Without speaking, we change course.
As we approach the stage, she’s lit by amber stage lights, barefoot on a patterned rug. Wavy blondish hair, loose around her shoulders. Her fingers wrap the neck of her guitar like she’s conjuring the chords rather than playing them.
Her dress clings to her hips, loose and easy, but there’s a kind of fire in the way she plays. Controlled. Smoldering. I’ve never seen anything so innocent and yet dirty at the same time.
“Fuck,” Padraig whispers.
I can’t speak. Or take my eyes off her. She performs like she’s lived in hell and made it a home. No frills. No dancers. The crowd is fully locked in.
The sign on the banner behind her reads:Avonna.
I repeat it in my head.Avonna.
Padraig and I stand mesmerized throughout the entire set. Every single one of her lyrics cuts through me. Her songs couldn’t possibly be about me. Or, me and Linus.
But theycouldbe.
I stand with my fists stuffed in my hoodie pockets, trying not to shout my approval. Her voice wraps around me like a prayer and I’m gutted when she lets us know it’s her last song. I barely breathe until the final note drops.
When it ends, no one claps at first. Then the entire crowd erupts.
Padraig turns to me, eyes wide. “Who the fuck is she?”
“I don’t know.”
But we need to.
The two of us meander like common fans toward her merch booth. It’s legit. She clearly has a team behind her. Vinyl, shirts, leather-bound lyric books. A video loop plays footage from her earlier sets. Magazine covers. Interviews.
She’s not up-and-coming. She’s arrived. I’m the one late to this party.
Our artist passes get us behind the barrier to the backstage area without any hassle. There she is, two feet away, smiling politely at VIP festival-goers and a few industry types.
Refreshingly, she hangs back a bit. Unassuming though it’s impossible not to see her. Rosy cheeks. Sweat-damp curls. Her wide eyes narrow slightly when they land on me. A flicker of recognition sparks but she’s already on to the next.
I’m used to it. Famous without being well-known. In all likelihood she knows Fireball and can’t quite place why I look familiar.
Then her eyes flick back to mine, and something goes electric in my chest.
“I feel like I know you,” I say before I can stop myself.
She tilts her head, smile widening, but not mockingly. “Do you?”
“Yeah. Sorry. That was—creepy.” I glance at Padraig, who probably thinks I’m hitting on her.
“Only a little.” She laughs softly, and I’m fucking gone.
Padraig jumps in, always the smoother one. “Your set was incredible. Neither of us are familiar with your work and now you have two more enthusiastic fans.”
“Thanks.” She extends her hand. “Avonna.”
Padraig takes it first, introduces us both. “I’m Padraig. This is Liam. Yeah, we’re twins. We play in a band called Fireball.”
Avonna’s hand fits mine perfectly. Her skin’s warm. When she looks at me again, there’s something in her gaze. Now I’m certain it’s recognition. Also, curiosity?
Heat?
“Liam.” Her voice curves around my name like she’s tasting it.
