Chapter 2
two
Stevie
One Year Later
An entire year of nonstop practice and we’re experts at fucking.
I’m warm. Sticky. Wrecked. His breath is slow and heavy in the curve of my neck.
The smell of sweat, old amps, and fresh sex hangs in the air like smoke.
My skirt’s up around my waist, panties…somewhere.
His jeans are halfway down, and my tits jiggle every time his cock hits the magical place deep inside me.
The couch under us groans with every thrust. Padraig roars as he comes, his face contorting in ecstasy.
His chest is pressed to mine when the basement door creaks open.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Liam snaps, his annoyance slicing into the haze. “Can you two not fuck on every surface in the practice room?”
Padraig barely lifts his head from the crook of my neck.
I don’t bother with embarrassment. This isn’t the first time Liam’s caught us and it won’t be the last. I tilt my head toward him. “You ever heard of knocking?”
“Uh, I fucking live here,” he shoots back, marching into the room like we’re the problem. “You’re corrupting the wee ones. If I can hear everything through the ceiling and through the goddamn floorboards, so can they.”
Liam’s guitar is slung over one shoulder, dark hair damp from the shower. His t-shirt clings to him half-askew like he got dressed in a rush. He averts his eyes out of respect.
Padraig pulls out and tosses me his flannel. His fingers trail down my thigh as he shifts off me, breath ragged. He grabs his jeans and tugs them on, turning to give me some minute semblance of privacy as I try to cover myself.
“You’re early, Dar.” Padraig coughs roughly.
“Fuck off. I’m on time. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you want me to see your pale, bare ass.” Liam waves him off.
“Okay, I’m decent.” I get up and sit cross-legged on Liam’s amp like a queen reclaiming her throne. “Ready for rehearsal?”
Liam drops his bag with a thud and pretends to focus on tuning his guitar. Padraig locates his drumsticks under a pile of setlists. Takes his place behind the drums, rolls his shoulders and taps the snare like his brother didn’t walk in on us.
Again.
“You two are a health violation,” Liam grumbles.
I look down at my nails. “Then maybe stop barging in on us. I swear you do it on purpose.”
Liam snorts. “The couch is a cesspool of come.”
“Worth it.” Padraig winks at me. Gives me the look. Makes my stomach flip even after the hundreds of times we’ve fucked. His gaze is hot and steady, like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing.
It’s shocking how perfect we are together. Well, maybe not, considering how long we’ve been best friends. I’m a safe place for him to escape everything going on in his family and all our other stresses. We mostly hang out. He draws. I read. Fuck when we can.
Graduation is in a couple weeks. College is looming. Real life is coming at us like a freight train.
“Are we actually rehearsing today?” Liam spins one of the tuning pegs with too much force.
Padraig clicks his sticks together. “Aye. Let’s run through our set list.”
They fall into place. Liam sings and shreds on guitar, Padraig hammers a beat so tight it shakes the ceiling dust loose and adds backing vocals. I sing along out of habit, not thinking, not planning. Muscle memory.
I’ve been here since the beginning, which was three or four years ago. Nothing’s cohesive, but they both enjoy playing even if the wind’s out of their sails without Connor.
Four songs in, as if he reads my mind, Liam cuts the song off. “He’s never coming back, is he?”
Not a question. A statement. Aimed at no one.
Padraig and I look at each other, not sure what to say.
After a few minutes, Padraig sets his sticks on the snare. “He’s working fifteen-hour days. Handling the paperwork for Da. He doesn’t have time.”
“Aye.” Liam toes the ground. “I know. I guess I hoped Da would be back runnin’ it by now.”
He doesn’t look at us when he says it. Doesn’t have to.
We all know the truth.
Connor didn’t take over because he wanted to. He sacrificed his own dreams so all of us wouldn’t have to disrupt our own lives. Playing music is always a reminder for the twins of the unfairness of it all.
“I think you need to embrace the opportunity he’s giving you. Have a more positive outlook,” I say half under my breath. “Get a manager. Take it seriously.”
Padraig perks up immediately. “So you’re volunteering?”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head vigorously.
Liam looks up, interest piqued. “Except, you already do everything.”
“Yeah, because I’m a sucker who’s in love with the drummer. Not the same thing.” I pull Padraig’s flannel tighter around my body.
Padraig grins. “Ah, she says she loves me.”
I throw a pick at him. He dodges, cheesing.
“You two are so fucking annoying.” Liam rolls his eyes. “Look. Stevie. You’re organized. Bossy. Controlling. Good with people. It’s how every great manager starts out.”
“Don’t use up all your charm at once, dumb ass,” I snort.
Padraig sits next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “He’s right, you know. You write all our set lists. Give good advice. All you need to do is book more shows like the garage party we played last month.”
“My cousin owed me a favor.” I throw my hands up in the air.
“It counts.” Liam raises an eyebrow. “C’mon. Do us a solid. We can’t trust anyone else.”
I stare at them both. Their messy black waves. The scratches on Padraig’s knuckles from hitting the rim too hard. The way Liam’s shoelace is half-untied and he hasn’t noticed. They’re both brilliant and reckless and a little bit hopeless.
I love them both. Obviously differently. I’m not planning on fucking Liam—ever.
“Fine. I’ll help,” I acquiesce. “Only until you figure out what the hell you’re doing. But, don’t call me your manager.”
Padraig kisses my cheek. “Sure. If you say so.”
“I’m serious, guys. I don’t want to spend my life on the road chasing gigs and counting Spotify streams. I have my own plans,” I answer honestly.
“You have a great voice, though.” Padraig nudges me with his shoulder. “You could sing.”
I shake my head. “Stop. I don’t want to be on stage. I have no desire to perform.”
“When you have a gift,” Liam stands in front of me, “you should share it.”
“Don’t pressure me.” I push him away. “Singing’s fun. I don’t want it to be my job.”
“Well, we need to do something. We’re flailing.” Liam slumps next to us.
I reach for Padraig’s sketchbook on the coffee table. Flip to a page covered in messy half lyrics and sketches of potential band logos. “Try focusing on something. Maybe start with where you come from.”
They blink in simultaneous confusion.
“You’re Irish,” I explain. “Not in a touristy ‘Kiss Me I’m Drunk’ kind of way. From your ma’s stories, your entire extended family has generations of grief and grit to draw from. Use it.”
Liam frowns like I’ve grown two heads. “Like what, trad music?”
“Exactly. Except flip it inside out.” I lean back on my hands. “Drag it through distortion pedals. Make it burn. Recreate it.”
Padraig is stunned. “You think?”
I nod. “I do. It’s unexpected, which makes it cool.”
The twins look at each other and do their stealth telepathic speaking thing.
Without another word, Padraig returns to his kit and spins his sticks. Liam adjusts his tuning, then tweaks it again. The air changes. Grows sharper.
They start to play again. Sloppier now, but louder. Padraig’s tempo pushes too fast, Liam’s chords turn sharp at the edges. The whole vibe is more punch than polish.
I don’t interrupt. I watch because whatever they’re doing isn’t perfect by a long shot, but you can feel it in your bones.
Padraig throws himself into the rhythm like he’s in a cathartic frenzy. Liam’s movements are tighter. His shoulders are hunched, teeth clenched. They don’t look at each other because they don’t need to. They’re twins. Tethered. Even when everything in their family is slipping.
As they play, they seem to be exorcising themselves of McGloughlin family secrets. Liam’s secrets. Every ounce of sorrow and despair they’ve been through since Rory got hurt. Chasing. Searching. Reaching.
For what, I’m not sure.
Finally, an hour later, Padraig drops his sticks onto the snare and exhales so hard it turns into a roar. “Fuck, that felt good.”
“It was a goddamn mess.” Liam grabs a towel from the back of the chair. “A grueling disaster.”
Padraig sneers, “You were playing on hyper speed.”
“I was following your rhythm.” Liam launches the towel at his brother. “You’re the goddamn timekeeper.”
Padraig tosses it back. “I try to be, when you let me.”
I stay where I am, ping-ponging my head between them as they banter. “Neither of you were listening to each other. It felt like you were each trying to outrun feelings you’re suppressing.”
Padraig wipes his face, eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”
“Neither of you want to admit you’re scared to leave for school.” I look him in the eye. “Not when everything’s already changing and neither of you know what to do.”
“I’m not scared of shit,” Liam snarls.
I hold his stare. “Don’t bullshit me. You’re scared of something.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t deny it, either.
“I’m psyched to go to college.” Padraig rubs his hand through his thick waves, breathing hard. “I wonder if we should wait a year, though.”
Liam sets his guitar down. “Wait for what? Da to sober up? For Ma to stop pretending she can fix him? For Cillian to suddenly become old enough to run the company so Connor can stop playing the martyr and play with us again?”
“No.” Padraig looks at his feet. “I mean… I don’t know what I mean.”
Liam puts his hand on Padraig’s shoulder. “You feel as bad as I do about leaving Connor with this mess.”
His words land like a hammer. I glance at Padraig. The guilt in his eyes says it all. I flick my eyes to Liam. He hides it better, but it’s there.
Sighing, I stay out of this one. Their family dynamic isn’t something I can fix. What I can do is give the twins some relief. I get off my ass and gather their crumpled setlists. Put them in order. Stack the cords. Reset the amp levels.
Liam watches me, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.” I fluff the pillows on the couch. “Temporarily.”
“Thought you didn’t want to manage us.” Padraig takes my hand.
I kiss his cheek. “I don’t.”
“Really?” Liam cocks a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I shoot him a look. “You two are chaos incarnate. At this point, I’m ensuring your survival.”
“So what? You’re our babysitter now?” Liam chuckles.
“No. I’m the fire extinguisher.” I pretend to spray them and grab a marker for the dry erase board.
I erase the drawing of a giant peen with the sleeve of Padraig’s flannel and start writing:
SUMMER GOALS
5 rehearsals/week
Record demo in the practice room (no sex allowed)
Learn three sets of traditional Irish tunes
Padraig and Liam flank me.
“Seriously?” they say in tandem, then look at each other and grin.
I cap the marker. “Yes. Unless you’d rather keep ripping off early 2000s pop-punk and pretend it’s edgy.”
“I don’t hate it.” Liam lets the idea sink into his skin.
“Learn some Irish songs and you’ll be able to earn money for college by playing in pubs.” I tap the whiteboard with the pen. “Meanwhile, start writing. Eventually you’ll have your own set of updated original Irish music. Loud. Dirty. Yours.”
The brothers don’t answer. They stare at the board like it’s got answers they didn’t know they were looking for. While they stare, slack-jawed, I grab my bra from behind the speaker and head upstairs.
“I thought you weren’t managing us,” Liam calls after me.
“I said I’d help you until you get a manager,” I say without turning. “Don’t get used to it.”
Padraig trails behind me. “Hey,” he says once we reach the stairs. I pause. He pulls me toward him and envelops me with his entire body. “You’re the only person he trusts besides me right now.”
“I know.” I settle into his embrace. “You’re welcome.”
Maureen’s frustrated voice rings out from the back bedroom. Low. Tired. We can’t hear the conversation, but Rory sounds angry.
Drunk.
Padraig stiffens behind me. The air is stagnant until the door closes again.
“Go,” he whispers.
I escape out the back door unspotted.
Immediately feel guilty.
Padraig’s stuck there and I’m unable to help the person I love most in the world.