Chapter 27 - Linus
twenty-seven
Linus
One Month Later
My office is barely bigger than a shoebox.
It’s on the second floor above a Chinese takeaway in Temple Bar.
One cracked window, a dodgy door, and a tiny wall-mounted heater rattling like it’s chewing rocks.
Still, I love it. I painted the walls myself. Installed cheap shelves which are now filled with demo CDs. Bought some used office furniture and a file cabinet. Use the kettle I brought from home to make coffee like it’s a goddamn art form.
My company name’s on the door, Isis Management. Black vinyl on the glass, curling slightly at the corners. I stare at it every time I unlock the place. If only to remind myself this is real.
The acts I’ve signed are pure fire.
Sidewalk Riot, of course. My latest is Peach Harvest, an acoustic trio from Killarney. Two sisters and their cousin. Their honey-warm harmonies and fingerpicked guitars sound like heartbreak at the golden hour.
Their song about their nan dying is known to reduce entire pubs to tears. I’ve got them booked solid for the next six weeks, circuiting Cork, Kilkenny, Cardiff, Derry, and Belfast. Modest fees, couch-surfing half the way, but they’re buzzing.
Then there’s GoreGlam, whom I fucking adore. They signed a couple of days after I shagged the bartender in the storage closet at Sidewalk Riot’s showcase.
Four loud-mouthed twenty-year-olds from Limerick dressed in leather miniskirts and combat boots shout about rape culture and slut-shaming with such electric rage it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Their frontwoman, Tasha, is a goddamn thunderstorm.
I managed to bluff my way into a grant panel to get them funded for studio time. It was worth every sleepless night. They’re rough as hell, but honest. Exactly the type of artist I dreamed Isis could represent.
Pulling out my phone, I check the time. Peach Harvest is landing in Cardiff today. Tasha sent me a voice note earlier, something about their bassist, Meg, puking on the ferry. I pull out my phone and respond. Then I check my social feeds to see how the bands are trending.
Less Than Zero pops up. I swear to fuck, they have been dominating the charts for years now. I scroll through video snippet after video snippet of their show in Dublin the other night.
I was there.
I’m not sure why I went, curiosity, maybe. The last time I saw them, Fireball was on the bill and Liam still hadn’t acknowledged me in public. Even still, Connor was kind to me and LTZ has become such a worldwide phenomenon, I thought it would be inspirational to see how far they’ve come.
They’re raw. Cinematic. Bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.
Ty’s trajectory is insane. His frontman persona is a combination of sex and gasoline.
You can tell he’s circling the drain, but somehow it makes him magnetic.
Like you’re watching fire burn a cathedral.
You want to look away, but you can’t. Connor and drummer Jace have locked in the rhythm section and Zane Rocks, the guitar player, is an absolute musical savant.
Not to detract from their success, but it certainly hasn’t hurt them to have the backing of Zane’s dad, Carter fucking Pope, iconic guitarist of the 90s band, Limelight.
They’re super talented and while the industry has embraced them with open arms, I’m convinced their meteoric rise is in large part due to Carter’s support.
Not a day goes by when I don’t wish Fireball was also enjoying LTZ’s notoriety.
Liam and Padraig have worked their ass off for a decade, grinding out indie albums and tours.
Steadily building up a loyal following. It must be bittersweet for them to watch their brother eclipse their middling success by one-hundred fold in the span of two years.
It’s not too late. If someone gave a damn and actually fought for them, they could turn things around. Maybe I’ll be the one someday. First, I must continue to cement my own place in this industry, which is exactly what I intend to do.
I’ve started drafting a mock tour package showcasing my artists using Sidewalk Riot as the headliner. So far, I’ve confirmed venues across Berlin, Barcelona, and Amsterdam. Peach Harvest and GoreGlam will rotate as openers.
I pick up a flyer from the edge of my desk. GoreGlam’s first headline gig in Glasgow. The printer fucked the colors. Tasha’s hair looks salmon instead of red. Doesn’t matter, I run my thumb over it like it’s gold.
Everything I own is tied up in Isis. I’ve bet it all on black.
To save money, I traded suburban life in Dundrum for Stoneybatter, like shedding an old skin. Out there, I always felt like I was living the life my parents wanted for me. My own preferences muffled behind double-glazed cronuts and Zara bags.
Now I’m back in the thick of it in a one-bed flat on a lively street in a queer-friendly neighborhood.
When I’m I home, I feel like myself again.
Not some version dressed up for respectability.
I’ve never been a guy who flinches at mess or truth or late-night music bleeding through floorboards.
My place isn’t polished. It’s practical. Same as me.
My windows might rattle when the bins go out, but on Saturdays I buy fresh bread from a woman who knows my name and coffee from a lad who flirts without apology. The take-out Indian on the corner is the tastiest I’ve ever had.
One thing hasn’t changed, though. I’m still fucking lonely.
Call me obsessed or even delusional, but I’m still stuck on Liam. Nobody else touches me deeply. Not like he did. Even if our relationship was messy and too short and ended with more silence than closure, he made me feel seen. Alive. Like my body had a home.
Goddammit.
Sidewalk Riot is bleeding momentum and I can’t waste time on old lovers. I have three tour cities to lock in, a photo reshoot to schedule, and no staff. No buffer. No excuse.
Yet, here I sit, my cock hard as a fucking rock. Heavy with an ache I won’t be able to shake until…
I swore I’d stop doing this, but nothing else gets me off anymore. Not porn. Not hookups with men. Or women.
No one compares to Liam, so there’s only one thing to do.
I open the folder hidden in my computer files without hesitation.
No point pretending I don’t need this. The video loads.
Fireball in San Diego. Liam is shirtless, dripping in heat and feedback, bending into his guitar like it’s someone he wants to shag senseless.
Gyrating his hips like he’s fucking the music.
Fucking me.
Closing my eyes, I picture him undressing in front of me while I unzip my jeans, spit into my palm and wrap my fist around my cock. I imagine him behind me. On top of me.
In me.
His hands roughly grip my hips as he pushes into me and begins to fuck me like we have all the time in the world.
“You’re mine tonight,“ he drawls, pushing deeper until he hits my prostate. “You feel me, baby?”
My hand speeds up, hips lifting. I yelp before I mean to. I can feel his cock inside me. His rhythm. His weight. The magical way he’d swivel his hips to stimulate me, his fist around my cock. Each of us wheezing with guttural pleasure on our way to nirvana.
The orgasm tears through me. Not quiet. Not controlled. My body convulses, cock spurting hot across my fist and stomach. I grind into my palm, chasing the echo of his voice.
Truth be told, this solo orgasm is better than any hookup I’ve ever had. Sex with strangers means nothing. Cocks or cunts don’t fill the right space inside of me.
Masturbating to Liam isn’t some rockstar fantasy. It’s muscle memory.
It’s truth.
Grabbing some tissue from my desk, I clean up my mess without looking down at the come drying on my body. As pleasurable as these sessions are in the moment, afterward shame sits low in my gut.
For fuck’s sake, my sex life has been reduced to dependence on a ghost. How do I stop putting energy into a man who probably doesn’t even think about me anymore? One who hasn’t touched me in years. I’m not daft. Liam and I are not in the cards.
Wasting precious time isn’t an option. One of my grants runs out in six months. Savings might stretch another four if I keep living like a student. At this point, I don’t have a backup plan. Don’t want one.
I want this. Isis Management.
No more bullshit. I’m gonna break Sidewalk Riot. Get GoreGlam’s tour finalized. Put Peach Harvest in the studio and release some music. Soon, I might make a behind-the-scenes pitch to get Fireball back to Europe and give Liam a reason to pick up the phone and get some real closure.
Or, maybe I won’t on the last one.
Looking down at my cock, soft and flopped over on my thigh, I realize the mess I made is worse than I thought. There’s come on my shirt, my waistband, and streaked across my belly nearly up to my nipples.
I strip off the shirt, toss it in my backpack and grab a clean GoreGlam shirt from the merch cabinet. Then I head to the loo. Turn on the warm water and soap up the cloth I use too often for this. I scrub my skin, rinse my face, look in the mirror.
The man looking back already has his borderline obsession tucked away. Buttoned. Neat. Presentable.
Back at the desk, I breathe. Open my calendar. Respond to the label. Confirm the new rehearsal space for Sidewalk Riot. Flag two invoices. The bass player still hasn’t answered my texts, but the rest of the day holds. Focus returns not because I want it to, I have to force it.
By seven, I’ve done enough to justify closing the laptop.
Jacket on. Phone in pocket. Time to scout. Deciding between scoping out a new rock band in the Docklands or an open mic near Wexford Street, I decide on the latter.
The city stretches open as I step into it. Dusk cools everything but the rhythm in my chest. My boots hit pavement like a beat I know by heart. I haven’t lost the ear. Haven’t lost the hunger. I’m building something I’m proud of.
Sitting at the back bar with a Guinness, I take in my surroundings.
The crowd is sparse and so far, the talent isn’t anything I’m interested in.
I decide to finish my beer and head to the other venue when I catch movement at the small back corner of the stage.
Someone new’s about to play, might as well listen.
Turning my stool around, I’m not sure what to expect, but it isn’t her.
The woman is slight, maybe five-foot-two.
Sandy-brown hair falls in waves around her face, sea-glass eyes scan the crowd like she’s not sure whether to smile or run.
Wearing a plain, slate-blue T-shirt, ripped jeans and no makeup as far as I can tell, there’s something compelling about her. Familiar.
She’s raw nerves and something…alive.
When she steps up to the mic, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. There’s a shimmer around her, even before she speaks.
“Hi.” She glances around nervously. “My name’s Avonna. I’m, um…I’m on holiday. Trying a few new things to build my confidence. Thank you for listening.”
Huh. American.
Someone whistles, a few cheers ripple through the room.
“I haven’t sung in a pub before, but here goes.” Avonna adjusts her guitar strap, breathes in, then starts picking a soft, mournful intro.
It takes me a few bars to recognize it. A beautiful old ballad called The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Her version is nothing like the traditional. It’s richer. Her voice enters like smoke. Ethereal. Each note is soaked in grief and grace, blooming through the pub’s clatter like an invocation.
I go still. Hair rises on the back of my neck. My chest constricts in a way I haven’t felt since the first time I saw Liam. Avonna’s not performing. She’s bleeding.
It’s fucking beautiful.
My throat works around something I can’t name.
My heart pounds. My cock, fuck, it’s threatening to burst outta my jeans.
She’s not only gorgeous. It’s the truth in her.
The fearless surrender. She’s naked in this moment, emotionally if not physically, and I want to know her.
Want to put my hands in the music and see where it leads.
She finishes on a whisper. The pub doesn’t erupt. It holds its breath.
Then applause swells, sudden and thunderous.
She smiles. Small, almost bashful, but I see the glint of it.
Power, barely contained.
I already know. She’s the one. The woman I’ve been waiting for.
For us.
My mouth is dry. My heart pounds, a drumbeat of need. I push up from the table before I fully think it through.
I don’t care if it’s premature or reckless. I have to talk to her.
Hear her voice up close.
Ask if she knows what she did to me.
I’ve been still for too long.
This finally feels like motion.