Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
BODHI
My alarm went off at nine, not that it mattered.
I’d been awake for an hour already, lying there with my eyes closed, pretending I was asleep while my brain replayed every second of last night.
I couldn’t believe that Iggy was really here, in Paris of all places, and he was going to be the band’s new makeup artist. He’d be travelling with us for the next three months, which meant twelve weeks of close quarters, shared buses, backstage chaos, and Iggy.
If he was still the man I’d gotten to know in rehab, he wouldn’t be easy to ignore. And I had to ignore him. For the sake of my sanity. My dignity.
We’d lived practically on top of each other in the Willow, and Iggy had ended up knowing things about me that even the guys—my best friends, my brothers—didn’t know.
The idea of having the keeper of my most private confessions right there, within arm’s reach every day .
. . it twisted something sharp in my chest.
I had a job to do. A tour to get through. A sobriety I was barely holding together on a good day. I didn’t have room in my head for Iggy too.
Still . . . I could admit I felt like a bit of a douchebag for freezing him out.
Iggy had been the closest thing I had to a real friend in the Willow.
Someone I could lean on when therapy scraped raw, someone who got it when the cravings clawed up my throat.
Someone I’d tried to be there for in return.
As I was leaving rehab, just a few days before Iggy, he’d grabbed my hand and slipped something into it.
Something I stared at the entire time I was in the car with Clara and Riff, headed back to the real world.
It was a beaded bracelet, like the ones he always wore stacked up his wrists.
Black and white beads, with a single pink one meant to sit right over the pulse point.
And tucked between them, lettered beads spelling out two words: stay sober.
At the time, it felt like a promise. Like hope. Something solid to hold on to when things got shaky.
But now that Iggy was here, just a wall away from me in this hotel, it felt like a command. A responsibility. An extra weight pressing down on my shoulders. Like there was an extra pair of eyes on my sobriety, waiting to see if I slipped.
It wasn’t fair to think that way. I knew that.
Iggy was just as new to sobriety as I was.
Just as unsteady. Just as likely to be silently panicking behind that bright pink hair and nervous smile.
He’d probably seen my face and felt relieved, thought he had a comrade in arms on this fucked-up recovery journey.
And instead of meeting him halfway, instead of offering even a fraction of the comfort he’d given me back in the Willow, I pretended I didn’t know him.
I watched the spark in his green eyes flicker and go out, and then I closed the door in his face.
Ignoring him felt wrong. Necessary, but wrong. And I felt like absolute shit.
I silenced the alarm and pushed myself upright, dragging a hand down my face like it might scrub off the leftover embarrassment—and the guilt sitting heavy in my chest. When a knock sounded at the door, my heartbeat kicked up, and I looked over, pulse thudding in my throat.
Could it be Iggy? He was only next door.
Maybe he’d gotten over the shock of last night, and now he was here to rip me a new one for it.
“Dude, are you up? I’m starving. Let’s eat already.”
My shoulders slumped in relief at the sound of Riff’s voice, muffled through the thick door.
“Yeah, I’m up.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pushed to my feet, crossing the room to open the door. Riff stood there looking like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into the hallway, shoulder-length hair sticking up everywhere, T-shirt twisted, and sweats creased to hell.
“Couldn’t wake up a bit before seeking out food?” I asked.
“Nah.” Riff yawned, scratching his stomach under his shirt. “My stomach’s always awake.” His eyes dragged lazily down my body and back up. “You coming like that, or were you planning to get dressed?”
I looked down at myself, bare except for a pair of black Calvin Klein boxers barely containing my dick and balls, then back at him. “Two minutes.”
He stepped forward like he meant to wander in, but I shut the door in his face before he could cross the threshold. A thump followed as his body met the wood. “Agh, you fucker!”
I chuckled as I grabbed my case and pulled out some gym shorts and a hoodie, getting dressed swiftly so as not to leave his highness waiting for too long. Riff was a bitch to be around when he was hungry, and given that I’d yet to have a cup of coffee, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with his whining.
He was still rubbing his forehead when I reopened the door and stepped out. “Fucking asshole,” he mumbled as we followed the hallway towards the elevator.
When we walked into the hotel’s first-floor restaurant, Mick and Thump were already out on the terrace. They were mid-debate about some sci-fi series they’d binged on Netflix, but their conversation fizzled out as we approached.
“Morning,” Mick said, sticking out a hand for a fist bump. I hit it and slid into the chair to his left, immediately grabbing the carafe and pouring myself a cup of life-saving coffee.
“G’mornin’,” I muttered before taking a sip. Sweet, caffeinated mercy. I let out a quiet sigh.
“Get off me!” Thump screeched as Riff ruffled his hair on his way to the chair across from me.
“No Luc?” I asked Mick.
He shook his head. “Nah. Not yet.”
“You know the princess doesn’t wake up before noon,” Thump said, leaning back and tipping his face towards the sun like a lizard on a rock.
“Well, he better get down here soon if he wants to eat.”
All four of us turned towards the terrace entrance, where Clara stood with her arms folded.
“We’ve got shit to do before the show tonight,” she continued. “And I want everyone packed before we leave. We’re heading to Amsterdam tomorrow.”
“Aye aye, Captain!” Riff grinned, giving an over-the-top salute.
Clara slid into the seat beside me and immediately pulled out her phone. “Micah, Rafe, you’ve got an interview with Le Pulse Radio at two, and Theo, you’ve got a video call with the guys from Threadline at noon.”
Thump slapped his palm on the table, making the silverware jingle. “Fuck yeah, this sneaker collab is gonna be awesome.”
“Luca’s doing a podcast at one, and Bodhi—”
“Morning, everyone.”
I turned back towards the terrace entrance and saw Iggy stepping into the sunlight.
His blue and white tie-dye T-shirt was knotted above his pierced bellybutton, the iridescent jewel catching the light.
He had a raggedy grey cardigan draped over his shoulders, well worn but soft and cosy.
On his lower half, cotton grey shorts hung low on his hips.
They were so tiny that a turn might give a full view of his ass cheeks.
The floral tattoo on his thigh contrasted sharply with his pale skin, and unlike at the Willow, where he mostly lived in oversized hoodies, I could see the top of it ending just above his hip bone.
Iggy crossed the terrace, weaving through the other tables to join us. His movements were effortless, almost gliding. At the Willow, he’d mentioned that he used to do ballet, and with those long legs and that lean frame, I could easily picture him on a stage.
Thump let out a sharp exhale, eyes wide as Iggy neared the table. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I’d pay good money to have those legs wrapped around my head.”
Riff, who was studying the breakfast menu, smacked the back of Thump’s head. “Keep it in your pants, small fry.”
“That hurt, you dick!” Thump lunged to snatch the menu, but Riff jerked it out of reach. Determined, Thump leaned over the front of Riff’s chair, and the two of them devolved into a small wrestling match, shoving and scrambling in their seats.
“Children,” Mick muttered, eyes glued to his e-reader, blissfully ignoring the chaos. I couldn’t help but nod in agreement.
“Can you two at least try to act civilized in public?” Clara snapped. Riff and Thump immediately froze, heads dropping as they focused on their menus.
Iggy slid into the empty seat beside Riff, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. His eyes met mine across the table, and I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to study my own menu. I wasn’t thinking about breakfast, though. No, my attention kept sneaking back to the man beside my best friend.
His hair, much brighter than when we’d been at the Willow, was tied into a messy bun at the back of his head, with some strands hanging loose around his face.
Pale yet fresh-faced, he had no makeup on, but the lack of it revealed dark circles under his eyes.
I wondered if sleep had been as elusive for him as it had been for me.
Drugs were great for keeping you awake, and just as tempting for helping you drift off, whether acquired legally or not.
But addiction made restraint nearly impossible.
One pill could easily spiral into another, then another, until you were right back where you started.
And without a crutch to calm your mind at night, without a way to quiet the anxiety now permanently lodged in your brain, a solid night’s sleep often felt out of reach.
Iggy’s dark circles probably matched my own, so I should be grateful that we had a new makeup artist who could cover them up.
“Iggy, let me introduce you properly,” Clara said, gesturing around the table. “Next to you is Rafe—”
“You can call me Riff. Lead guitarist. And yes, I shred.”
“Theo—”
“Thump. Drums. Obviously.”
“Micah—”
“Mick’s fine. Bass player.”
“Luca is still asleep—”
“That’s why we call him Ghost,” Riff muttered, smirking. “He’s never where he should be.”
Clara sighed, pointing at me. “And finally, we have Bodhi.”