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)
Beckett frowns so deep, wrinkles crease between his brows. “I’m his brother.”
He thinks I don’t know that. “Okay, great. You could be Jesus fucking Christ,” I say. “I. Don’t. Care. I’m not leaving him.” He’s my singer. My responsibility. He’s this drunk because of me. I can’t leave someone who I really…who I really…
I blink away the sudden sting in my eyes.
Beckett rotates his attention to Tom. “C’est qui ce type?” Who is this guy?
My muscles are on fire hearing him speak French.
“Phoenix St. Pierre,” Tom replies. “C’est mon batteur. Tu te souviens?” He’s my drummer. Remember?
Softly, Beckett says, “Bien sûr que je me souviens.” Of course I remember.
The Cobalts can speak French? Tom can speak French?
I blink like I might be the one who’s drunk. I have zero time to process this. Other than the bewilderment of how this never cropped up between me and Tom. Assumptions. We both assumed wrong about each other. And I did not do my due diligence in stalking the Cobalt Empire.
Fuck me.
Beckett’s turning to me. “You can come,” he says as if I need his permission. “My car is waiting.”
24
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The Cobalts being rich smacked me in the face when I first saw their apartment’s multimillion-dollar city view. Somehow, I did not think entering their SUV would cause the same reaction.
But what the fuck is this?
The car must be custom outfitted. The two middle-row captain’s chairs have been swiveled 180 degrees to face the third-row bench seat. It’s like a limo…if a limo was in an SUV.
I don’t have time to comment on it. I put a hand on top of Tom’s head, trying to guide him into the SUV without him banging his skull against the doorframe. He enters without problem, but success is short lived. He loses his footing inside the car and smacks his head against the opposite window with a loud thump.
“And there goes the last brain cell.” That comment comes from the guy already seated in one of the captain’s chairs. I recognize him as the brother who looks like Tom. The one I saw briefly in the club before he disappeared. He hangs an arm out of the window with a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
Tom falls back into the bench seat just as I sit down beside him. “I’m fiiiine.” He props his back against the car door, then drapes one leg over my knee. Fuck. Not only is his older brother arching a single brow at me, but Tom is about to roll into the footwell.
I pick up his legs and put both across my lap, holding them there so he doesn’t careen again and face-plant. I say nothing to his brother. I just watch him bring the cigarette to his mouth while he assesses me like I’m a painting at the Met.
He sucks in deeply and barely blows out any smoke.
“F.I.N.E.” Tom spells it out, draws the word in the air with his finger, and mimes an explosion.
“You seem fine,” the mystery brother says dryly. His eyes flit to me. “Qu’est-ce qu’il fait ici?” What is he doing here?
That question is not for me, I realize. Beckett sinks down in the other captain’s chair now, and he slams the car door shut. “Il ne quittera pas Tom.” He won’t leave Tom.
I debate whether to just tell them I can understand what they’re saying. But honestly, why should I? If they’re arrogant enough to talk in French around me thinking it’s a private conversation—then that’s on them.
I crane my neck to see who’s driving. If it’s another Cobalt brother, I might be fucked. But it doesn’t take long to spot the wire running from the driver’s ear. A bodyguard.
He’s older; most of their security detail look in their thirties. Him, as well. He eyes me from the rearview mirror. His expression is bottled, and I can’t gauge whether he’s suspicious of me or confused as to why I’m here.
“Shar-lee,” Tom says, which sounds like a drunk pronunciation of Charlie. “I fucked it all up.” He closes his eyes in distress.
My hand tightens on his leg. I peek into the side door’s cupholder. Empty. “Do we have any water in here?” I ask.
Beckett pops open a middle console between him and Charlie. He retrieves some fancy branded water in a glass bottle, then extends it to Tom, but Tom is not paying attention. His threaded fingers splay over his eyes.
“You feel sick, Tom?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond right away, and I shake his leg. “Tom.” I’m a couple seconds away from reaching up and clasping his face.
“Not sick, Phoenixxxxx.” The hiss lasts longer. What was funny before now has me more concerned.
When I look forward, my body locks into a rigid state at the way Beckett and Charlie are fixedly observing me. There is no subtlety, no hiding that they’re noting every fraction of an inch I move, every time I touch Tom, probably every time I breathe.