I barely know you except for your name. That’s it. Your rich family is a part of the fucking lexicon of this country. They’re famous for doing nothing—”
“For a long-ago scandal and being American royalty,” I cut in. “That’s definitely something.”
He stares at me like I come from Jupiter. “You seriously call yourself American royalty?”
“I call myself an American god.”
His brows hoist. “Tell me you’re joking.”
I put a serious hand on my chest. “My confidence isn’t a joke to me.” Then I flip him off.
He groans while pinching the bridge of his nose. His stiffened muscles don’t untense. “What the fuck am I getting into?”
I’m asking myself the same shit.
His hand shifts to his head, his arm flexing. I’d believe he were posing if he didn’t wear edged panic. “Really, are you sixteen or seventeen? Because I’m not working with a minor.”
He’s really pissing me off. “I’m twenty-one.”
He only slightly eases, dropping his arm.
“And you?” I flip my phone in my hand. “Stop taking what I’m giving and share.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
Same age as Charlie and Beckett, my oldest brothers. I can work with that. “I’m going to start calling you Don’t Dick Around if you don’t tell me your name.”
“I’m not dicking around with you,” he says coarsely, then stands…and fuck, he’s tall. I didn’t expect him to have about three inches on me. Oxygen cages in my lungs as he bridges the space between us. Tension stretches with each footfall forward, and heat blisters under my skin.
He stops.
Then he extends a hand and says, “Phoenix Wolfgang St. Pierre.”
He’s screwing with me. “And I’m Gerard Way. Come on, I need your real name.”
He doesn’t even crack a shadow of a smile. “That is my name.”
“No, that’s the name of the drummer from the band Nothing Personal, and that drummer isn’t you.” I would know. I literally just watched a video clip. He’d need a face transplant to be him. He’s also, very clearly, missing the red birthmark on his neck.
“That drummer isn’t me,” he agrees. “That drummer is my little brother. Birdie St. Pierre.”
It solidifies me.
I feel mind-fucked for a frozen second.
I wince. “No. No.” I shake my head firmly, disbelieving. “Jere must be messing with me.”
“Jeremy isn’t the type to play practical jokes on his clients.”
I’d agree. “And you would know that how?”
“He’s been my manager for years.”
We share a manager. Great. I don’t want to share anything with him. It’s a gut reaction when we’re supposed to be sharing a band. “You’re not Phoenix, dude.” I’m about to call my manager, only stopping when this guy digs in the cargo pocket of his dark pants, retrieving a leather wallet.