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  Praise for GARRETT LEIGH

  “Emotional and brilliant…”

  All About Romance

  “Tastefully erotic … more smart than smutty…”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Powerful and compelling…”

  Foreword Reviews

  The Edge of the World

  Garrett Leigh

  Copyright © 2018 by Garrett Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Dan Burgess @ Black Jazz Design

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  FURTHER READING

  NEWSLETTER

  PATREON

  About GARRETT LEIGH

  Also by GARRETT LEIGH

  Chapter One

  Shay Maloney poured himself onto the plush couch at the back of the tour bus. “How does this even happen?” he wondered aloud. “We’re a pirate band from Derby.”

  Corina, his manager and instigator of Smuggler’s Beat’s meteoric rise from pub band to touring megalodon—in folk music terms, at least—flicked an impatient eyebrow. “Hard work. Yours and mine. Don’t start being a brat about it now.”

  Brat. The term set Shay’s teeth on edge. At twenty-three, he’d outgrown the child prodigy label he’d carried through school, but the word still stung. He flung his feet up on the seat. “I need new boots.”

  Corina didn’t reply.

  A little while later, they rolled into Dublin, the first stop on the tour. The band shuffled off the bus in various states of disarray after seven hours on the road. Shay was the only one without a hangover, by laziness rather than design—the fridge was at the front of the bus.

  Backstage at the venue, they decamped to the dressing room. It was the most luxurious they’d had so far but still amounted to little more than a couch too small for five people, a can of Pringles, and the world’s smallest telly. Shay wasn’t complaining, though; he had no time to lounge around. His pregig routine was sacred, and even a rough ferry voyage and some dodgy tuna sandwiches wouldn’t keep him from his solitary circuit of the unfamiliar stage.

  He escaped the rest of the band at the first opportunity and ventured along a dark corridor. The three-thousand capacity indie club was a big name to have on their scorecard, but in reality, the grand venue was pretty dingy behind the scenes. Gig detritus cluttered every corner, and it smelled like an old man’s empty wallet.

  Shay picked his way through until he found the stage. Finally, the magic hit. Wooden and weathered, high ceilings and sticky floors, the venue was everything he’d ever dreamed of beyond the muddy festivals the band had spent their entire summer frequenting. Rock and pop could keep their stadiums and arenas. For Shay, this was everything.

  As was his habit, he lay down on the stage and closed his eyes, imagining how it would feel when the lights went down. When the sold-out crowd would either love them or hate them. Smuggler’s Beat had a loyal following, but their eclectic shanty-punk vibe was an acquired taste, and it was hard to ever feel at home in a city they’d never played before. Their record company had taken a chance on them, and the mantra that followed them around was stronger nowhere than in Shay’s own head. What if we fucking bomb?

  “Then you’ll be out on your ear and back to being an accountant, or whatever it is you posh kids do when you get back on the straight and narrow.”

  Shay jumped and opened one eye to face Larry, the grizzled percussionist who was the heartbeat to Shay’s lyrical soul. “Accountant? I barely got GCSEs, I’m from the arse crack of Derby, and I haven’t ever been straight.”

  “There’s still time,” Larry deadpanned. “Though I don’t know what you’re worried about. These are your people, aren’t they?”

  “Who?”

  Larry rolled his eyes. “The Irish, knobhead. That’s why we came here… to bookend the tour with our fearless leader’s heritage, Dublin to Derby.”

  He wandered off, saving Shay the trouble of another retort, and Shay stared after him, long-carried disquiet fizzing gently in his already nervous heart. Your people. Yeah, right. If only he knew Shay’s name was a lie and he had no more Gaelic blood in him than Cuban-born Larry.

  Showtime. Ollie Pietruska stood in the press booth of the packed venue and observed Smuggler’s Beat as they took to the stage. The Cuban drummer, the chiselled fiddler. The dreadlocked bass player, and the pianist with her long white hair. And the reason Ollie had braved a Ryanair flight across the Irish Sea bounced out behind them. All alabaster-skinned, chestnut-haired, six foot of him.

  Ollie sighed. Fuck’s sake. Somehow, despite the mad-panicked month he’d spent researching this man, he hadn’t got round to digging up a photograph of his present-day self—or actually, any photographs of him at all. He knew what the bloke’s grandfather looked like, his great-aunt, and his long-lost distant cousin, but until this moment, Shay Maloney had been nothing more than a name begrudgingly scrawled on the first page of a brand-new notebook.

  Now he was a vision in skintight jeans and battered boots, chin-length hair tucked under a leather fedora, and a vintage guitar slung over his shoulder. Everything Ollie had ever dreamed of when his imagination got the better of him. Goddammit, Shay Maloney was gorgeous.

  Ollie cursed again and leaned on the railing as Smuggler’s Beat launched into their first song, an upbeat ceilidh number with a tribal twist. The band was famed for their fusion folk style, but Ollie had neglected to research that, too, so was sorely unprepared for the pulsing, grinding rhythm that seeped, unbidden, into his bones. Smuggler’s Beat were… awesome, and it was quite clear to Ollie that their secret lay in the indomitable charisma of their dazzling frontman.

  The band churned out song after song, each laced with their trademark energy but distinctly different from the one that came before. They were the Aladdin’s cave of folk music—a genre Ollie had assumed to be dull—and it wasn’t long before the confines of the press booth became too much.

  Gaze fixed on the stage, Ollie slipped out of the booth and down the steps into the crowd. The singer was playing a bright melody on a harmonica, all the while stomping his booted feet to a rhythm that drove the audience wild.

  They stomped along with him, moving like a beer-fuelled ocean. The real ale being served at the bar slopped onto the floor, and as Shay swapped his harmonica for an accordion, they roared.

  Goosebumps broke out over Ollie’s skin, tingling in places, a phantom sting creeping across others, as though his ruined body had never healed. Irritated, he rubbed his arms and swept the stage again, searching for a welcome distraction.

  The band had evolved in the brief moment Ollie had been gone. Instruments had been swapped around, and they’d moved to the front of the stage. Shay Maloney held a drum Ollie couldn’t name, and even from a distance, Ollie saw the mischief in his eyes.

  H
e took the mic. “We’re gonna have some fun now. Bring the house down before we let you go home.”

  The crowd booed their dismay at the prospect of the rowdy gig coming to an end, but Ollie barely heard it, instead inexplicably lost in the melodic lilt of Maloney’s Derbyshire accent. For some reason, he’d expected Irish brogue, even though Ollie knew there was nothing Irish about the entrancing singer.

  I wonder if he knows too. But Ollie nixed the thought before it took hold and roused the detective part of his brain. What Shay knew about himself right now was irrelevant. By the end of the tour, he’d know it all, and then Ollie could go home. Fuck this shit.

  As though he’d somehow heard Ollie’s rebellion, Shay shifted his gaze, scoping out the crowd until he seemed to be staring right at Ollie. They locked eyes. The world shifted, and Ollie sucked in a breath. His hands were clenched at his sides, but as Shay Maloney held him hostage, the ever-present tension in his body gave way to a feeling he didn’t recognise.

  A warm tide creeping into a sun-soaked bay.

  What the fuck?

  But the sensation was gone as fast as it had arrived. As Ollie shook himself, Shay looked away and jumped straight into a jigged-up song that was clearly a fan favourite. There were drums of all kinds, a penny whistle, a violin, and even a banjo. And above it all, Shay Maloney’s velvet voice rang out, cloaking the packed concert hall in his magic as Ollie fell under his spell.

  The song played out. Calls for an encore were met with another round of the opening number, and then it was over. The band left the stage. Ollie watched them go, noting how Shay was the first to duck behind the curtain, as though it were midnight and he had something to hide.

  Ollie snorted. Wrong way round, dickhead. And it was true. Shay Maloney had many secrets….

  He just didn’t know it yet.

  Chapter Two

  Shay woke with a low groan and a banging headache. Getting shitfaced before a gig was a big no-no, but after? Fucking-A. Beer, vodka, and something sticky that was bound to ruin his day. Worth it, though. He’d come off stage last night off-kilter, as though he’d missed something really fucking important, but at the same time relieved the gig was over, which never happened. I don’t have time for this shit, man. Who did? Being a weirdo was overrated.

  Yawning, Shay stretched, and then immediately regretted it as his leg dropped out of the narrow bunk and chilly air hit his bare skin. Wow, son. In the three months leading up to this tour, he’d fantasised about how much fun it would be to live on a tour bus. To sleep in close quarters with his bandmates and share every moment of their dream come true.

  The reality was cramped and noisy and smelled like arse.

  Fuck’s sake. Groaning again, he pulled his tiny pillow over his head. Somewhere someone chuckled and threw a paper cup at him. Awesome. He’d forgotten to pull the curtains too. Not that it would’ve made much difference. By the racket going on around him, the rest of the world was already wide awake.

  He admitted defeat and sat up. Ben—the band’s resident fiddle player—was in the bunk opposite, but he was paying Shay no heed, engrossed, as usual, in texting his girlfriend back home. Shay searched further afield for the cup thrower and found Jumbo, the bassist, grinning like a twat.

  Shay sighed. “Wanker.”

  Jumbo laughed. “Mornin’. Or afternoon more like. You get your beauty sleep?”

  “Fuck off.” Shay scowled and then regretted it as the effort made his head pound. “What time is it?”

  “One o’clock. You missed lunch.”

  Great. Shay’s stomach growled. Hung-over or not, he didn’t miss meals. Couldn’t. With a sigh, he reached for the bag he always kept within arm’s reach, no matter how much vodka he’d sunk the night before. He tested his blood sugar, wincing when he saw the result. He needed breakfast, and fast.

  As if on cue, Corina appeared, brandishing porridge, a banana, and a Costa cup of something that smelled like grass. “Sort yourself out, Maloney. You’ve got a busy day.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Watch it.”

  She disappeared, leaving Shay to jab some insulin into his belly and scarf his breakfast. When he was done, Larry came to sit with him. His comforting bulk was soothing. Everyone leaned on Larry. Even Shay, who found the concept of leaning on anyone mildly disturbing. He dozed with his head lolled on Larry’s shoulder for a while, until Corina returned to drag him away.

  They’d stopped in Athlone, the midway point between Dublin and Galway. Shay peered out of the windows at the front of the bus. Corina nudged him hard in the ribs.

  “If you wanted to sightsee, you should’ve gone to bed earlier. Sit down. We’ve got things to do.”

  Shay thought about muttering something derogatory under his breath but bottled it when he sensed the weight of Corina’s glare. She was a slave driver with little patience for anything that messed with her meticulous schedule, but beyond that, she was a bloody good manager. Without her, Smuggler’s Beat would still be playing workingmen’s clubs. Besides, she was right. No one had made him stay up late in a futile attempt to drink more vodka than Russian-born Mara—the band’s hollow-legged pianist.

  The front of the bus housed a kitchen area and a makeshift office space. Shay took a seat at the table and resisted the urge to slump forwards like a child and rest his head on his arms. His daily self-care routine had fixed his blood sugar, but he was still hanging.

  Corina plonked a coffee in front of him. “Buck up, kiddo. I wasn’t joking when I said you have a busy day.”

  “What’s so busy about it?” Shay drew the coffee towards him. “Apart from the obvious. You didn’t book more TV slots, did you? I hate that shit.”

  “Why? You don’t mind being on stage.”

  “That’s not the same thing. We play live on stage, and we sound good. TV fucks everything up.”

  Corina treated him to a rare smile. “That’s life, Shay. But no, I haven’t booked you on to any more TV shows. This one is something you’ve already agreed to, and it’s not actually about the band.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the genealogy documentary, remember? I told you ages ago that a researcher would be coming to take you through what they found out about you and film it for Sky Arts.”

  Corina had a habit of springing things on Shay first thing in the morning when he didn’t know which way was up. Who the hell knew what he’d agreed to when he’d been half-asleep. This, though, rang a distant and unwelcome bell. “My ma was dying of cancer when you asked me about this. I’d have told you anything to get rid of you.”

  “Then you should’ve told me no,” Corina retorted, not unkindly. “I’d never force you into something you didn’t want to do, but I can’t get you out of things you’ve already agreed to just because you’ve forgotten about them and then subsequently changed your mind. Not with players as big as Sky.”

  She was right, and Shay remembered now why he’d agreed to film the documentary. His ma had wanted him to. “Your dad and I aren’t all you are, sunshine. Let these people do some legwork for you… and take from it whatever you need.”

  Shay sighed. Take from it whatever you need? What if he didn’t need anything? What if he was perfectly content with life as it was? Des and Michelle Maloney had lost their own parents long before Shay had come along, but they’d given him a home so full of life and love he’d never missed the big families some of his mates had grown up with. Why—

  “Shay?”

  “Hmm?”

  Corina pushed a piece of paper towards him. “You need to sign this.”

  “What is it?”

  “The nondisclosure agreement between you and Sky. It means the researcher won’t report anything he sees on tour.”

  “On tour?”

  “Yes.” Corina drummed her nails on the table. “I told you this before we hit the road. The researcher is joining the tour and filming the documentary as we go. This is happening, Shay. And it starts today.”

  Ollie shi
fted his weight from one foot to the other, his bag at his feet. Ditching his hire car and getting the train to Galway had eased his frayed nerves a little, but he still didn’t relish the prospect of a month trapped on the Smuggler’s Beat tour bus. The only consolation was he’d seen firsthand that the band had serious talent. The one thing worse than being stuck on a never-ending work trip would be if it were accompanied by a shit soundtrack.

  Actually, Ollie could think of plenty of reasons why the next five weeks would suck, but he’d run out of time to imagine the worst. A beast of a bus with blacked-out windows rolled into the car park. Shay Maloney had arrived.

  The bus parked and the doors opened. People began to spill down the steps. Ollie recognised a few band members, but there was no sign of the man he’d spent a night in a dingy Premier Inn trying to forget. Or rather, trying to put back in a box that was entirely professional. Shay Maloney had been on his mind for weeks and would remain so for the foreseeable future. He could do without the dirty daydreams.

  Honest.

  A woman with an iPad and a briefcase got off the bus. As she was the only one who didn’t look as though she’d just fallen out of the pub, Ollie took her to be his contact at Folklore Records, Corina Hussain. Here goes nothing.

  He picked up his bag and crossed the car park. She saw him coming and met him halfway.

  “Ollie Pietruska? From Sky?”