The Edge of the World Read online

  He shrugged. “I’m a freelancer, but whatever.”

  Corina Hussain was not amused. Her sharp eyes narrowed, and her grip on her iPad tightened. “Are you here to film the genealogy documentary with Shay Maloney?”

  “Um. Yes.”

  “Good. I’m going to let the band get settled in the venue, then I’ll take you to meet him. In the meantime, why don’t you take a look around the bus? Your bunk is at the back by the lounge.”

  She walked away without waiting for an answer. Lacking any better ideas, Ollie boarded the bus to find it empty. Somehow, in the thirty seconds he’d spent with Corina, he’d missed the rest of the band disembarking, and an odd disappointment tickled his chest. Idiot. You’ll be sick of them all by the end of the day. But still. The bus smelled like most buses did when they were home to a dozen people, but there was something else in the air too.

  Excitement?

  Nah. It couldn’t be. Despite the spine-tingling gig the night before, Ollie had taken this assignment under duress, and the sooner it was over, the better… right?

  Two hours later and Ollie was already at home with his rejuvenated pessimism. The Wi-Fi on the bus didn’t work, there was no nearby plug socket for his laptop, and his bunk was little more than a padded shelf. Also, not a soul had returned to the bus since the Smuggler’s Beat crew had disappeared into the venue, meaning that he hadn’t even begun to unpick the complex task of solo filming an entire documentary.

  “The rawness of the filming is the beauty of the series,” his producer had said. “And no one does it better than you.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the mug with nothing but a Sony a7S II and some other half-arsed equipment in his bag.

  Ollie abandoned his bunk and took a tour of the bus. It was flashy in all the right places, but beyond the shiny chrome and coloured lights, it was pretty basic. A kitchen, a tiny bathroom, the bunks, and a lounge with a couch that ran around the entire back of the bus. Ollie walked up and down the aisle and wondered which bunk was Shay Maloney’s. Was it the one covered in balled-up socks and crisp packets? Or the one with the photo of a beautiful blonde on the pillow?

  Or maybe it was the bed that looked as though it hadn’t been slept in. Neat as a pin, the only signs of life were a weathered leather-bound notebook, a pencil, and a small black wash bag.

  The nosy bastard in Ollie itched to pick up the notebook and leaf through the pages, to intrude on the private thoughts of whoever it belonged to, but he sensed a presence behind him before the little boy who knew to mind his own business won out, and he spun around.

  Shay Maloney stood behind him, somehow filling the narrow aisle with his slender frame, his gorgeous features resting in the kind of bored expression Ollie expected from overindulged rock stars. “Are you the bloke from Sky?”

  Ollie resisted the urge to repeat his freelancer status and stuck out his hand with a brisk nod, trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming that Shay Maloney was even more beautiful in person than he had been on a distant stage. “Yup. I’m Ollie. I’m going to be with your tour, off and on, until we get to the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Yes… of your tour or the filming. Whichever happens first.”

  Shay finally took Ollie’s hand. He closed his elegant fingers around Ollie’s with a brief, intense squeeze that made Ollie’s tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “You don’t know how long it will take?”

  Ollie swallowed. “Not exactly. I only took the assignment a month ago. I haven’t finished your story yet.”

  Shay let his hand drop, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. He pushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ears, and slumped against the bathroom door with a sigh. “I figured you’d have it all today, that we could read through it and do whatever big reveal you had in mind. Get it over with.”

  “I take it you didn’t watch the first series when it aired last year, then?”

  “Dude, I don’t even know what the series is called. My manager made me sign shit when I was distracted.”

  Great. Ollie had taken this project at the last minute, and he had spent many sleepless nights unravelling the mess of leads the original researcher had left behind, but despite all that, he hadn’t accounted for Shay’s apathy. “You don’t want to do it?”

  Shay shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Ollie didn’t have an answer for that. “Whatever. How long have you got before soundcheck?”

  “An hour.”

  “That’ll do. Take a seat, and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”

  Chapter Three

  Shay tapped his fingers on the desk. It was the second occasion that day he’d found himself trapped in the office with a pile of paperwork, but this time, his hostage taker was having a far more profound effect on him than Corina ever had.

  Ollie pointed at his laptop screen. They were watching an old episode from the genealogy series Shay had unwittingly agreed to take part in. “I didn’t film this one, but it was produced on the road, like I’m planning to do with you, so it gives you a good idea of what to expect.”

  “Uh-huh.” Shay tried to focus on the screen, but there was something about the dude across the table that wouldn’t let him. With his dark stubble and flinty eyes, ripped jeans and leather jacket, Ollie Pietruska looked more like a rock star than anyone on the tour, and yet there was something so unassuming about him that the contradiction had Shay totally fucking fascinated.

  ’Course it didn’t help that the bloke was bloody gorgeous. Inky hair, that stubble, beautiful hands. And God, his voice. He had a London accent, fused with something Shay couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Where’s your accent from?”

  Ollie muted the video. “Sorry, what?”

  “Your accent,” Shay repeated. “It’s not English.”

  Ollie’s gaze darted somewhere beyond Shay and back again so fast Shay was almost sure he’d imagined it. “It’s Polish, like my name. I lived in Warsaw for about ten years when I was a kid and then in Waltham, West London, after that, so I’m a bit of a mix.”

  “I like it.”

  Ollie’s left eyebrow twitched. “Um, thanks, I guess? We’re not really here to talk about me.”

  Shame. Shay had been trapped in the studio recording back-to-back albums for most of the year and had then hit the road for a mad summer of festivals and underground gigs. Another two months in the studio, and now he was living on a bus. Many faces had come and gone, but none had turned his head like Ollie. In fact, Shay couldn’t remember ever being so immediately and entirely entranced by someone… particularly someone who didn’t seem to want to look at him.

  Shay studied Ollie’s profile, taking in his high cheekbones and intense stare as he cued up another clip of the genealogy show. I bet he’s got a killer smile. Then again, he didn’t seem the type to smile much, and Shay liked that too. Smuggler’s Beat was his happy place, a manic joy he couldn’t escape. Inexplicably, he craved Ollie’s frown.

  “So….” Ollie said.

  “Hmm?”

  A muscle in Ollie’s cheek ticked. “You’re really not interested in this, are you?”

  “We haven’t started yet.”

  “That’s what you’re going with? Because I don’t need to waste my time with this. We can just film the segments on the road whenever you’re free and leave it at that. You don’t have to be involved with production.”

  “Production?”

  “Jesus-fucking-Christ.”

  Shay blinked, caught off guard by the irritation lacing Ollie’s curse. He searched for a response, but the words wouldn’t come. His hands trembled, and a faint headache crept over his scalp. Shit. He’d forgotten to check his sugars and top up his breakfast. A night on the booze always fucked him up.

  Ollie was still glaring at him. Shay forced himself to shift his gaze and glanced around for his medicine bag. It was, of course, on his bunk, an easy reach when his limbs weren’t made of jelly.

  “Are you okay?”
>
  “Wha—” Shay tried to stand. Failed. Strong hands caught him and sat him back down with a thump. “Oh fuck.”

  “What’s wrong?” Suddenly, Ollie was right in front of him, crouched at his feet, his previously steely eyes now molten with concern. “Do you need me to get someone?”

  Shay shook his head. “I just need my bag. I’m diabetic… I need to check my sugars.”

  “Where’s the bag?”

  “On my bed.”

  “The tidy one with the journal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Ollie rose and disappeared, returning an instant later with Shay’s magic bag. He stayed close as Shay pricked his finger, but looked away as the drop of blood oozed out.

  Shay filed the reaction for later and concentrated on the less than ideal numbers coming up on the tiny device on the table. “Oops.”

  “What is it?”

  “Low. I need some sugar, man.”

  “What kind of sugar?”

  “Coke… maybe some fruit?”

  Thankfully, both things were stocked in the kitchen. Ollie brought him a can of Pepsi and a banana and reclaimed his seat as Shay put himself back together. Shay mourned the loss of his close proximity, but it took a few minutes for him to notice Ollie was furtively scribbling in a notebook of his own.

  “Please tell me you’re not documenting this shit?”

  “Hmm?” It was Ollie’s turn to glance up distractedly. “Sorry. No, of course I’m not, but I didn’t know you were diabetic. It’s… uh… interesting to me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m pretty hard to offend, mate. But I don’t see what’s so interesting about me fucking up a hangover.”

  “That’s because you haven’t listened to anything I’ve said for the past hour. Maybe if you pay attention over the next few weeks, it’ll make more sense.”

  “That’s what you’re going with?”

  Finally, Ollie cracked a smile, and it was bright enough to break the hypo-haze clouding Shay’s vision. “I’m not going with anything. I’m here doing my thing, and you’re doing yours. How much the two cross over is up to you.”

  The statement seemed to answer a question Shay hadn’t asked. He swallowed the last bite of banana and folded the peel into a neat pile. “Are you saying you want me involved in production, or you’d rather I left you alone to get on with it?”

  “I’m saying it’s up to you. It doesn’t matter to me, mate. I’m just doing my job.”

  An odd disappointment swept over Shay. Ollie’s cool demeanour had returned as fast as Shay’s cognition, but he hadn’t considered that Ollie’s work might be nothing more than a pay cheque to him. In Shay’s world, pretty much everyone except the bus driver was emotionally shackled to their job. Even Corina. Especially Corina. “How far back have you gone?”

  “With your family tree?”

  Shay guzzled more Pepsi. “Yeah. I mean, I know my ma had some pretty cool artists in her family, and my dad’s brothers were all pilots, so….” Shay broke off as the weight of Ollie’s stare hit him. “What?”

  Ollie closed his laptop, his perpetual frown deepening. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean about what we’re doing.” Ollie reached down and drew a thick folder of papers from his bag. He laid them on the table and spun it so Shay could see the first page. At the top was a name Shay didn’t recognise. Ollie tapped his finger on it. “Shay, I’m not researching your adoptive family. I’m researching you.”

  Guilt wasn’t an emotion Ollie had expected to deal with when he’d agreed to take on the Shay Maloney project at the eleventh hour, but it was hard not to feel bad for Shay. He’d had all of ten seconds to react to Ollie’s unwitting bombshell before he’d been called away, and he’d left the bus with his lovely face twisted in a painful combination of shock and confusion.

  Jesus Christ. Ollie fired off a rapid text to his producer in London.

  Ollie: I thought Maloney knew he was adopted?

  Amir: He does, according to the record company. That’s it, though. I’m not sure the kid even knows his birth name.

  With a low growl, Ollie tossed his phone aside. Shit, shit, shit. More guilt. It had been clear since he’d set eyes on Shay that afternoon that he’d been walking blind into this project, but to not even realise the Irish roots of his adoptive parents were totally fucking irrelevant? Damn. Someone had some explaining to do, and with Ollie the only idiot on the ground, chances were it would have to be him.

  Ollie pulled Shay’s file towards him. In the hour that had passed since Shay’s manager had hustled him out for soundcheck, it had remained where Shay left it—stacked and heavy and stuck on the first page. Ollie leafed through a few generations until he came to a photograph of Shay’s great-uncle. The young man had short hair and a thick beard, but his willowy build was unmistakable. From his never-ending legs to his elegant hands, clutched around a battered cart rattle, he was Shay. Or Shay was him. Or perhaps it was neither, as Shay’s name was something else entirely. Ollie traced Shay’s birth name and more regret lanced his chest. Ollie had been to hell and back, but he’d always had the luxury of knowing where he’d come from. His roots were absolute. He couldn’t imagine how his life would be without a tangible connection to his heritage.

  He closed his eyes, and the folk music of his youth echoed in his head, the traditional dances and mystic chants. The smell of his grandmother’s cooking and his grandfather’s pipe. Who would he be without it?

  Ollie found Shay outside the venue. He was alone and leaning against a tree, staring out over the River Corrib. It was such an image, Ollie trailed to a stop, unsure of how to approach him. Or even if he wanted to. Shay had the air of a man who didn’t want to be disturbed, and perhaps Ollie was the last person he wanted to see.

  A cigarette called Ollie’s name. He lit up his first smoke of a very long day and ventured closer to Shay. The click of the lighter seemed to carry on the wind, and Shay turned as Ollie was blowing smoke into the sky.

  His expression was unreadable. Ollie considered walking on by, but Shay jerked his head at the last moment, signalling for Ollie to join him.

  Wordlessly, he plucked the cigarette from Ollie’s hand and took a deep drag. “Come to check out the gig? See what we’re all about?”

  “Actually, no. I saw you play in Dublin last night.”

  “That right?” Shay took down another lungful of smoke before handing the cigarette back. “And what did you think? Too weird for you?”

  “Not at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a band play so many instruments at once.”

  Shay laughed, a low, short sound that was like a gravelly wind chime. “That’s my fault. I collect them and insist on dragging them everywhere we go. The roadies hate me.”

  “I’m sure they don’t. It must make a change from the ordinary.”

  “You don’t like the ordinary?”

  It was a strange question, and once more Ollie found himself without an answer. He puffed on his smoke and offered it to Shay again, grinning when he grimaced and shook his head. “Retired smoker, eh?”

  “For a long time now. Only relapse when my brain explodes.”

  It was Ollie’s turn to grimace. “Yeah, about that. Sorry I dropped it on you. I kind of assumed you knew… that someone would’ve told you long before I got here.”

  “It would make sense.” Shay shoved his hands in his pockets. “And maybe they did. I have a habit of not listening to people when I have other shit on my mind. Like, they think I’m hearing them because I’m good at pretending, but in reality I can miss the world ending if I’m involved enough in something else.”

  “Curse of the creative?”

  “Not really. My mum was dying when I agreed to do this, so perhaps the world did end.”

  Grief flashed in Shay’s hazel eyes. The silver ring he wore in his nose glinted in the light from a nearby stree
tlamp, and a ridiculous urge to comfort him swept over Ollie. Bet he’d love that after you were the one to torpedo his day right before a massive gig.

  Ollie finished his smoke, stubbed it out, and flicked it into a nearby bin. He stepped closer to Shay, his hands twitching. “I really am sorry. I can speak to the producers, maybe see if we can swap to your adoptive family? They sound interesting too.”

  Shay shook his head. “I already had it out with Corina. Your studio only wanted me because I was adopted… like that makes history more juicy, or some shit, I don’t fucking know. Either way, I signed the contract this morning, so it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Contracts don’t mean you don’t have choices.” But it sounded hollow even to Ollie. He’d signed a contract too, and he wasn’t in a position to forfeit the fees that came with it.

  Shay sighed. “It’s whatever at this point, but do you mind if we hold off starting until I talk to my dad? It feels wrong to be diving into something like this without telling him.”

  “Of course.”

  Ollie gave in and laid a hand on Shay’s slim shoulder. He kept it there a full second before he wimped out, reclaimed it, and turned away.

  Shay caught his arm. “It won’t be long. I call him before every gig.”

  His hot palm burned skin that was already fragile. Ollie stared at where they were joined, his heart thumping. Usually when someone touched him there, by accident or otherwise, nausea would spin him so hard he’d have to make his excuses and split. But something—everything—about Shay was different. His brand of heat didn’t hurt, and Ollie was mesmerised by it.

  “Of course,” he said again. “Come and find me when you’re ready.”

  Chapter Four

  Ollie was unhappy. Shay didn’t know how he knew, but he did. The bus was rumbling its way from Galway to Belfast, and most of its occupants were asleep, spent from an amazing gig that had run an hour over schedule.

  But Shay was awake, and so was Ollie.