Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
I give her a softer look, then block her from being sideswiped by a leather bag as a man rushes past us. “I was serious,” I tell her. “I like it.” I point to the bejeweled piercing hooked through her tiny belly button.
Her shoulders lower. “Thanks.” She jerks her head toward the sidewalk ahead of us. “Let’s go bomb this interview.”
I tsk. “No faith, Fisher.”
“Well, my odds have now increased with you here. I have faith in that,” she says while we walk side by side, not too far from my brothers’ apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. “But I might be the one bringing us down.”
Yeah, I can’t see how that’d be true. Unless she breaks a martini glass trying to make a cosmo. But the bar manager might not even test our mixology skills.
We aren’t applying to work at a high-end restaurant with collar-and-tie uniforms, fifty-dollar cocktails, and linen tablecloths. The End of the World is a dive bar, as far as we’ve been told by her friend. It has no social media, no website, and a lone 5-star on Yelp. No pictures.
“It might not even exist,” Harriet tells me.
“It might be a crack den.”
She gives me a hard side-glance. “I love how you said that with so much apprehension.”
My lips rise. “No point in freaking out. We’re not even there yet.”
Harriet nods, then expels a long breath, and when we come up to the bar, I hold my hand out to the full name scrawled in spray paint styled font on the dark window outside. Where You Want to Be at the End of the World.
“It’s real,” I tell her.
“A miracle,” she says dryly. “You used to those?”
I grin. “Yeah, every time I ace a science exam.”
She lets out a snorty laugh, then goes ahead of me to push inside. That’s when I see the back of her hair. White residue trickles down blonde strands in a slimy river.
“Harriet.” I catch her backpack, tugging her backward.
“Don’t tell me you have cold feet.” She spins toward me, then scrunches her face at my winced expression. “What’s wrong?”
I just come out with it. “A bird shit in your hair.”
Her eyes pop. “Wh…no way, no.” Her voice pitches abnormally high, then her eyes ping to pedestrians who stroll past and couldn’t care less about us. We’re not in Times Square where I’d draw attention from tourists like I’m a superhero street performer doing the worm on cement. We step closer to the brick siding outside the bar. “How bad is it?” She’s asking while I pop open my water bottle. Her hands hover around her head. “You know how many diseases pigeon shit has?”
“Don’t touch it.”
“You don’t touch it,” she shoots back. “Just cut if off, Ben.”
“I’m not cutting your hair because of bird shit.” I grab my tee at the back of my neck and pull it over my head. Then I wet the fabric with water. “Turn around.”
She’s frozen and wide-eyed on my bare chest. She’s slowly, slowly processing my shirtless state while we’re out in public. I catch her staring at my abs for a beat too long.
I almost laugh. “Petit oiseau.” I whirl my finger in the air. “Tourne-toi.” Little bird, turn around.
“Just when I forgot you’re both brains and brawn.”
“More brawn than brains,” I correct her. “Everyone in my family can speak fluent French.” I can tell my confidence in handling this situation is easing her panic. Enough that she rotates, her back facing me. Still, she’s a rigid punk-rock statue, and I have a feeling she’s never taken a trust fall in her life.
She’s taking one now. I recognize how she’s trusting me to clean her hair when she could’ve shoved me off and ran into the bar’s bathroom.
Her head barely reaches the height of my shoulders, and using my damp T-shirt as a rag, I comb it through the blonde strand, cleaning off the white slimy residue. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been shit on by birds a lot worse than this.”
She shifts her head a little, trying to look at me, but stops herself. “What kinds?”
“Mostly cockatiels.”
“Pet birds? Ones you feed yourself and probably aren’t carrying a petri dish of bacterial infections?” Her voice spikes weirdly again. “We should just cut it.”
“I’m getting it all out,” I assure. “I promise. I’ve done this before.” I need a better hold on Harriet, so I say, “I’m going to touch you.”
“You are touching me.”
“Yeah, a little more than this, Friend.”
She goes quiet. She’s clutching her backpack strap like it’s the safety holster in a fighter jet, prepared to fly away from me. I wait for her to say no. Instead, she says gruffly, “You don’t need to warn me.”
I smile at her hot tone. “Your body kind of says otherwise.” But taking her cue, I just go ahead and clutch her shoulder with my left hand, working on her hair with my right.