Page 53 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

HARRIET FISHER

“ W hat birthday presents did you get them?” Tom asks me. He’s leaning his arms on a sticky bar, waiting for a bartender to notice him. It might be a decade before that happens. This club is packed . The bouncers stopped letting people in about fifteen minutes ago.

Tom and I are wedged up by the bar side by side like we don’t hate each other, when he was the one throwing popcorn at me in our boxed seat at the ballet tonight.

Okay, I might have been throwing popcorn back, but I wasn’t going to surrender with kernels stuck in my hair.

And now my head spins at his words. Birthday presents.

Did I lose this memo in the mail? Surely, Ben would have told me if I needed to get Charlie and Beckett gifts.

Girls in high school were obsessed with this random ass day all because the Ryke Meadows was born on it, and then twenty-eight years later—his nephews, Charlie Cobalt and Beckett Cobalt, came into the world on the same exact day.

I’ve never marked it on my calendar. I honestly forgot all about it until Ben invited me to the ballet for Beckett’s “birthday” performance. He’s invited me to see Giselle before, but I’ve opted out in favor of studying. Tonight should’ve been another easy pass since I have a Latin exam tomorrow.

But my heart won over my head, and I blurted out, “I’ll be there.”

Little did I know that “there” also included an afterparty at Pink Noir.

I’m digging the cool ’80s Blade Runner slash Disco Barbie vibe of this club.

Hot pink strobe lights stroke sweaty bodies in the dance pit, and the light refracts colorfully against revolving disco balls.

Film noir posters hang on the black walls, and racks of liquor bottles at the bar are backlit with a pink neon glow.

Apparently, most ballet dancers from NYBC frequent this club after their performances to blow off steam. So while I should be memorizing Latin adverbs, I’m crossing my fingers and toes that the bartender doesn’t ask for my I.D.

I’m also really wishing Ben were next to me right now to clear up this “birthday present” confusion. But he left five minutes ago to use the restroom, and I’m almost positive he’s not making it back through the crowds anytime soon.

That leaves me with Tom .

He’s waving a hand for the bartender, who’s busy helping a group of girls at the other end of the bar. He lets out a heavy sigh and rotates back to me. “If you got them both a book, I’m going to warn you now, that’s just so generic of you.”

My face heats. He’s serious? “Was I supposed to get them something?”

Tom’s brows lift. “Harry? You didn’t get my brothers anything ?”

“They’re turning twenty-four,” I say in defense.

“Not five.” As soon as I utter the words I feel like an asshole because I don’t really mean it.

I’d gladly accept a birthday gift at the ripe age of fifty.

I just don’t know how else to deflect the brewing guilt bubbling in my stomach.

I was the only “friend” invited to sit in the Cobalt brothers’ boxed seat at the ballet with them.

So maybe I should’ve bought Charlie and Beckett something just to be nice…

even if they’re mind-bogglingly wealthy.

Rich people still like presents. Right?

Tom narrows his eyes at me as he studies my expression. “Are you—actually—wrecked by this?” His face twists. “And here I thought you were made of iron. Relax, relax. Don’t cry?—”

I’m scowling. “I’m not crying, Tommy .”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I was fucking with you.”

“Clearly,” I shoot back. “So what did you get them?”

“Nothing.” He tries flagging down the bartender again. “No one gives them gifts. Pretty sure Charlie would chuck it into the dumpster. In front of your face.” He laughs at the visual.

On the other side of me, an old stocky man lets out a frustrated curse before he grumbles under his breath and abandons the bar.

His presence is quickly replaced by a younger, taller, more athletic, more picturesque-looking guy in a gray sweatshirt and jeans.

He pushes back the wet strands of his dark dirty-blond hair.

Perspiration isn’t beaded up on his olive skin, so he’s not sweaty from dancing.

More like, he just showered. He has a soap scent and “just shaved” smoothness to his strong jawline.

I wonder if he’s one of the dancers from Giselle . Seems likely, but I wasn’t exactly memorizing their faces during the performance tonight.

He glances to his left over my head and makes direct eye contact with Tom.

I watch him assess Tom in a quick sweep—up, down.

“ You’re having trouble getting a drink?

Fucking hell. This is going to be a nightmare.

” He puts two elbows on the counter and leans half his body over.

“Marjorie!” he shouts at one of the brunette bartenders. “Marj!”

“In a minute!” She shoos him like she’s swatting a fly.

He lets out an annoyed breath, then peers back at Tom. “What do you want to drink?”

Tom’s brows spike. He points at himself where a silver skull necklace hangs against his black muscle tee. “Me?”

“No, the bodyguard behind you.” He jerks a thumb to the towering guy that’s standing directly behind Tom. “Because I’m sure he’s allowed to drink on the job.”

I am thoroughly lost now. “How do you know he’s a bodyguard?”

This maybe-dancer looks down at me as if the mouse on the floor just decided to squeak. “Who are you?”

“Harriet,” I snap into a scowl. “Who are you?”

Tom’s eyes bug so wide at me like I’m making a fool of myself. I don’t understand. Does this guy piss gold or something? He seems to be a grade A asshole from my point of view.

“She’s new,” Tom says swiftly. “Tonight was her first time watching an NYBC ballet.”

“What a shame.” The maybe-dancer gives me a tense smile. “Your first would’ve been better tomorrow night when I’m the lead.” He outstretches a hand for me to shake. “Leo Valavanis.”

I hold in a breath. This is…messy. Tonight, Beckett danced the lead male role, and I recognize the clear shot taken at Ben’s older brother. The literal Birthday Boy tonight. No way am I touching Leo, not even with the tip of my pinky.

Five seconds pass, and he drops his hand like he never offered it to begin with. He turns his attention back to Tom in a casual, cool way. “Drink?”

“Yeah, uh, sure.” Tom bops his head to the beat of the music, but he’s clearly into whatever charming asshole vibes Leo is projecting. “Vodka and Fizz.”

“I’ll take a Modelo,” I tell Leo, shooting my shot. Hey, there’s a ten percent chance I’m going to be the one to get a bartender over here.

Leo doesn’t let on if he heard me, but he pulls himself halfway over the bar again. “Marjorie!” he yells. “I’m grabbing the Grey Goose!”

“No, you are not, LV!” The brunette whirls toward us in a rush, then swats his back off the bar. “What do you want?”

“Two vodka and Cokes. And a Shirley Temple for the shortie.” He points at me in the middle of him and Tom. My face flames.

“He means a Modelo,” I correct.

Marjorie scans me in a quick sweep, then offers a pitying smile.

“Sorry, hun. That won’t fly with me.” Great, so why am I standing here?

She starts pouring the Grey Goose when I feel a body walk up behind me.

At first I think it might be Ben, until I glance up to see Beckett’s chiseled, angelic jawline and hardened expression.

I’ve found it’s scarier when someone like Beckett—who’s considered the calmest of the Cobalt Empire—goes nuclear. And right now, he is pissed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Beckett snaps at Leo.

Oh, I really don’t want to be in the middle of this. But it appears I’m stuck between Tom and Leo with Beckett right behind me. No way out.

Leo leans a casual elbow on the bar. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“He’s fine, Beckett,” Tom interjects. “Harmless, even.”

Leo throws a hand toward Tom. “See that—I am harmlessly buying your little brother a drink.” The smile crawling across his face is just for Beckett. A big FU.

Beckett glowers. “You’re going to walk away.”

“And why would I do that?” Leo asks into a laugh. “You don’t own this bar, Cobalt.”

“It’s my birthday,” Beckett reminds him, and I think that Leo might just laugh even harder. But something passes between their eyes. Understanding? I can’t read body language as well as Ben, but it’s clear these two have bucketloads of history.

Leo smiles. “Sure,” he says, then tips his head to the side. “See you around, Tom.”

Tom up-nods but concentrates mostly on the drinks being poured.

Leo lingers like he’s considering recapturing Tom’s attention, but Beckett angles himself at Leo in a show of dominance and masculine posturing. Then he says one firm, “No.”

I’m guessing this dissuades Leo since he just looks down at me. “Shortie.” He leaves at that dumb insult, and I pin my glare to his fucking back. Ugh.

“I hate that guy,” I say.

Beckett’s not even listening to me, he’s fixed on his little brother. “Don’t entertain him, Tom.”

“He was going to buy me a drink. Why would I turn down a free drink, dude?”

“Because you can buy your own drinks,” Beckett says smoothly. I must be getting to know them better—since I can see his subtle aggravation.

Tom groans and side-eyes the general direction Leo walked off to. “I can’t help it, Beckett Joyce—I was just a bystander. He was flirting with me . Right, Harry?” He twists to me for confirmation.

But Beckett doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “He’s using you to piss me off,” he tells Tom. “Letting him inside of you will be the worst decision of your life. Just stay away from him.”

Marjorie pushes the three drinks toward us, her eyes darting warily between Beckett and Tom like she doesn’t mean to interrupt.

“What is this, Marj?” Beckett asks her.

“Two vodka Cokes and a Shirley Temple.” She’s summoned to the other side of the bar and rushes away.