“I’m a heartless man at worst and a helpless man at best,” he crooned from a battered platinum microphone. His velvet suit suffered the fate of a low-budget tour, evidenced by late-night meals and long mornings with sharp elbows. The crowd looked on glazed and made lazy circles with their hips. Sweat dripped down his nose as his curly mop stuck to his crescent-scarred forehead.

Kennedy McDonald knew he had a lovely voice, but few other redeeming qualities. The Sligo-born musician made his mark covering better talents, but composition wasn’t in his wheelhouse. That was a skill left to dedicated individuals. Outside of draining pints and unsettling marriages, Kennedy wasn’t dedicated to much else.

The final stop of his ill-fated Eastern European tour got to hear a butchered greeting in Hungarian before he decided Budapest wasn’t worth shedding more of his battered ego. He bid the crowd adieu after his set and stepped off the mini-stage into a sticky hallway.

“Great set, mi amor. You know I love hearing the wonderful things your tongue can do,” a regal woman purred. “Who did you steal your song from time?”

“Amara, I’m happy to see you stayed. I thought your husband might want you back in time for dinner,” he settled onto the leather couch and gave her a light kiss. He lit a menthol cigarette to refresh his breath before sinking into the couch and pulling her into a sweaty embrace. She made a face that pulled at the crow’s feet next to her almond eyes. Kennedy loved seeing that annoyed look— if he got a kiss, he knew he was safe for another week.

“That’s not an answer— that’s a deflection. Tell me, was it, Van Morrison? You know I love when you sing “Sweet Thing,” she said, batting her eyes.

“It was Paolo Nutini, some Scots-Italian bloke from nearby Fife. “Changed a couple of lines, but don’t reckon that altered the tune any. No Van Morrison for this crowd— it was nothing but a bunch of miserly fucks. Some arse nearly hit me with a can after I stumbled through “Between the Bars” didn’t take Hungarians for Elliot Smith fans.” Amara chuckled and took a bite of expensive-looking chocolate. Kennedy looked at them both hungrily.

“No.”

“But-”

“No,” she lazily swatted his nose. Her petulant stare turned into a grin. “You made me wait in this nasty room. I don’t like being the cleanest thing in a room.”

“Don’t you worry; I’ve got a clean room for you.”

“I won’t sleep in an AirBnb,” she said, leaning into his kiss. “Their sheets are never soft enough for my skin. look,” her hand pulled the neckline of her dress down, “It’s all red.”

Kennedy stared at her like she held real directions to Brú na Bóinne “Do you need me to kiss it better?”

“Wouldn’t you? Kennedy inhaled her scent— she smelled like fresh jasmine and old money. His silver lips ghosted over her neck, and she took a shuddering breath. He pressed against the small of her back and kissed her again.

“It’s a VRBO, much better than AirBnb.”

“Stop talking and call the taxi,” her voice breathless as he pressed their bodies together. He would have written a song about her secret rendezvous and the honey trickle seconds after they finished where she gave him that time-lapse grief smile. But he wasn't a writer. Outside of the stage and the brief moments in Amara’s arms, Kennedy wasn’t much of anything.