Page 30 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
Felicity doesn’t say goodnight. She steps back and leaves the mic swinging.
Like two eager puppies, we edge past a line of drunk college guys and slip down a narrow corridor behind the stage. The green room’s small and overheated. She’s propped against the far wall, head tilted back, throat working as she drains a bottle of water. The confidence she wore on stage peels off her shoulders like smoke. Up close, she looks like she’s barely out of high school. Certainly not old enough to carry that kind of voice.
She lowers the bottle, eyes locking on us.
Stills when she sees Liam.
Up close, her eyes hit harder. They’re laced with gold. Her dark hair’s now slicked into a ponytail, loose strands clinging to her neck. There’s sweat at her collarbone. A flush across her chest. She’s buzzing from the stage.
“Hey,” I say as we approach.
She watches us, unreadable.
“I’m Padraig,” I offer. “This is Liam. We’re in a band called Fireball and we need a singer and were wondering if you’d be interested in talking about it.”
Her gaze flicks between us. Lingers on Liam.
Something shifts.
Silent. Charged.
Like a fuse caught fire.
eight
Stevie
Four months Later
I’mconflictedasshit.
I glance out the window as steam coils off my coffee, fogging the chipped window above the sink.
Outside, Pullman’s painted in grays and browns. Two students across the street are unloading lopsided pumpkins from the backof a rusted Dodge. One slips and splits open on the driveway. Seeds scatter. They howl laughing.
We’re all finally waking up and it’s not quite noon. Padraig’s in the shower. I can hear Liam in the basement setting up for rehearsal. I’m not sure where Felicity is.
The house is thick with the aftershocks of last night’s gig. Fireball played a packed-out frat house until nearly four a.m. Bodies were pressed wall-to-wall, making the whole place heave like a living organism. After, Liam was buzzing so hard he practically vibrated. I’ve never seen him so happy. Padraig and Felicity beamed, basking in the glow of their biggest gig yet.
I was proud. Really, I was.
On the other hand, wedging myself between sticky couches and dodging grabby hands while the band shreds on stage isn’t exactly my dream Friday night.
We didn’t get home until nearly six. Padraig was keyed up. Erection pressed against my ass the second our bedroom door clicked shut behind us. He bent me over the bathroom sink, fucked me fast and deep with one hand around my throat and the other clamped over my mouth to muffle the sounds.
The man’s a goddamn machine. Honestly, though? Even the most devoted girlfriend needs more than five hours of sleep. I’m wrecked.
At least we have our own place now, a lopsided off-campus rental untouched by contractors since the seventies. It’s a disaster, honestly, with cracked drywall and slanted floors. The heater creaks and the carpet on the stairs downstairs to the basement crunches when you step on it. They’ve set up their rehearsal down there and it reeks of incense, sweat, and whatever body spray Liam’s using this week.
The guys found the place right before the semester started. Felicity moved in next. Then, me.
When Padraig asked if I’d be okay with it, it wasn’t really a question. “You’ll love it,” he cooed. “We’ll make it ours.”
I do. Mostly. He and I have the master bedroom, with an en suite bathroom and a door that locks, thank God. Making it “ours” means we splurged on a new king mattress which we keep on the floor. Books are stacked in uneven towers beside the bed and we have a thrifted IKEA desk where my laptop lives. Padraig’s easel and paint are set up by the window.
Liam took the next-biggest room on the opposite side of the house. Felicity’s room is across the hall from him.
I like her for the most part. Unlike her stage persona, she’s quiet. Shy, almost to the point of invisible. Never in the way. Always humming. We haven’t talked much, but she’s easy enough to live with. Part of me is relieved to have another woman in the house.
