Page 10 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

BEN COBALT

I ’m applying for a job. It’s not a great thing to tell my brothers on my way out the door. I already picture Beckett’s classic “what the fuck” face, and Tom’s double-blink like he can change the channel on me—to one that makes more sense.

So I just tell them I’m meeting with a friend. They know I have many. They also know my friendships are about as deep as a Neapolitan pizza.

“Don’t wait up for me!” I call out as I open the door.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Charlie deadpans.

“Duuude,” Tom groans like Charlie is beating a dead horse—that horse being me.

It’s easy to tell myself, don’t let Charlie get under your skin. Harder to accomplish when he lives in my bloodstream. I escape into the hall and breathe out the smoke-cloud of aggravation in my chest, then I text my bodyguard to just meet me on the lobby level.

Waiting for the elevator, I punch the button a couple times, and my phone buzzes in my jeans’ pocket. I slip the cell out, my pulse skyrocketing. Is it her?

My heart jumps seeing the “H,” then the “a” but then plummets at the rest of the name.

Haddock (Coach MVU). I stare at the screen, processing this brutal anticlimax.

Disappointment has sufficiently smothered a brief millisecond of exhilaration.

That’s what I get for getting excited over a fucking phone call.

I answer it as the elevator opens on the twenty-first floor. “Hi, Coach.” I slip inside and hit the lobby button, vaguely listening to his pitch about trying out for the team. It’s his third attempt to recruit me.

Hockey. First time I remember really thinking, I could do this forever.

I never want to leave the ice , I’d been seven.

I wasn’t on an indoor rink. It’d been a freezing Christmas, and the lake had iced over at my family’s vacation home in the Smoky Mountains.

Orange sun crested over the spruce-lined peaks, and I held a stick and flew toward the net.

I wasn’t alone. Ryke Meadows and Maximoff Hale, my uncle and my cousin, were there, playing with me, and as I sucked the frigid air in my lungs, I just felt alive.

I played nearly every day that year. If I couldn’t get on the ice, I’d put on rollerblades and shoot pucks into a goal in the Meadows’ cul-de-sac.

Then I played on a team, helped a group of boys win a dinky little trophy, but their elation was everything to me. I fed off the high of their happiness.

So I kept going. I played for my prep school throughout my adolescence. Then at sixteen, I played junior hockey to improve for college. When I was young, hockey had been a constant source of love. I could rely on it, depend on it.

The last few years, things started shifting in my head. It’s been a steady decline, the slow decaying of what I once enjoyed. My college experience with the sport didn’t help.

I warmed the bench more than my blades touched the ice. I was consistently told I wasn’t good enough and that “not everything can get handed to you”—even if I thought I was at least the fourth-best on the team.

Coach Haddock, who I’m on the phone with now, likely found little footage of me playing back at Penn. He also admitted to contacting my old coach for a recommendation. Which, I gathered, my old coach told Haddock that I suck and not to waste his time on a “prick of a kid” like me.

Why would Haddock even want me on his team badly enough to call again? MVU is a D1 college. A good percentage of players end up being drafted for the NHL. He’s a dream coach who could have his pick of a potential hockey prodigy.

I’m not that wonderkid, and MVU’s hockey team isn’t hurting for a win. They consistently advance to the playoffs in their division. So in the back of my head, I’m considering how he could just want fanfare.

The Cobalt to ride the bench and sell-out tickets.

Except, he’s only ever discussed my potential. He’s only ever been nice . So I have this desire to please him. I can’t shake it.

“If you’re worried about the publicity, we can do a private tryout,” he even tells me, further eliminating the notion he’s interested in my family’s notoriety. “It’ll just be me and Coach Zamora.”

That’s not the issue. “Can I think about it some more?” I ask, mostly to avoid hurting him with an axe to whatever idea he’s constructed in his mind. My mom would shake her head at me with the subtlest of smiles. “Let them down gently” is not a phrase in her guide to dealing with…anyone.

Both my parents are business-oriented—my mom in fashion; my dad in anything with a high profit margin.

Cobalt Inc., our birthright, owns subsidiary companies that sell magnets, paints, ethically-sourced diamonds, video games, and more sectors than I can name.

Though in another life, I wonder if they would’ve worked in academics and argued over old British literature and texts written in Middle English.

“Of course you can.” Haddock’s tone goes upbeat, which makes me feel good but also makes my stomach roil. Because…I’m not playing hockey. I can’t play anymore. “Season doesn’t start until late September. We’ve got plenty of time, Ben.”

I get tripped up on how he says we as if I’m part of the team already. My old coach went out of his way to exclude me when I was actually on the team. I was the shining celebrity star he was trying to ground every day.

I couldn’t even blame him. Cobalts are born in the sky. Feeling for the earth has always been a struggle, but it’s where I’ve loved to be, rolling around in the dirt and mud. Literally. My mom used to hose me off after a long day playing outside before she’d let me in the house.

I smile to myself at the memory as the elevator descends, and I listen to Coach Haddock make a final plea.

“You’ll love the facilities. They redid the rink a couple years ago.

If you haven’t seen it yet, I’ll give you a tour anytime.

Or I can get some of the guys to show you around. Get you introduced to the team.”

The elevator suddenly jerks to a stop at the eighteenth floor. Not even close to the lobby yet. I keep the phone rooted to my ear while the doors slide open to reveal a long-limbed guy who slouches on the opposing wall, waiting for this elevator.

Red bulky headphones cover his ears, and a black hood is drawn over his head, shadowing striking features that could cause double-takes and four-car pileups. Elevator doors are now fully open. It lets out a ding. He straightens off the wall, then stops when he sees me.

He has sharp cheekbones and amber eyes like melted caramel, but they’re far from sweet when he looks at me.

“Hey, I need to call you back,” I tell Haddock fast, and I only hang up when Coach says, “I’ll be here.” Then I grab the side of the elevator as the doors try to shut.

I wait for him to come inside.

He settles back against the wall. “I’ll take the next one.”

I’m about to ask if he’s sure, but he’s already staring at everything but me. The line of his jaw could cut glass as he clenches down. I let go and the elevator doors shut on him. My muscles cramp.

Yeah.

I take it personally.

Because that’s my cousin.

Xander Hale.

H arriet is waiting for me on a congested corner, dodging the shoulders and elbows of power-walking New Yorkers. When she finally spots me, her chest collapses in a relieved exhale. It brightens something inside me, knowing my presence brings relief .

A smile crawls across my face. “Harriet Fisher,” I say as I reach her short height.

“Cobalt boy.” She adjusts her backpack strap. I’m only carrying a water bottle. The blue aluminum is decaled with different environmental and wildlife stickers.

“I don’t even get a Ben ?” I tease.

“Maybe later.” She looks me up and down. I’m just wearing a white ’70s-style ringer tee with the words Give a Hoot, Don’t Pollute! and an owl. She’s stuck on my biceps, the fabric tight around my carved muscles. “Nice suit and tie.”

“Same to you.” She has on low-rise, acid-wash jeans and a mesh camo top that barely covers her ribcage. Not changing her punk-rock style for this interview. I respect the come as you are approach. “I like the belly button ring.”

She prickles, shoulders raised as if preparing to combat the punchline.

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.

She tries to relax. “What are you—a master of reading body language?”

“More like novice level.”

“You’ve got to be the least cocky Cobalt.”

“Just honest.” I try to get out a nasty chunk stuck between two strands, and for a better grip, I slip my fingers from her shoulder up to the soft nape of her neck and into her silky hair.

I’m holding the side of her head, and I try not to concentrate on the warmth of her against my palm.

Or how she careens back toward my chest, closing in on me.

Her breath deepens like she’s on the ascent of a rollercoaster, and I have the sudden urge to pull her into my body and wrap my arms around her in a vise.

It looks like she could use a hug. A million questions swarm me at once. Like whether she’s ever been held. Does she even like being hugged?

“Is it out?” she asks, her voice husky.

My cock twitches in my jeans. Fuck. “Yeah, almost.” For her sake, I finish pretty fast, but I have to drench more of her hair with water.

The back of her head is wet when I’m done.

So I take off my baseball cap and fit it on her head.

It’s huge on her, so I tighten the back strap, pulling the fabric through a metal clasp.

Good enough. “There you go. Bird shit free.”

Harriet spins around, the brim of my hat totally concealing her eyes from me. I push it up and see her murderous scowl.

I laugh. “I really hope this is the absolute worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“Far from it,” she notes, a smile fighting its way through her beautiful features.

I tilt my head in thought, hoping she is just joking with me. “What’s worse than being shit on before our big interview?”

She shrugs, her smile disappearing, and I almost regret asking. Then she nods to me, “You’re really going in there without a shirt?” She watches me stuff my dirty tee in my back pocket.

I shrug back at her. “Why not?” At this, I enter the bar, and Harriet follows with more intrigue. She never takes off my hat.