Chapter 1 #2
Half Life left the stage, and Trix stopped in front of Riff and me.
“Good luck out there,” she said, brushing away the damp blue strands that had stuck to her forehead.
Her eyeliner was smudged, and her pink Hello Kitty shirt was stuck to her chest with sweat, but she looked exhilarated.
The kind of happy that only came after an awesome show in front of a good crowd.
“Thanks for warming them up for us,” I replied.
“The French know how to party,” she laughed, and I watched as she pulled a yellow scrunchie out of her pocket and pulled her hair into a messy bun. “Now I need a shower, a stiff drink, and a spliff.”
My muscles locked up, and suddenly all I could think about was an ice-cold glass of vodka, the drops of condensation pooling at its base, almost but not quite touching the crisp paper of a freshly rolled joint.
God, I could practically smell the tangy smoke, feel the burn as it filled my lungs and made my body fl—
“We’ll see you back at the hotel, yeah?” Riff squeezed my shoulder, jerking me back into the harsh reality where I was sober. Where drugs and alcohol were off limits, and these situations would be a regular occurrence.
Trix, unaware of my internal battle, smiled and ran off towards her dressing room, leaving me to sweat over the temptations with my best friend. My breaths came quicker than before, limbs stiff and trembling until I worried I might explode.
“You’re all good, man,” Riff said, his deep voice in my ear easing some of the tension in my shoulders. “Focus on the crowd.”
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to listen beyond the noise backstage. The crew was already swapping out the gear, and the audience had started chanting our name in anticipation.
“Noctis! Noctis! Noctis!”
“T’es mon préféré, Riff!”
I inhaled, filling my lungs with air.
“Noctis pour toujours!”
“Bodhi, t’es trop canon!”
Then I exhaled, letting the negative thoughts, the dangers, and the urge to self-destruct bleed out of me, carried away and shredded by the roar of the crowd.
I did it again and again until my body felt lighter, my neck looser, and my heart wasn’t pounding a frantic four-beat rhythm against my ribs.
When I opened my eyes again, I met Riff’s chocolate-brown ones. He’d moved from my side to stand in front of me, hands on either side of my neck, their warmth seeping into my skin as he felt my steadying pulse against his palm. The side of his mouth ticked up. “You with me?”
Exhaling once more, I nodded, loosening my jaw which I’d been clenching. “Yeah,” I breathed. “I’m ready.”
“Glad to hear it,” Thump said, appearing at my side with Ghost and giving me a light slap on the back.
“Nice cover-up.” I nodded towards the patchy makeup on his neck, a crude attempt to hide the giant hickey.
The shade was all wrong, at least three tones lighter than his golden skin, and there was so much of it that it looked like a layer of paint.
Still, the Texas-shaped bruise was gone, and Thump was stuck at the back of the stage anyway.
“Try not to sweat it off,” Mick said from my other side, resting a hand on my shoulder as his calm presence smoothed out the last of my nerves.
Thump flipped him off. “Clara used so much setting spray I’m scared it won’t even come off in the shower.”
We shared a laugh, and I was finally starting to feel normal again when Dyl, our tour manager, appeared.
“It’s time, my dudes,” he announced, handing me my mic and Thump his drumsticks.
Two extra sets sat beside his kit: one for when he’d inevitably snap a stick, and another for when he’d yeet one across the stage mid-solo.
Once Dyl backed off and the last of the crew cleared out, Riff, Mick, Thump, Ghost, and I stood together in a circle.
“It’s been a rough few months,” I said, looking at each of my brothers as they met my gaze. “I’ve not exactly been the best bandmate or friend.” Riff started to speak, but I cut him off. “Doesn’t matter now. The past is the past, and we look to the future. For us, for the fans, and for Noctis.”
Ghost grinned. Thump rolled his sticks between his palms. Mick gave a slow nod. Riff winked, mouthing, “Love you, bro.”
I smiled back and reached into the middle of the circle. One by one, their hands stacked on top of mine, and we leaned in close.
“Ready?” I asked.
They nodded.
“Noctis on three. One . . . two . . . three!”
“Noctis!”
I was fucking pumped.
Crouched at the front of the stage, staring out at the sea of people filling the Accor Arena, I couldn’t help but laugh.
Looking to the right of the stage, I spotted Riff, panting as he wiped his forehead.
He was grinning just as wide as I was, and a quick glance at the others showed we were all wearing the same exhausted, satisfied smiles.
This, right here at the end of a show, voices raw and bodies spent, was what we lived for. To know we had given everything, to leave our fans with the greatest possible experience.
The ringing in our ears blended with the crowd’s roar. Their faces glowed in the flashing lights, eyes wide with awe. Sweat dripped down our necks and stuck our shirts to our skin, and the fog of excitement clung to the air, thick and humid, like a Floridian summer at its peak.
This was why we existed.
I straightened up, gripping the mic tighter, and let my voice carry through the arena for one last time tonight.
“Paris, you are insane!” Their response was almost deafening, but I didn’t care. Their satisfaction simply felt too good. “Thank you for being here with us. For screaming, singing, and losing your fucking minds!”
Thump pounded on his drums, the beat only hyping them up more as fans stomped their feet to join in. I raised one hand in the air, feeling like a preacher giving a bullshit sermon on CBN.
“You made this night unforgettable. Every clap, every cheer, every single fucking voice in this arena, you are the reason we do this.”
I paused, letting the energy hit me, feeling it sink in.
“Take care of yourselves, and take care of each other. From all of us in Noctis, merci . . . et à bient?t!”
With one last wave to the crowd, they erupted. The lights dropped, cloaking us in darkness, but their cheers continued. I felt it in every bone as the five of us left the stage, clapping each other on the back and shoulders as we went.
“Good job, boys,” Dyl said as he took my microphone, before disappearing to instruct the crew as they cleared the stage and loaded up our equipment. It’d be a while before he met us back at the hotel.
“Jesus, I feel incredible,” Thump bellowed, throwing his arms out to the side. Turning to face us, he continued to move, walking backwards down the hallway to the green room. “I don’t know whether I need a line or a good fuck.”
Everyone but me stopped walking, and I only noticed when I collided with Riff’s back. Looking up, I noticed everyone looking at our drummer. Mick’s face was blank, his usual smile absent, while Ghost frowned. But Riff . . . he was furious.
“Dude,” he growled. “What the fuck?”
Thump took a step back, confusion etched into his boyish features. He was the youngest of the group at twenty-six, and with his rounded cheeks and often questionable choices, sometimes it showed. But as a man in his early thirties and the king of bad decisions, I was hardly one to judge.
“What?” Thump replied, before his eyes widened as he realised what he’d said. “Oh shit.” His gaze met mine. “I’m sorry, man.”
I waved him off. “It’s fine.” Because this time, it was fine. I was so exhausted after the show, and still pumped full of adrenaline from having fun, that I’d barely even reacted to what he’d said.
Of course, that might not be the case every time, and who knew, after our show in Amsterdam, I might react differently. But this was the first show of our European tour—my first sober show ever—and I didn’t want it to end on a bad note because Thump had no filter.
“It is not fine, Theo!” Riff yelled. “We’re supposed to be a team, man. A family. And we all agreed to help our brother.”
“I know,” Thump snapped back, hands curling into fists. “I already said I was sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Exactly, you never fucking think. You—”
I gripped Riff’s forearm and pulled him back, putting some well-needed distance between the two of them. “I said it’s fine.”
Thump and Riff continued glaring at each other, and considering they were both still hyped up from the show, it wouldn’t end well if this continued to escalate.
“What Theo does in his own time is his business, I made that clear from the beginning,” I stated, looking at my best friend. “I appreciate that you want to look out for me, but I’m telling you, for tonight, I’m fine.”
Riff relaxed, some of the tension bleeding from his frame, and he nodded, though it seemed reluctant.
But deep down, he knew as well as I did, this wouldn’t be the last time Thump would fuck up.
Hell, all of them would at some point, and .
. . maybe even I would too. But none of them could protect me from everything, and it was down to me to make the best decisions for myself.
No matter how much of a struggle it would be.
“Bodhi’s right,” Ghost said, taking a step between them. “It’s the first night of the tour, and we had a fucking awesome show. So let’s not spoil it, yeah?”
Riff nodded again and patted my hand where it remained on his forearm, before continuing down the hall to the green room by himself.
He was still pissed, but I’d known him long enough to be sure he’d be okay.
Ten minutes strumming at his vintage Gibson Hummingbird and he’d be laughing along with us as we travelled back to the hotel.
“I really am sorry, Bodes,” Thump whispered, and I looked down to see him staring at his feet, digging the toe of his grubby Chucks into the concrete floor.
“Honestly, bro,” I replied, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s no big deal.”
He nodded, but he still didn’t look at me, so Ghost slung an arm around his neck and guided him towards the green room. As they walked off, I heard bits and pieces of their muffled conversation.
“Just take a sec to think next time, okay . . . we’ll get a beer in the hotel bar.”
Mick and I followed them into the green room, where we hung out until Clara came to collect us.
As predicted, Riff was fine after a little time spent in his head with his guitar.
By the time we were heading out the back door of the arena to catch a cab, he and Thump were already ribbing each other about their latest League of Legends tournament.
When we pulled up outside the hotel, I was practically asleep on my feet. I couldn’t help wondering how the hell I used to make it through an all-night bender. Maybe being sober just meant my age was finally catching up with me.
The five of us followed Clara into the lobby and towards the elevator tucked away near the reception desk. It was late, well past midnight, so the place was quiet. Other than the concierge, there was only one other person, and the two of them were locked in a heated discussion.
“I’m supposed to be in the room reserved for Sasha Davidson. She couldn’t make it, so I’m staying here instead.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” the concierge replied, voice calm despite the clear frustration directed at them. “I’ll need to see some form of identification before I can let you into the room.”
The not-quite guest, dressed in black capri leggings and a cropped powder-blue hoodie with the hood pulled up, let out a sharp sigh and gripped the edge of the reception desk until their knuckles turned white.
“Okay, first, I’m a man, but thanks a bunch for assuming.”
The concierge’s eyes widened, and they lifted their hands in a silent apology, but the other man kept going. All the while, the sound of that voice tickled something in my brain. Something familiar.
“Second, I can’t show you an ID for the room, because as I already said, I’m not Sasha Davidson. She couldn’t come, so I’m here instead.”
“Oh, crap,” Clara hissed, pulling my attention away from the commotion at the front desk.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I think that’s our new makeup artist, and I forgot to change the name on the room.” She shoved the white envelope with our room keys into my hands and hurried off towards the desk. “I am so sorry!”
“Who’s that?” Riff asked, bumping my elbow and nodding towards where Clara was now speaking with the other two.
“Not sure. Clara said something about our new makeup artist.”
“Huh.” He frowned. “I thought we were meeting them tomorrow.”
“Maybe she didn’t expect them to be checking in this late,” Mick said, catching the tail end of our conversation.
“Are we going up or what?” Thump groaned, leaning against the wall beside the elevator.
I looked down at the envelope and flipped through the keycards until I found one with his name. “Here,” I said, passing it to him. “You can go up if you want. I’ve still got Clara’s key, so I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll wait too,” Ghost said. “I wanna see how much redder the concierge’s face gets if our new MUA keeps glaring at him.”
“How do you know he’s glaring?” Mick asked, tilting his head.
“Dude, the concierge looks like he’s about to piss himself. There’s no way he’s not getting hit with some serious stink eye.”
As the five of us laughed, Clara wrapped up her conversation at the desk and led the newcomer over. I was glad to see a freshly coded keycard in his hand. His hood was pulled low, hiding most of his face, though a few strands of fuchsia hair slipped free and trailed down towards his chest.
“Okay,” Clara said as she stopped in front of us. “Looks like you’re meeting the new makeup artist sooner than expected. Everyone . . .”
The stranger pushed his hood back, revealing a head of vivid pink hair, and my breath caught in my throat.
For a second, the world seemed to tilt. Standing in front of me was someone I never thought I’d see again—not after two months together behind the aged brick walls of the Willow, surrounded by other addicts.
Wide green eyes met mine, filled with the same shock that was twisting in my chest.
It was . . . it was him.
“This is Iggy.”