Lord knows they need me, even if I haven’t heard from them.
It’s been years. No calls. No emails. Nothing. But, I still follow Fireball, their tour dates, the gossip. He’s earning quite the reputation. Fucking his way across the world like it’s all he’s worth.
Hell, I get it. I’ve tried to fuck him out of my life too. Some men, but mostly women. Casual flings in hotel rooms and dark corners of clubs. It’s pathetic, but I’m always searching for her. Our Isis. The one who’ll stand beside me and Liam. Balance us. Heal us. Allow us to find our way back to each other.
I’m so full of shite it’s not even funny, but I can’t help how I feel. Deep down, I believe we’ll find our way back one day.
If I think about it too much, I’ll lose my fucking mind, so I pour myself into what I know. The late nights, the new acts, the festival submissions and visa logistics and grant applications. Every one of them a prayer I say in secret, hoping the universe still listens.
Laughter bursts beside me as someone slams a shot glass to the table. Shay hooks an arm around my shoulder, asking if I heard the bridge change. I nod, smile, give him the exact feedback he needs to believe their thing might work.
We all need something to have faith in.
I slide my phone from my pocket to check the schedule for tonight. The pub light catches the Isis logo on my cracked phone case. Clean lines, black on white, elegant and grounded. A reminder of who I am and what I’m building.
Another band on the roster tonight is one I’ve had my eye on. GoreGlam are made up of four women, all glitter and rage. The frontwoman is tall with a mohawk and a shredded red slip. She shouts into the mic like she’s exorcising the city. The guitarist spits into the dark between songs, grins, and kicks her pedalboard so the next riff comes in jagged. The rhythm section don’t have their shit together yet, but they can get better.
I stand near the back, pint in hand, and let the set wash over me. The bass thuds through the floorboards into my chest, a heartbeat bigger than mine. Every time the drummer smashes a cymbal, the crowd shudders forward, bodies slamming together.
It’s anarchy. Beautiful, raw, uncurated. What music’s supposed to evoke.
A woman behind the bar keeps catching my eye. She’s pretty, with a messy knot of black hair and a silver ring through her septum. Ink spirals up her forearms. Blackwork roses, a skeletal bird. She pours drinks like she’s in a fight with the tap. When she looks at me, her mouth curves into not exactly a smile, more like a dare.
Between sets, I edge up to order another drink. She leans across the bar, wipes foam from her wrist with the hem of her shirt. “You’re here almost every night.” Her Dublin accent is rolled in whiskey. “Are you some kind of stalker?”
“Band manager,” I correct her. “One of my acts is up next but I’m also scouting.”
She glances toward the stage. “They’re mad bastards, those girls. In a good way.” Her eyes return to me, darker now. “You look like you could use a bit of madness yourself.”
Maybe it’s the bass still in my bloodstream. Maybe it’s the months of restraint. I don’t think before saying, “Aye, you’re probably right.”
Her eyebrows lift. She tosses her bar rag aside, nods toward a narrow door marked STAFF ONLY.
She pushes open a supply closet, yanks me in after her. The door clicks behind us, leaving us amidst shelves of napkins, bottles, and disinfectant. She slams me against the wall, kisses me fiercely enough to bruise.
Her name, when I ask, comes out between breaths. “Karra.”
Her mouth tastes like hops. She drags her tongue along my lower lip, bites. I grab her waist, my fingers finding the curve of her hip beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. She’s already unbuttoning my jeans. The sound of the pub is muffled now, a thump of bass through the wall.
“Fuck…mmmmmmm,” she murmurs, when I catch her chin in my hand and kiss down her neck.
Karra strokes my cock. I push her against the shelving, metal rattling.
She laughs, low, dirty. “You needed this.”
Without answering, I pull her shirt over her head. No bra. Her nipples are bullets against my palms, I mouth one, then the other, till her head knocks back against the wall.
“Christ, yeah—” Her hips cant forward.
Karra undoes her own jeans, shoves them down revealing black-lace panties, already damp. I hook a finger through, tear them aside. The heat of her against my hand makes something twist inside me, sharp as hunger.
“Condom,” she says, breathless.
I’ve got one in my wallet. She tears the packet with her teeth, rolls it down on me, eyes locked to mine. Then she turns, bracing her hands on the shelf.
I slide in all the way, hips slamming against her arse. The air goes out of both of us.
“Fuck—” she chokes.
