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)
Our band.
I’m trying to hear RJ out. So I swallow the asshole comment. Because it’s fair for this guy to not want drama. After my ex, I wanted something simple too, but until I met Tom, I don’t think I was really living.
I was just existing. Going through the motions. Stuck beneath the rubble. I feel like I’ve finally started crawling out from under it, and now…this.
RJ and I both check on Tom as he leans his weight on the high-top. I’m pushing against the force, holding the table in place. And then RJ continues, “I have enough drama with my whole work-life situation. It’s like living in a rumor mill, and Tom knows this is just casual. But I care about him, and I’m going to bring him home—”
“I’m not leaving him with you,” I interject. “I don’t even know what the fuck you do. You live in a hotel? You could be an escort. You could have a rich boyfriend who funds your room and board there—”
“It’s not like that. Oh my God,” he groans into a deep, aggravated sigh. He digs out his cellphone. “Ever heard of Aerial Ethereal?”
“That cirque troupe thing?”
“The circus. One of AE’s shows has a permanent residency at The Starlight. I’m a professional acrobat.” He pops up a video on his phone as proof and shows it to me without handing over his phone. He doesn’t trust me. In the clip, he’s running across these giant hamster wheels that revolve in the air. Then he jumps to the other one with no harness, no safety net on the stage.
It looks certifiably nuts.
“I’m a fifth-generation acrobat,” he explains. “Most of my family work for Aerial Ethereal, but only the ones who are assigned to the show at The Starlight on Park live there.”
RJ passes the phone to Tom, letting him cup it himself and watch the video. So now I know that he trusts Tom and not me. Doesn’t matter.
I grab my water bottle and shove it in my pants pocket. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Tom’s thirtysomething bodyguard, Ian, hovers next to me. His eyes plunge to my ass. “I’ll hold that for you.”
He means my Aquafina.
The fuck he is.
“Holy shit,” Tom gapes at the video like RJ just climbed to some legendary status for doing handstands and backflips. RJ shows him another video, and Tom says, “This explains a lot.” The smile RJ gives him is a subtle tell they’re talking about sex and not just his gym shorts. I’m going to fucking hurl.
“Phoenix,” Ian calls out. I flinch just hearing him use my name. Might be the first time Tom’s bodyguard has ever said it.
He points to my ass pocket.
Is this some weird Cobalt thing? “I can hold my own water bottle.”
Ian barely blinks like this is another day at the office. He bends closer to say, “You’re sharing it with Tom, and it’s in your back pocket.”
I don’t register the issue. “So?”
“Someone can spike it without you noticing.” Ian holds out his palm, waiting for me. Normally I’d argue, but I’m half-engaged in this.
Quickly, I pass him the Aquafina, and before I turn to Tom and RJ, a guy stands out in the corner of my eye. He’s descending the stairs from the second-floor VIP area.
The resemblance to Tom is startling.
Same golden-brown hair, only his is cut shorter and stylishly unkempt. Same lean build. Same picturesque, angelic jawline. He looks older, though. Maybe by a few years, at least.
His soured expression doesn’t remind me of Tom at all. Neither do his clothes. The velvet green suit looks straight off an avant-garde runway. I’m sure it costs thousands. Except, he wears it like he’s ready to toss it in the dumpster as soon as he gets home. Like it doesn’t matter. Like none of it does.
I’ve never seen this person in my life—but I’d bet my entire (meager) savings that he’s one of Tom’s older brothers.
“Tom,” I call out.
He jerks his head up from RJ’s phone. He’s unconsciously bracing all his weight on him now, and RJ’s arm is back around his waist.
My nose flares, and I nod toward the staircase. “Is that one of your brothers?”
He pushes the phone into RJ’s chest while following my gaze. “Holy…fuck.” Color drains from his face. “Time to go.” He steps away from RJ, and Tom stumbles over his own feet.
I jut out my hands and catch him from behind, right as he seizes the edge of the high-top table. I have him under the armpits, but the beer rattles off the table and falls to the floor, breaking on impact.
People nearby immediately jolt away from the shattered glass.
I pull Tom into my chest, away from the spill, and he searches for my hand, until he finds it over the hard, fast thump of his heart. He laces our fingers. My breath catches. He’s drunk.