Us.
thirty-four
Liam
One Month Later
Life’sprettyfuckin’greaton the other side.
This is the first tour we’ve ever had with a full crew and a bus driver.
It’s fucking luxury and I don’t ever want to go back to slummin’ it.
The sun’s still high when we leave the backstage tent. Hot, heavy air clings to my skin, and my ears are already ringing from the last set we caught.
Germany throws a proper festival. Six stages. Smoke cannons, drone cams, girls in mesh bodysuits and guys covered in glitter and leather. Every ten feet someone hands us a drink or a flyer or abranded condom.
Me and Padraig keep our heads low under baseball hats. No one bothers us. Not yet.
We’ve played a few of these now, opening for LTZ across Europe, but this one feels bigger. Louder. A little more chaotic.
The best part about it is the downtime. There’s no frenzy to pack up, drive to the next town and do it all again. We’re able to check out other music, which is how we’re spending the next few hours. As we navigate through the crowd, two girls with airbrush tattoos are dancing barefoot next to a line of food trucks.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” My stomach growls at the smell of fried onions and garlic. “Still ridin’ LTZ’s coattails. Openin’ for them. Watchin’ Connor become a god.”
Padraig smiles faintly. “Not weird. Well-deserved.”
“Yeah, but still. It’s a trip. Feels like yesterday he was hauling drywall to pay our tuition. Now he’s datin’ fuckin’ America’s sweetheart.” I’m not envious, exactly.
Padraig nods but seems a million miles away. “Ronni’s cool.”
I glance over at him, walking beside me like he has since we were in diapers. Same gait, same rhythm. Quieter now. Sadder. The lines around his mouth are deeper.
So many years have passed and he’s still not over Stevie. When he’s in a mood like this, it’s best not to push. To be fair, he doesn’t push me either.
I’m not over Linus either. I have so many regrets at how I handled things and now it’s too late. I’m pretty good at hiding it, though. There’s a long trail of people I’ve hooked up with and discarded. Meaningless fucks leaving me more and more empty with each passing day.
“He’s not changed, has he?”
Padraig kicks a pebble. “Not where it counts.”
“You heard anythingelse from Koko?”
My brother frowns. “No, but we both know this is her last run. When we’re done with the tour, she’ll leave.”
God, it pisses me off. We’re having the biggest swing of momentum in our career and we’ll likely be back to square one.
“New album. Bigger crowds. More money and better tours,” I grouse. “She picks now to ditch us? What are we gonna do with no fucking singer?”
“Dar, stop.” Padraig chuffs out a snort. “She was never stayin’. We both knew it and we’ve buried our heads in the sand.”
He’s right, and while part of me is relieved, the other part is exhausted. It seems like we can never catch a goddamn break.
The music from the nearby stage shifts. Something acoustic, but not soft. Deep. It’s a woman’s voice. Low, smooth, aching.
Every single one of my hairs stand on end. I turn toward the sound. So does Padraig.
Hers is not the kind of voice you forget. Dusty velvet. Pain polished into pearl. She’s not trying to impress anyone, it’s more like she’s cut herself open to let people see inside.
