“Hi.” She glances around nervously. “My name’s Avonna. I’m, um…I’m on holiday. Trying a few new things to build my confidence. Thank you for listening.”
Huh. American.
Someone whistles, a few cheers ripple through the room.
“I haven’t sung in a pub before, but here goes.” Avonna adjusts her guitar strap, breathes in, then starts picking a soft, mournful intro.
It takes me a few bars to recognize it. A beautiful old ballad calledThe Wind That Shakes the Barley. Her version is nothing like the traditional. It’s richer. Her voice enters like smoke. Ethereal. Each note is soaked in grief and grace, blooming through the pub’s clatter like an invocation.
I go still. Hair rises on the back of my neck. My chest constricts in a way I haven’t felt since the first time I saw Liam. Avonna’s not performing. She’s bleeding.
It’s fucking beautiful.
My throat works around something I can’t name. My heart pounds. My cock, fuck, it’s threatening to burst outta my jeans. She’s not only gorgeous. It’s the truth in her. The fearless surrender. She’s naked in this moment, emotionally if not physically, and I want to know her. Want to put my hands in the music and see where it leads.
She finishes on a whisper. The pub doesn’t erupt. It holds its breath.
Then applause swells, sudden and thunderous.
She smiles. Small, almost bashful, but I see the glint of it.
Power, barely contained.
I already know. She’s the one. The woman I’ve been waiting for.
Forus.
My mouth is dry. My heart pounds, a drumbeat of need. I push up from the table before I fully think it through.
I don’t care if it’s premature or reckless. I have to talk to her.
Hear her voice up close.
Ask if she knows what she did to me.
I’ve been still for too long.
This finally feels like motion.
twenty-eight
Liam
Five Months Later
Daniel’sBroilerlookslikemoney fucked a lake house.
White tablecloths crisp as origami, wine glasses polished to a shine, and floor-to-ceiling windows let the lake do all the talking. Everything smells like seared beef, old money, and lemon-butter optimism.
My brother and I don’t belong here. Not really.
We walk in anyway.
Padraig and I trail in road-dust , but the host clocks Connor’s name and takes us straight to a prominent corner booth. The restaurant’s drenched in late-afternoon light, the lake outside glitters like the jewel of the Pacific Northwest it is.
Connor stands when he sees us, pulls us in one by one. He looks clean. Put-together. Sports a designer T-shirt costing more than our monthly tour budget. His arms are leaner and more defined than I remember. Stadium life suits him.
“Youse both look like shit.” He slides back into the booth.
