Page 69 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

“For your birthday. I’ll make you a bracelet or something…” I trail off, realizing the mistake here.

Ben blinks, then tugs the dish rag off his shoulder. His frown is heavy.

He won’t be here. March 29 th —of course I know his birthday. I wished him a happy one last year. It’d been the day he thwarted a bad interaction with my shitty professor.

“I’ll mail it to you.” I rinse a splotchy pint glass. “You have the address?”

He watches me. “Not yet.”

My stomach backflips. “But you know where you’re going? Is this an American vacation or are we talking overseas?”

“America.” He takes the glass from me to dry it. “More like I’m going to live there. It’s not just a trip.”

Okay… “But where is there exactly?”

“A place that my parents would definitely not enjoy.” He smiles a little at the thought. He really loves his mom and dad. “They’re not campers. My mom would last a solid day sleeping on the ground, then she’d book a hotel at the Ritz.”

“I can’t blame her.”

His smile grows. “You wouldn’t sleep on the ground with me, Fisher?”

“I would do a lot of things with you that I normally wouldn’t do,” I say. “I just wish there was more time to do them, I guess.”

“I’m right here, right now.” He flings the towel at my face.

I toss it back with a smile battling its way out of me. “You want to go camping sometime, nature boy?”

“You asking me out?”

I shrug. “You saying yes?”

Ben skates a hand across his jaw. “You have time in your pre-med schedule to drive hours out of the city and camp overnight?”

No , is my first initial thought. I definitely do not have that kind of fucking time between classes, labs, volunteering, research, clubs, bartending, studying, trying to snag a shadowing position. “Sure,” I lie. “I can make time. Just like I did for your brothers’ birthday.”

“Midterms are coming up.”

Oh my God, don’t remind me!

“Are you itching your arms?” Concern pushes him toward me.

“Am I breaking out in hives?” I ask.

He checks the reddened speckling on my arms, but it’s faint enough that I relax before he says, “I think you’re good.”

A weight sinks into my stomach as I replay our back and forth. “Did you just reject me?”

“No,” he says like the idea pains him. “If it doesn’t derail your goals, I’d do anything with you. But I’m honestly cool with staying in the city, hanging out in your apartment, helping you study. You don’t need to go far for me. I just like being around you.”

It means a lot to me—that my presence is simply good enough, that just being with me in any capacity is fulfilling. Still, I wonder, “Me plus you plus the woods doesn’t sound more appealing?”

His lips tic up but flatline. “No—” He’s cut off as the door blows open, and a rowdy stream of sports fans floods the bar. All in Yankees garb, all dropping f-bombs and gesticulating wildly. I’m guessing they just lost the postseason playoffs and came to drown their sorrows.

I’m no diehard baseball fanatic, but I have faint memories of attending a Pirates game with my mom and dad before the divorce.

So by association to the decently happy memory in my brain, I am a Pirates fan.

Ben roots for the Phillies. Both our teams didn’t even make the playoffs.

We have no skin in this year’s World Series.

Ben and I split apart to “divide and conquer” as he so often tells me at work. He helps the right side of the bar, and I take orders from the left.

Unfortunately for me, the left consists of pushy thirtysomethings outfitted in jerseys. They elbow their way to the front of the bar. “Hey, you!” the beefiest guy shouts at me, wobbling just a little to where I know he’s not sober.

I’m pouring lagers for a patient couple who wear Yankees ballcaps. “In a sec. They were first.” I must have serious RBF because he growls under his breath to his friend, “What’s this bitch’s problem? I’m just trying to order a fuckin’ drink, Jesus Christ.”

I peek over at Ben.

He’s bending over the bar to hear orders through the commotion. Ben is such a guy’s guy that the group of dudes all laugh at whatever he says. I’d say they recognize his fame status, but they’re not doing the usual “You’re Ben Cobalt! Bro, no way?!” shock-routine.

No one seems to register a Cobalt is behind the bar.

Ben and these dudes casually knuckle-bump like they’re fucking friends. They even bro-pat his shoulder before he goes to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind me.

He checks on me with a brief glance, and concern twitches his brows.

I give him a waist-high thumbs-up, not wanting him to worry. Do I envy his impressive social skills? Yeah. Do I wish they’ve rubbed off on me? Also yes.

But I’m still a capable bitch-faced individual. I’ve got this.

“Open a tab or close?” I ask the couple after they hand me their credit card.

“Close.”

The gruff beefy dude bellows out an obnoxiously loud laugh with his friends. It puts me on edge since he was disgruntled two seconds ago. They aren’t laughing at you, Harriet. I close out the couple, their beers already in hand.

Beefy Dude and his friends hastily take their spots. Then he motions to me like he’s not right in front of my face. “Hey, we’re next.” He points at his head.

“What can I get you?”

“What’s got you so fucking mad?” he snaps.

What would Ben do? I shrug. “The Yankees just lost.”

“Damn right.” They all start to smile and up-down me like I’m cool. A fellow dejected sports fan and not at all a moody bitch.

“You want a beer?” I ask, hoping to move this drunken train along the tracks. Somewhere far, far away from me.

Beefy Dude appraises me to where my bones instantly rust. He laughs a little to himself, then points to an expensive bourbon. “A double. On the rocks.” The bottle is on the highest shelf.

I grind my teeth, seeing him snicker. Let’s see the five-foot-one girl try to reach the top-shelf bourbon. How hilarious.

I look to Ben for help—it’s an instinct now.

He sees me and up-nods. I point to the bourbon, and he’s quick to come behind me and grab the liquor.

“No, man,” Beefy Dude stops Ben. “Put it back. She’s got it.”

Ben is unamused. His pissed-off glare drills into Beefy Dude. He hands me the liquor bottle, not listening to the asshole.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

Ben remains on my side of the bar. His supreme stare-down is shaking Beefy Dude’s friends. They’re starting to detach from him, but this guy isn’t reading the room. I’m sure the beer goggles aren’t helping, but being drunk doesn’t excuse being a total dick.

I’m about to pour a double, but Beefy Dude exclaims, “Nah, I don’t want that anymore.

I’ll take that one.” He jabs a finger toward another top-shelf bourbon.

His smug smirk crawls under my skin. Anger smolders in my lungs.

I’m sure I’m glowering, but he does not give a shit.

He just tells Ben, “She’s got it this time.

We have a thing going, me and her.” His drunk eyes fall to me. “Isn’t that right?”

“No,” I deadpan.

“Yeaaah we do. We’re connecting here.” He laughs. “I know you can jump for it. Go on, jump.” He stares at my tits in preparation for me to bounce.

“You can leave,” Ben states firmly. His glare never loses scathing heat.

“Whoa, I have every right to get a fuckin’ drink.”

“We have every right to refuse you service when you’re harassing?—”

“Harassing? For fuck’s sake, I’m just trying to get a drink!” Look at that sudden memory loss. He’s puffed up with hostile aggravation, and his friends butt up to the bar, apologizing on his behalf.

“No, he needs to go.” Ben has now pushed his way in front of me, shielding me from the situation.

“I did nothing ,” Beefy Dude bemoans. “What kind of fucking place even has high schoolers serving alcohol?”

“We’re in college, and you can get the fuck out.”

Again, they try to reason with Ben, but he’s on a firm line they’re not shoving him off. His bodyguard has risen from his usual table near the entrance.

All I see are the many paying customers being disturbed by Beefy Dude’s outburst, and they’re simply just trying to enjoy Ghostbusters , their pints, their friends, and their Sunday night.

“Ben, it’s fine,” I cut in.

His head swings down to me, confusion hardening his features. “No, Harriet?—”

“Just give him a beer and tell them they can sit in the back if they don’t bother anyone.”

He does not like this. So I’m shocked when he listens to me, relays the statement, and pours a beer from a tap and opens them a tab. Tension is all over his face. He returns the credit card to Beefy Dude’s friend with a warning still in his pinpointed gaze.

I appreciate being heard more than he knows. Once we’ve helped everyone and cleared the line, Ben crosses his arms, his attention still plastered to the rowdiest Yankees fans in the back corner.

“Why’d you want them to stay?” he asks now, his gaze finally pulling off them and dropping to me.

“It’s the path of least resistance.” I trash an empty bottle of Smirnoff. “Ever heard of it?”

“No,” he says with a tight shake of the head. “I’m very much willing to walk the road of conflict if it means kicking those motherfuckers”—he shoots a glare at them—“off the path your feet are on.”

“I saved you the trouble, Friend. They’re fine.”

He exhales a long, long breath through his nose.

“You probably came from a place where you couldn’t risk putting your neck on the line, but I didn’t.

So letting him sit there—it’s not easy for me, but I’m doing it this time for you.

Next time, know that you can boot him, and the consequences will not be as harsh as you think. You won’t lose the fight.”

I am used to suffering through whatever shitty moment is occurring, letting it pass with quiet resignation. The times I snark back, I’m more ready for things to go south. The situation rarely gets better . “You really think this is worse? They’re not even paying attention to me anymore.”

“We’ve left a ticking bomb in the back of the bar,” is all he says before the door swings open, and Ben straightens to an even stiffer stance when Charlie, Eliot, and Tom come striding through.

The Cobalt brothers found the End of the World.