Page 127 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
“It’s fine.” He sighs. “We’ll hash it out on tour. I’m serious about coming up with an exit plan. I don’t want to leave him highand dry but he doesn’t really understand my perspective because he’s not a father. His people travel with him. He’s not like me.”
I tilt my head and blow him a kiss. “You guys will be fine. I should let you get some sleep. Promise to reach out when you’re settled in Paris?”
“The second I’m able.” He kisses me back through the screen. “I love you. And, Stevie?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“Me too.”
The silence lingers after he hangs up.
I hold the phone for a beat longer, already missing him.
We’ve only taken the first step and it might be a little messy.
This time I’ll never let the flame go out.
thirty-seven
Padraig
Six Weeks Later
Theheathitsfirst.
Not only from the sun, but from fifty thousand bodies pressed together in an open field, their roar building until it’s a living thing.
The stage shakes under my kit, every kick drum thud shoots up through my legs. Liam’s guitar wails to my left, Avonnaprowls the front edge, hair whipping, her voice cutting sharp and clean through the chaos.
I lock into the bass loop I built for this song, feel it punch through the subs and into the crowd, shaking the barricades. Think about the years of dingy clubs, gear rattling in the back of borrowed vans, half-drunk sound guys. We climbed every rung to get here.
Almost twenty years of slogging to be whatRolling Stonecalls “the longest overnight success.”
Flags snap above the crush of people, pint cups lift in salute. When Avonna throws her mic toward them, they scream the chorus ofTir na nÓgback so loud my teeth buzz. Liam shoots me a sideways grin, sweat dripping, hair plastered to his face, and I answer with a hard crash on the cymbals to make him laugh.
Every song blurs into the next. Muscle memory takes over while my head rides the high. The view from behind the kit is all motion, lights sweeping in wide arcs, hands raised in unison, the shimmer of all the colors of fifty-thousand festival-goers.
It’s beautiful, in its way. Wild. Free.
Even as I push into the last chorus, my mind drifts to home. Rafferty’s lopsided grin when he sees me on FaceTime. Stevie’s laugh when the girls argue over who gets to hold the phone. Jude waving a plastic drumstick like he’s part of the band.
We hit the final note hard enough to shake the risers. Avonna throws her arms up and the roar doubles. Liam soaks it in, eyes closed, every bit the rock star he was born to be. I take it in too, pride swelling. Not for me. For us.
For every mile, every fight, every night we slept sitting up so the van’s heater could keep the gear from freezing.
Then the crew is pulling us offstage to set up for the next act. Linus waits with fresh bottles of water and a grin indicatingthe set landed flawlessly. I nod, catching my breath. Rockstar adrenaline’s a drug, but the first thing I want isn’t another hit.
It’s my people. The real ones. The ones not here.
I’m already calculating time zones, figuring out if I can catch the kids before they’re off to school.
The stage manager waves us toward the wings. I’m soaked with sweat, my wrists buzz from the last cymbal crash and my heartbeat is synced to the crowd’s chant. We spill into the tunnel under the stage, crew darting in every direction, cables coiled, amps rolling out to the trucks.
Liam hooks an arm over my shoulder. “Flawless.”
“Thanks, Dar.” I kiss his cheek and he’s off, replaying riffs in his mind as if he’s onstage. Linus flanks Avonna, whose talking to a notoriously demented radio host, her hair is dripping, eyeliner smudged to perfection.
