Chapter 24 - Linus
twenty-four
Linus
Five Months Later
The Merrion lobby always smells like old money and lilies.
I nod at Maeve on my way out. Her eyes barely flick away from the clipboard she never puts down.
She doesn’t ask where I’m going. Or why I haven’t worked a proper shift in weeks. Loyalty and dedication earn a bit of leeway, I guess.
It’s tough to drum up any enthusiasm for my day job these days. The arts grant came through and Isis Management has finally became more than a sketch in the margins of my event briefs.
A true entrepreneur would jump in with both feet. I will, I promise myself.
I’m not ready. The truth is, keeping this job stops my parents from asking questions.
They think I’m doing well here. Crisp shirts. White tablecloths. A life filled with structure and respectability.
Neither one could imagine how I find true fulfillment in a low-ceilinged rehearsal space in Temple Bar where I’ve been coaching Sidewalk Riot, a trio of queer pop-punk buskers through their first showcase.
Or the coffee-stained desk in my flat where I spend hours researching tour schedules and Indy labels who actually promote their artists.
I dodge my parents’ questions about my love life every week, afraid I’ll say too much. They would never accept the truth. How the only thing I think about every time I jerk off is Liam and me fucking our shared female partner every night. The perfect woman whom we love and loves us back.
Would they still send Christmas letters gushing about their perfect son if I told them the truth?
The answer’s no. So I stick with I’m too busy focusing on work to commit to anyone right now.
The pub’s already loud by the time I arrive.
Gear cases are stacked in the corner, half a dozen pint glasses sweat into the old wood.
All three members of Sidewalk Riot, none older than twenty, wave me over like I’m some kind of wizard who believes they’re magic and knows how to negotiate a lethal contract.
Shay “Fox” Keegan is the lead vocalist and plays rhythm guitar. Finn Gallagher’s on bass and backing vocals, Ruairí Hayes is the percussionist who uses all types of surfaces and a synthesizer for samples to fill in the sound.
As I get closer, I hear Finn strumming, trying out a new bridge. Immediately, I focus in. I fucking love when something clicks. When a new sound blooms out of nothing and starts to mean something. Sidewalk Riot, and soon other artists, is why I’m building Isis Management.
A company rooted in possibility. Not merely boys with guitars. Women. Nonbinary artists. Queer, immigrant, neurodiverse voices. Not a mirror of what the industry has always been, but a mosaic of what it could become. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to manage Fireball again, if they stay together.
Lord knows they need me, even if I haven’t heard from them.
It’s been years. No calls. No emails. Nothing. But, I still follow Fireball, their tour dates, the gossip. He’s earning quite the reputation. Fucking his way across the world like it’s all he’s worth.
Hell, I get it. I’ve tried to fuck him out of my life too.
Some men, but mostly women. Casual flings in hotel rooms and dark corners of clubs.
It’s pathetic, but I’m always searching for her.
Our Isis. The one who’ll stand beside me and Liam.
Balance us. Heal us. Allow us to find our way back to each other.
I’m so full of shite it’s not even funny, but I can’t help how I feel. Deep down, I believe we’ll find our way back one day.
If I think about it too much, I’ll lose my fucking mind, so I pour myself into what I know. The late nights, the new acts, the festival submissions and visa logistics and grant applications. Every one of them a prayer I say in secret, hoping the universe still listens.
Laughter bursts beside me as someone slams a shot glass to the table. Shay hooks an arm around my shoulder, asking if I heard the bridge change. I nod, smile, give him the exact feedback he needs to believe their thing might work.
We all need something to have faith in.
I slide my phone from my pocket to check the schedule for tonight. The pub light catches the Isis logo on my cracked phone case. Clean lines, black on white, elegant and grounded. A reminder of who I am and what I’m building.
Another band on the roster tonight is one I’ve had my eye on.
GoreGlam are made up of four women, all glitter and rage.
The frontwoman is tall with a mohawk and a shredded red slip.
She shouts into the mic like she’s exorcising the city.
The guitarist spits into the dark between songs, grins, and kicks her pedalboard so the next riff comes in jagged.
The rhythm section don’t have their shit together yet, but they can get better.
I stand near the back, pint in hand, and let the set wash over me. The bass thuds through the floorboards into my chest, a heartbeat bigger than mine. Every time the drummer smashes a cymbal, the crowd shudders forward, bodies slamming together.
It’s anarchy. Beautiful, raw, uncurated. What music’s supposed to evoke.
A woman behind the bar keeps catching my eye.
She’s pretty, with a messy knot of black hair and a silver ring through her septum.
Ink spirals up her forearms. Blackwork roses, a skeletal bird.
She pours drinks like she’s in a fight with the tap.
When she looks at me, her mouth curves into not exactly a smile, more like a dare.
Between sets, I edge up to order another drink. She leans across the bar, wipes foam from her wrist with the hem of her shirt. “You’re here almost every night.” Her Dublin accent is rolled in whiskey. “Are you some kind of stalker?”
“Band manager,” I correct her. “One of my acts is up next but I’m also scouting.”
She glances toward the stage. “They’re mad bastards, those girls. In a good way.” Her eyes return to me, darker now. “You look like you could use a bit of madness yourself.”
Maybe it’s the bass still in my bloodstream. Maybe it’s the months of restraint. I don’t think before saying, “Aye, you’re probably right.”
Her eyebrows lift. She tosses her bar rag aside, nods toward a narrow door marked STAFF ONLY.
She pushes open a supply closet, yanks me in after her. The door clicks behind us, leaving us amidst shelves of napkins, bottles, and disinfectant. She slams me against the wall, kisses me fiercely enough to bruise.
Her name, when I ask, comes out between breaths. “Karra.”
Her mouth tastes like hops. She drags her tongue along my lower lip, bites. I grab her waist, my fingers finding the curve of her hip beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. She’s already unbuttoning my jeans. The sound of the pub is muffled now, a thump of bass through the wall.
“Fuck…mmmmmmm,” she murmurs, when I catch her chin in my hand and kiss down her neck.
Karra strokes my cock. I push her against the shelving, metal rattling.
She laughs, low, dirty. “You needed this.”
Without answering, I pull her shirt over her head. No bra. Her nipples are bullets against my palms, I mouth one, then the other, till her head knocks back against the wall.
“Christ, yeah—” Her hips cant forward.
Karra undoes her own jeans, shoves them down revealing black-lace panties, already damp. I hook a finger through, tear them aside. The heat of her against my hand makes something twist inside me, sharp as hunger.
“Condom,” she says, breathless.
I’ve got one in my wallet. She tears the packet with her teeth, rolls it down on me, eyes locked to mine. Then she turns, bracing her hands on the shelf.
I slide in all the way, hips slamming against her arse. The air goes out of both of us.
“Fuck—” she chokes.
I grip her waist and move. The sound of our bodies merging drowns the faint flicker of the fluorescent light above.
Her back arches. She pulls me deeper. I thrust until the shelves shake, until she’s sobbing in short, raw bursts “Ah, yes, right there—fuck, yes—”
When I come it’s like something tearing loose inside. Months of restraint break open. She slumps forward, laughing breathlessly.
“Now that,” she pulls up her pants, “was a bit of madness.”
I pull my jeans up, heart still hammering. Out in the pub, GoreGlam starts their next song, a blistering, screaming noise sounding of absolution.
Karra opens the door, light spills in from the hallway. “Go on, manager man. Make more magic.”
I step out into the crowd again, mind clear.
I know one thing. I’m done with stolen fucks in storage closets.
Casual sex isn’t what I want. I don’t have the detachment.
I’m not built for empty.
My body craves something fuller, something I lost.
I won’t stop until I find it again.