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)
Tom grabs a clementine out of the fruit basket. What he said, with a wishful longing, registers with me all of a sudden. “Wait, you’re not that famous?” I ask in disbelief.
I’ll never admit it out loud, but The Carraways were in my top three most listened-to bands last year. I almost uninstalled the music app on my phone when I saw it, but it’s hard to deny I love the EP they put out.
Emo punk-rock has been in my soul since I discovered Green Day, which spiraled me into Simple Plan, Panic at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, and The Carraways. But I’ve loved The Carraways the most because they’re my generation. And sure, it was a sucker punch in the gut when I didn’t make the band—but I didn’t stop listening to their music.
I still watch YouTube videos of their live performances just to see if they’re singing a new song at a show. Then I’ll stream it on repeat until they drop the single.
“Get Lost” is my constant go-to “fuck my life” song that I belt in my car when I’m feeling like the world is out to get me. So I’m just a little dumbfounded how Tom thinks he’s not famous. In my eyes, he’s incredibly famous.
Tom squints at me in his own confusion. “Do you think I’m famous?”
“You have three million views on your music video for Get Lost,” I tell him. “And before you say something about me watching it, remember that I was trying out for your band. I had to do my research, Thomas.”
“Obviously not well enough, Harry, because A. My name is just Tom—”
“I know.”
“—and B. Three million views is nothing. I might be known to people who like the genre, but the random Joe down the block doesn’t know shit about The Carraways. I’m basically a nobody.”
“He wants mainstream popularity,” Ben explains as he kicks the fridge closed with his foot. He brings out two cans of Fizz Life and offers me one.
I take the soda, still baffled. “Then why don’t you play pop?”
“Because I don’t like pop music.” Tom peels the orange with his thumb. “If I have to be a trendsetter and set the trends back to emo-punk, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
I remember Ben mentioning that Tom’s ambition is high, and I’m now realizing how high. Maybe this is why he keeps losing drummers. His goals are fucking lofty.
“You could just use your ‘Cobalt’ name to get popularity.” I pop the tab to the soda, and it lets out a bubbly fizzle. It’s an honest suggestion, but I worry it comes off a little sarcastic.
“Wow, why didn’t I think of that before?” Tom tosses a slice of orange in his mouth and slides off the stool. “Don’t let her near my records, Ben Pirrip. I wouldn’t put it past Harry to practice her drumming skills on them.”
“Not even on my death bed, Tommy.” I flip him off.
He gives me a middle finger in return and leaves for his bedroom. Just when I thought we were having a civil conversation. I whirl around to Ben, who’s taking a large swig of his Fizz Life.
“Did I sound sarcastic?” I ask.
He shakes his head and sets the can on the counter. “No. He agrees with you. He’d use his last name to get popular, but it doesn’t really work like that. The people who follow our family online don’t necessarily love the kind of music he plays. His genre is niche.”
So he either has to sell out and make different music or continue playing for his loyal but small following. I’m guessing if Tom wants more popularity, it must be for something other than money. It can’t only be for fame though…right?
Who would want to be famous? Xander Hale looks like the definition of soul-crushed every time I see him in Classical Mythology. Random strangers film him, yell his name, try to seize his attention. It’s exhausting to just observe from the sidelines. I can’t even imagine being Xander.
I don’t think Tom wants that—but then what does he want?
And why do I even care? It’s Tom fucking Cobalt. My nemesis. Ben’s watching me intently, his lips lifting the more I scowl.
“Tom wants fame?” I end up asking.
“He wants people to listen to his music. A lot of people. Naturally fame would come with that, yeah.” He opens a bag of sea salt popcorn that must be vegan-friendly, then looks me over. “What do you think about being famous? Would you be okay with it?”
I’m not sure why he’s asking. It’s not like I’m in jeopardy of being some noteworthy superstar. My life will be common. I’ll be a surgeon at a hospital in the city, hopefully New York. The most exciting thing about me will be my friendship with him, but it’s not as if Ben Cobalt’s friends even have a drop of fame.