Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
BODHI
THREE MONTHS LATER
Life didn’t stop just because I was in rehab. Now that I was free, I’d been dumped right back into the wild lifestyle that came with being a musician. The only difference this time? I was sober.
Stepping through the gates of the Willow to see Clara and my best friend, Riff, waiting for me, I was fucking terrified.
I’d spent three months surrounded by the brick walls of rehab, cushioned by the safety net of counsellors and no contact with the outside world beyond a single phone call each week.
It left me feeling almost . . . safe. Safe from temptations, safe from triggers—something I’d learned to identify in my one-on-one therapy sessions with Dr Williams.
I’d stayed silent for three whole days when I first arrived, determined to get through each day until I could leave and kick off the band’s European tour.
I was convinced I didn’t need to be in rehab, that I was only putting up with it because the label told me to.
But then something just . . . changed. Suddenly, I wanted to do better.
To be better than the piece-of-shit version of me that had walked through the Willow’s doors on the first day.
To be a better bandmate, a better son, and hell, maybe even a better example.
Someone our fans could actually look up to.
And it was all because of . . .
“You good, man?”
I blinked, unsure of how long I’d been staring at the same spot on the wall. The lumpy couch I sat on shifted as Mick, a.k.a. Micah, our bass player, lowered himself onto the cushion beside me.
The rest of the band were in the green room with us, preparing for tonight’s show in their own way.
Riff, the lead guitarist, sat on an armchair in the corner, strumming at the acoustic guitar he always carried around with him backstage.
Ghost, the keyboardist, was in the kitchenette checking his eyeliner in the light-up mirror Clara had lent him.
And Thump, the drummer, was . . . not even in the room.
Probably fucking a roadie in the bathroom.
Mick was usually glued to his e-reader, sucked into whatever fantasy series he was reading, but he’d broken his routine to interact with me.
Because my usual methods of preparation—shots of vodka and a few lines of coke—were off the table now.
Forbidden by myself, Clara, and the label.
The band was aware I’d been in rehab. We were as close as brothers, so I’d told Clara not to keep it from them.
As my oldest friend, Riff had been the one to join Clara in handing me over to my appointed security team at LAX.
Hell, he’d even put up with me calling him at all hours of the day and night, crying because all I wanted was another line.
Yeah, looking back, I’m not sure how I didn’t realise I was an addict. But according to Dr Williams, I had “a remarkable talent for self-delusion.”
Also known as denial.
“Yeah,” I replied. “All good.”
I turned to face Mick, noting the calm smile on his face.
Not the kind of smile that said he was about to handle me with kid gloves, though.
Nah, Mick was just chill like that, and his easy-going vibe had a way of mellowing out everyone around him.
In the twelve years we’d known each other, I’d only seen him truly pissed off once, about four years ago, when some drunk idiot at an afterparty decided to play grab-ass with Clara.
It was terrifying, honestly. But once the guy finally apologised, practically pissing himself, Mick’s anger melted faster than a chocolate teapot, and he’d spent the rest of the night schooling him on the power of the #MeToo movement.
Needing something to do with my hands, I ran one through my hair, grimacing when I remembered the product I’d put in it earlier. Mick huffed a laugh when he realised what I’d done, and turned to call out to Ghost.
“Yo, Luc, throw us a wipe.”
Ghost, also known as Luca, stepped away from the mirror and grabbed the pack of makeup wipes, throwing it towards Mick. Except, he’d overestimated the distance, and the small package flew over Mick’s head and straight into the side of mine, where it hit its mark with a slap.
“Dude,” I groaned, while Mick and Riff cackled away. “You need to work on your aim.”
“My aim’s pretty good when the moment calls for it,” Ghost smirked, already focused back on the mirror.
“If that’s the case,” Riff jumped in. “Why’s the toilet seat always covered in piss after you use it?”
“Fuck off,” he retorted, giving Riff the middle finger.
“You want a water?” Mick asked as I wiped the sticky remnants of pomade from my fingers. I caught the way he made sure to specify, instead of just asking if I wanted a drink.
While I’d wanted them to know about rehab, I’d made it clear they didn’t have to change their habits because of me. Sure, it would make things harder, but I didn’t want to be the reason anyone walked on eggshells. I’d already been enough of a burden. Enough of a fuckup.
Still, a week ago, when we met in London to go over the final tour logistics, something shifted.
It was the first time we’d all been together since before I went to the Willow.
Over dinner, Riff had announced they’d agreed to keep booze and drugs out of the green room.
And if I wanted to hit up an afterparty, one of them would stick with me, just to make sure I was okay.
I hadn’t known what to say other than to push back, to beg them not to change things because of me.
The gesture made my chest twist with a mix of gratitude and guilt, especially since Thump hadn’t looked all that thrilled about it.
But Riff and Mick were adamant. They said they would do whatever they could to help me stay on track.
Noctis—the band—was a family, they reminded me, and families made sacrifices for each other.
And right then, in a crappy fast-food restaurant over questionably cooked fried chicken, some of the fear I’d felt when Riff and Clara picked me up from the Willow began to melt away.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the booths were sticky, and the smell of grease hung heavy in the air, but none of it mattered.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I could just breathe.
The weight of my mistakes seemed a little less sharp here, tucked into a corner with people who had my back.
“Yeah, man,” I said, offering Mick a smile of my own. Small, but filled with overwhelming gratitude.
Mick stood, ready to raid the kitchenette fridge, but froze when the green room door swung open.
Clara walked in, rocking an oversized Noctis shirt, black skinny jeans, and a staff lanyard.
Barely five feet tall, with honey-blonde hair and the face of an angel, she could’ve fooled anyone into thinking she was quiet and sweet.
Wrong. What she lacked in height, she made up for in personality and sheer volume.
Managing five overgrown babies, she’d made it clear from day one that no bullshit would fly.
She’d cussed all of us out at least once, and while we loved her like a sister, we were also low-key terrified. Just the way Clara liked it.
“Okay, boys,” she said, waving a clipboard that contained our setlist. “It’s a packed house out there, and the Parisians are ready to party.” She glanced around the room at each of us before frowning. “Where the fuck is Theo?”
“Here!”
Theo, a.k.a. Thump, appeared behind Clara in the doorway, shirtless as usual and sporting a brand-new hickey on his neck that kind of looked like the state of Texas. I thought it was pretty impressive, actually, though Clara seemed to disagree.
“How many times do I have to tell you?!” she bellowed, and the four of us winced in sympathy with our scolded comrade. “Keep their teeth and claws off your body when you have a show. And if you can’t follow those rules, at least keep them to somewhere we can cover with a damn shirt!”
“I—” Thump started, but was immediately cut off as Clara continued her tirade.
“But that monstrosity—” She jabbed the giant purple bruise on Thump’s neck, and he squawked in pain. “Has no hope of being covered, and we don’t even have a new makeup artist until tomorrow!”
“We’re getting a new makeup artist?” Riff paused his strumming to ask.
“Yeah, you’ll meet them at breakfast,” Clara replied, before turning back to Thump. “You’re coming with me.”
She yanked Thump’s wrist and hauled him from the green room, and he turned back, eyes wide, silently screaming for help. Before the door slammed shut, Clara called out, “Fifteen minutes. Get ready!”
Mick, Ghost, Riff, and I moved like we’d just been set on fire, scrambling to finish getting ready and leave the green room.
When we reached the side of the stage, the support band, a popular trio from the UK called Half Life, had just finished their set.
Once they left the stage, the crew would change the sets and instruments over to ours, and we’d have around fifteen minutes to get into position.
“Merci, Paris!” the lead singer, Trix, shouted to the crowd. “We hope you had a great time tonight. Are you ready for Noctis?”
The audience roared in response, and Clara had been right—the arena was packed. The vibrations from their screams and stomping feet rumbled through me, setting my nerves alight and my blood buzzing.
This was my favourite high. One no drug or drink could ever touch. The rush of adrenaline that came from storming onstage and demanding the crowd’s attention, begging for their love through music, and finding a shared kind of peace in the songs that I—we had created.
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I glanced at Riff, who was bouncing on his feet. He was just as excited as I was, and when he met my gaze, he grinned. “Ready, brother?”
I held out my fist, which he bumped with his own. “Always.”