Liam.
My mind remains blown at the reality Avonna was at the Wazzu party the night Liam and I first kissed in public. How observing our love caused something inside her to shift. The memory of us helped her heal. She carried it forward to become the person she is today
All the way to me.
Now here we are. Married in private. Aligned in public. Everyone knows I manage her. No one but us knows what we want to build behind closed doors. How much I still love Liam. How she plans to get to know him this summer.
If Liam wants us, we’ll be ready.
He doesn’t realize it yet, but the man already lives in the space between me and Avonna. In the way we sometimes fuck with intention, preparing not for fantasy, but a future we both crave.
Sometimes, I place a plug into her ass while she rides my cock, so we can both imagine what it’ll feel like when we’re both inside her. Other nights, I’m the one split wide as sheworks a dildo in and out of me, stroking my cock with her other hand, whispering how wet it makes her thinking about him fucking me in front of her.
We swap roles often. In every position and every combination. Trust is everything. None of what we do is performative. Or a rehearsal. Every orgasm feels like a step closer to our triad being complete.
There’s no doubt in my mind when Liam meets Avonna, he’ll fall as deeply in love with her as I have. If he still has feelings for me, maybe it’ll all happen naturally.
At the same time, selfishly, I have professional designs on Fireball.
The band’s momentum picked up when LTZ slated Fireball to tour with them on and off for the better part of this year.
I hope it continues. They deserve more than riding on Connor’s nepotistic coattails. As far as I can tell, Fireball has been lurching along without any logical plan ever since their singer Arleigh left.
Without the right infrastructure they’re bleeding potential. I see the gaps. Moves they should make but haven’t. Headlines they’re not grabbing. Lanes they’re not owning.
Fireball needs a manager who knows them. Not someone guessing or afraid to push. I’ve already believed in them. Bled for them. My reputation in the industry is solid. I’ve had success with many artists. Years ago, I helped build Fireball and I’d like to do it again.
Better. Bigger. Smarter.
Perhaps with Avonna in the mix.
I’m keeping this possibility to myself for now.
Tonight, the queue outside is around the block. Bodies vibrate with pre-show energy. From a distance, the venue looks like any other. High brick walls, rusted signage, a stage barely visible through the open hangar-style doors.
Inside, the air sizzles with raw energy.
I keep my head down as we step in, my hand on the small of Avonna’s back. Her hair’s pulled back and she wears a hoodie, mainly to keep a low profile. Tonight is the first time I’ve seen Fireball in person since everything fell apart. It’s her first time seeing them at all.
They haven’t played Ireland before. Not once in all the years since I left the States. Like most acts on the festival circuit, they supplement the schedule with club and theater gigs in between. LTZ’s tour starts in Belfast next week. Avonna and I leave for France the week after. Avonna and Fireball will intersect close to a dozen times over the next couple of months.
Tonight is for her as much as it is for me. A chance to watch from the shadows. A stealth gut check. Are we both all in? Or do we abort the mission?
The lights drop, and the crowd loses their minds. The band walks out without fanfare. Padraig heads straight for the drums. He looks leaner than I remember, but grounded. Koko struts to center stage with practiced ease, long legs, and high confidence. The crowd loves her. She’s a professional. Poised.
Liam ambles out. He doesn’t rush. Walks like a storm brewing behind calm eyes, carrying the weight of every song he’s ever sung. His hair hangs longer now, brushing the collar of his shirt. His shoulders are broader. The way he moves steals my breath.
He stands before the mic and nods to Padraig. They lock in.
The first chord punches through the room. Controlled. A shared breath. I feel it in my ribs. Beside me, Avonna is still. Her eyes are fixed on the stage.
When Liam starts to sing, I feel her fingers thread through mine. His voice cuts through the static of the crowd, low and rough, worn with living. He doesn’t perform. He bleeds.
Three songs pass. Neither of us speaks. By the fourth, I feel her shift again.
“He’s writing from inside a wound.” She cups her mouth to my ear. “His voice echoes off the walls of something broken.”
Leave it to Avonna to describe something perfectly.
