A warm tide creeping into a sun-soaked bay.
What the fuck?
But the sensation was gone as fast as it had arrived. As Ollie shook himself, Shay looked away and jumped straight into a jigged-up song that was clearly a fan favourite. There were drums of all kinds, a penny whistle, a violin, and even a banjo. And above it all, Shay Maloney’s velvet voice rang out, cloaking the packed concert hall in his magic as Ollie fell under his spell.
The song played out. Calls for an encore were met with another round of the opening number, and then it was over. The band left the stage. Ollie watched them go, noting how Shay was the first to duck behind the curtain, as though it were midnight and he had something to hide.
Ollie snorted.Wrong way round, dickhead. And it was true. Shay Maloney had many secrets….
He just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter Two
Shay wokewith a low groan and a banging headache. Getting shitfaced before a gig was a big no-no, but after? Fucking-A. Beer, vodka, and something sticky that was bound to ruin his day. Worth it, though. He’d come off stage last night off-kilter, as though he’d missed something really fucking important, but at the same time relieved the gig was over, which never happened.I don’t have time for this shit, man.Who did? Being a weirdo was overrated.
Yawning, Shay stretched, and then immediately regretted it as his leg dropped out of the narrow bunk and chilly air hit his bare skin.Wow, son. In the three months leading up to this tour, he’d fantasised about how much fun it would be to live on a tour bus. To sleep in close quarters with his bandmates and share every moment of their dream come true.
The reality was cramped and noisy and smelled like arse.
Fuck’s sake.Groaning again, he pulled his tiny pillow over his head. Somewhere someone chuckled and threw a paper cup at him. Awesome. He’d forgotten to pull the curtains too. Not that it would’ve made much difference. By the racket going on around him, the rest of the world was already wide awake.
He admitted defeat and sat up. Ben—the band’s resident fiddle player—was in the bunk opposite, but he was paying Shay no heed, engrossed, as usual, in texting his girlfriend back home. Shay searched further afield for the cup thrower and found Jumbo, the bassist, grinning like a twat.
Shay sighed. “Wanker.”
Jumbo laughed. “Mornin’. Or afternoon more like. You get your beauty sleep?”
“Fuck off.” Shay scowled and then regretted it as the effort made his head pound. “What time is it?”
“One o’clock. You missed lunch.”
Great. Shay’s stomach growled. Hung-over or not, he didn’t miss meals. Couldn’t. With a sigh, he reached for the bag he always kept within arm’s reach, no matter how much vodka he’d sunk the night before. He tested his blood sugar, wincing when he saw the result. He needed breakfast, and fast.
As if on cue, Corina appeared, brandishing porridge, a banana, and a Costa cup of something that smelled like grass. “Sort yourself out, Maloney. You’ve got a busy day.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Watch it.”
She disappeared, leaving Shay to jab some insulin into his belly and scarf his breakfast. When he was done, Larry came to sit with him. His comforting bulk was soothing. Everyone leaned on Larry. Even Shay, who found the concept of leaning on anyone mildly disturbing. He dozed with his head lolled on Larry’s shoulder for a while, until Corina returned to drag him away.
They’d stopped in Athlone, the midway point between Dublin and Galway. Shay peered out of the windows at the front of the bus. Corina nudged him hard in the ribs.
“If you wanted to sightsee, you should’ve gone to bed earlier. Sit down. We’ve got things to do.”
Shay thought about muttering something derogatory under his breath but bottled it when he sensed the weight of Corina’s glare. She was a slave driver with little patience for anything that messed with her meticulous schedule, but beyond that, she was a bloody good manager. Without her, Smuggler’s Beat would still be playing workingmen’s clubs. Besides, she was right. No one hadmadehim stay up late in a futile attempt to drink more vodka than Russian-born Mara—the band’s hollow-legged pianist.
The front of the bus housed a kitchen area and a makeshift office space. Shay took a seat at the table and resisted the urge to slump forwards like a child and rest his head on his arms. His daily self-care routine had fixed his blood sugar, but he was still hanging.
Corina plonked a coffee in front of him. “Buck up, kiddo. I wasn’t joking when I said you have a busy day.”
“What’s so busy about it?” Shay drew the coffee towards him. “Apart from the obvious. You didn’t book more TV slots, did you? I hate that shit.”
“Why? You don’t mind being on stage.”
“That’s not the same thing. We play live on stage, and we sound good. TV fucks everything up.”
Corina treated him to a rare smile. “That’s life, Shay. But no, I haven’t booked you on to anymoreTV shows. This one is something you’ve already agreed to, and it’s not actually about the band.”
