Chapter 59 Avonna
fifty-nine
Avonna
Two Months Later
Seventy thousand bodies are jammed together in an open field.
The roar of the crowd builds until it’s a living thing.
The stage is electric as the intro crashes in. Liam’s guitar wails to my left. I prowl to the front edge of the stage, hair whipping, My voice is sharp and clean, cutting through the chaos.
The cordless mic is warm in my hand. My lungs sting. My thighs burn. I give them everything.
Fireball’s resurgence is unprecedented. Our album, Wild Honey exploded. Two singles at the top of the charts, a third one climbing. Viral on TikTok. Most played Spotify song this year.
We’ve been on the covers of Rolling Stone, Variety. Billboard named me the “future of feminist rock.” NPR ran a headline: The Voice That Doesn’t Apologize. Vogue called.
Vogue.
Right now the media seems to only focus on me. I don’t love the attention. Fireball is the three of us.
Always us.
Padraig masterfully anchors the backline.
Liam stalks the stage beside me, guitar slung low, lost in the music like it’s the only language he speaks.
Linus watches side stage, flanked by security, headset on, lips pressed tight like he’s running a command center.
I catch him mouthing the lyrics, eyes flicking between me and Liam.
He grounds me.
I’m not the first Fireball singer. I’ll never replace the ones who came before me. I know what I bring, though. I’m the third side of the triangle and this moment is mine. We’ve played every rung of the ladder. Dingy clubs, borrowed gear, no soundcheck, no sleep.
We’ve earned this.
Every song folds into the next. The setlist is a blur, but my body remembers. I move effortlessly. The songs live in me now, deeper than muscle memory.
The stage rumbles under my boots, bass and kick drum shaking the risers. My heart beats in rhythm with the crowd, sweat sliding down my spine. When I launch into the first chorus of our final song, flags rise over the crowd. Pint cups lift.
Liam catches my eye, gives me a lopsided grin, sweat soaked and radiant.
Behind me, Padraig hits the cymbals like he’s trying to split the sky.
In front of us, the field is a living thing.
Arms raised. Voices rising. The shimmer of color and light.
I never thought I’d feel this free. Never thought I’d step into something that felt so much like home.
The crowd knows every word to Tír na nóg. When I hold the mic to the sky, they roar it so loud it rattles my spine. We hit the final note like it owes us something. I raise both arms. The roar doubles. The crowd chants our name.
Fireball. Fireball. Fireball.
We’ve never sounded better.
A crew member waves us toward the tunnel beneath the stage. I’m drenched, my eyeliner feels smudged, adrenaline still coursing. Liam hooks an arm around my shoulder as we move. “Flawless.”
“Thanks, baby.” I kiss his cheek and he’s already off, fingers twitching like he’s still playing.
Linus runs up behind me. “A lot of media today. Girls are fine. They’re with the nanny in the hotel room.”
I nod, the tension in my shoulders easing. Being on the road with our daughters is chaos, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. They nap in soundproofed bunks on the bus. Eat lunch on yoga mats backstage with mini guitars in their hands. They think this is normal.
For now, I face the media tent. Sit in front of a branded backdrop with about fifty mikes in front of me to answer any question lobbed my way.
Reviews. Streaming numbers. The European leg selling out in record time. Filling in for LTZ. Upcoming US Tour. The new album pushing old albums to chart. I give them everything they want. A few smart quips. A few knowing smiles. Keep the momentum light, intentional. Polished.
Predictably, the questions shift.
“What’s it like being a new kind of frontwoman in rock?” one woman asks. “You’re a mother, you’re a writer, you’re headlining festivals across Europe. Some are calling you the feminist voice of the genre.”
This one gets to me. “I’m flattered by the label, but I didn’t ask for it. I try to speak from where I’ve been. There’s power in the voice you reclaim for yourself.”
They nod, eat it up.
Another voice cuts in. British. A bit snooty. “Speaking of reclaiming, you’ve alluded to your upbringing in other interviews. The restrictive religious environment. Purity culture. You escaped it, obviously.”
“Avonna,” he glances at his notebook like it’s a legal document, “there are rumors circulating about your personal life. Specifically about your relationship with your guitarist and your manager. Are the rumors true?”
The tent goes still.
Liam and Padraig are in Press Line B, but Linus is at the edge of the tent watching me. His eyes flash, lock on the man. The rest of the media watches me.
No one so much as blinks.
“Would you care to comment?” he adds. “There are some who find it hypocritical. You left a high-control belief system only to enter a nontraditional polygamous arrangement, arguably mirroring the environment you fled. It raises questions, don’t you think? About consent. Power. Influence.”
The question lands like a slap. It’s calculated.
Designed to go viral.
My entire body stiffens. This is the moment. One we’ve known was coming. We haven’t exactly hidden our life, but we’ve never invited the world into it either. Not publicly. Not loudly.
Immediately, I picture my beautiful girls. Rumors spread faster than facts. If I don’t handle this carefully, their lives become the headline.
I sit up straighter. The air in the tent stills.
“I don’t comment on gossip.” I keep my voice cool. “Especially when it’s crafted to provoke more than enlighten.”
The reporter opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but I cut him off with a look.
“My story isn’t a cautionary tale. It’s a reclamation. Everything I’ve built, I’ve chosen. I spent the first part of my life following rules made to control me. I will not spend the rest of it justifying the freedom I fought for.”
I let this settle. Hang in the air.
Then, softer, but no less direct. “I’m raising daughters, so this is important. I didn’t leave one cage to build another. No one in my life controls me. Every choice I make is mine.”
Behind the cluster of cameras, I see Linus step forward. Not intervening. Present. Steady.
I draw a breath. Hold my line. “If that unsettles anyone, it’s between them and their own reflection.”
The tour publicist jumps in fast. “Okay, folks, That’s all for today.”
I’m already on my feet when the crowd of reporters shifts, questions still bubbling, My daughters are waiting. My partners, too.
Let the media write their stories.
We’re living ours.
Linus’s hand finds mine as we cut across the gravel path toward the performer village, heads ducked, energy spent.
The crowd still roars somewhere past the barricades, another band taking the stage, but I’m already thinking about juice boxes and bedtime stories.
Our girls are with our nanny, Shannon and Maureen, back at the hotel, probably begging for more bubble bath.
Linus squeezes my fingers. “Handled that well.”
I raise a brow. “You mean the part where the reporter called me a brainwashed slut in different words?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Still proud of you.”
I give him a small smile and lean into his shoulder.
Our dressing room sits at the end of a cluster.
Not a trailer this time, a proper suite with a table full of food listed on our rider, couches draped in soft throws, iced towels ready to go.
Most of the bands have cleared out by now, so there’s not a lot of activity, except for the getting-to-be-too-familiar raised voices.
Linus frowns. “Jesus, how do they still have eardrums?”
We laugh, the kind of bone-weary sound coming from too many days on the road. He holds the door open for me. Inside, Liam and Padraig stand toe to toe, the air around them practically crackling.
“You think this is what we worked for?” Padraig snaps. “So we could be the goddamn punchline at the end of some clickbait article?”
Liam fires back, “They asked you one fuckin’ question. You didn’t have to explode.”
“Didn’t I? You weren’t the one who had to explain to some guy why our band’s legacy might get reduced to a poly sex scandal!”
Linus steps in quickly. “What’s goin’ on?”
Both turn toward us. Padraig looks broken. Not from the set, we all are, from something heavier. Deeper.
Linus crosses to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, tosses it to Padraig. “If it’s any consolation, Avonna got the same line of questionin’. You’re not alone.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Padraig scoffs. “Easy to say when you’ve got your family out here. Your girls.” His eyes flit to mine, then Liam’s. “I’ve got my own life. You think I want to see my face on TikTok next to some slow-mo footage of Liam lickin’ your neck durin’ the bridge?”
Liam’s face clouds. “It happened once and was spontaneous. Don’t make it sound like Linus, Avonna, and I are fuckin’ under the goddamn lights.”
“I’m not judgin’ you.” Padraig plops into a chair. “I’m angry at the way our story gets hijacked. We started this band in the literal basement. I hate how twenty years of blood and sweat can be overshadowed by one headline. We didn’t build Fireball for our legacy to be reduced to this.”
The silence hangs heavy.
“Me either.” Linus folds his arms.
Padraig’s eyes narrow. “Don’t. Make. Excuses.”
“I’m not.” He holds his hand up in surrender. “Don’t you twist this into somethin’ it isn’t.”
Padraig exhales, shoulders slumping. “Fuck.”
“We get it.” I sit next to him. “The curiosity factor sucks.”
Liam sinks into the couch across from us, dragging his hands through his hair.
“No one’s goin’ to think we’re a gimmick unless we act like one.
We’ve been through hell and back. People love this record.
The reviews are insane. Our work is payin’ off and we’ve seen it with LTZ, when you have more money, more problems. More success, more trolls. ”
“Yeah.” Padraig relaxes. “True.”
“They keep calling it a rebirth.” Linus snorts. “Which is ironic as hell.”
All the fight leaves Padraig’s body. He stands and heads toward the door. “I’m sick of bein’ defensive. I’ve given so much to this band. Don’t you ever wonder, what’s the payoff? I’m exhausted and need to get back to the hotel. Text me what the plan is for tomorrow.”
Then he’s gone.
Across from me, Liam slumps over, elbows on his knees. Linus lowers himself beside me. We sit in gravity Padraig left behind.
“He’s still spiralin’,” Liam speaks after a while. Not with anger. With guilt. “I push him without thinkin’. We’re grown men, for fuck’s sake, and both of us still tryin’ to take care of each other first.”
“You’re twins, babe. It isn’t the wrong instinct,” I try to soothe him. “You want to keep space for him, as you should.”
Linus leans back and pulls me into his side. “We all know what this is about. Liam, we’ve been here before. He’s behavin’ exactly the same way as he did in college.”
No one says her name. We don’t have to. It’s written in every line of Padraig’s face when he speaks about her. Evident by how fast he retreats the moment she calls.
Liam buries his face in his hands, then looks back up. “I want him to be happy.”
“Same as all of us.” Linus strokes my shoulder.
I glance between them. “I understand the fight or flight. I’m guessin’ he’s trying to find any reason to quit so he can write a different endin’.”
“Aye.” Liam drags a hand through his hair. “We’ve made our fair share of messes.”
“Sure, but we’re still here.” Linus squeezes his eyes shut.
There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Honest.
“Do you think he’s gonna be okay?” I direct my question to Liam.
He nods. “Yeah. He’s stronger than he gives himself credit for.”
“Even when he pushes us away, we’ve got him,” Linus adds. “I’ll do my best to make sure we can accommodate him, whatever it takes.”
We sit for a beat longer. The three of us, breathing in the quiet, surrounded by gear cases, discarded water bottles, and the echo of fifty thousand voices still reverberating outside.
“Come on.” Liam rises. “Let’s get back to our girls.”
Linus stands and offers his hand, pulling me to my feet.
Whatever the world wants to say about our love, our band, our history.
We won’t go through it alone.
Like always, we face it together.