Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
IGGY
It seemed Noctis was bigger than I’d realised.
If the luxury accommodation hadn’t already given it away, the size of the venue definitely did.
The Accor Arena was huge, and according to Clara, could hold over twenty thousand people.
Tonight was their second and last night in Paris, and both shows had completely sold out.
Our group arrived at the venue about an hour before the doors opened, and the line of people stretched for what felt like miles.
The boys had travelled separately to Clara and me, and when their vehicle pulled up in front of ours, the screams from fans who spotted them were deafening.
When Bodhi stepped out last, they somehow climbed to a decibel that threatened to perforate my eardrums. I made a mental note to ask Clara for ear plugs as we followed the band through the stage door, grateful when the security team finally shut out the noise.
“Hey, bros!”
A stout man with a round belly, greying hair, and a thick goatee jogged over and stuck out a hand for the boys to shake. Based on the lanyard around his neck, I guessed he was one of the crew.
“That’s Dylan,” Clara murmured beside me, nodding towards him. “He’s the tour manager and helps me babysit these asshats on the road. Keeps them on schedule, makes sure the stage is set up correctly.”
I chuckled, glancing back to where Dylan was already chatting happily with the band. He seemed like the happy-go-lucky type—more the cool dad to Clara’s firm-but-fair mother routine.
“Iggy.”
Bodhi’s voice caught me off guard. We’d patched things up over coffee that afternoon, but hadn’t spoken since returning to our rooms for a pre-show power nap.
Even though we’d agreed to be friends and do the whole “getting to know each other” thing again, I hadn’t expected to speak to him tonight.
Not until he was seated in the makeup chair, anyway.
The band had all turned towards me, and Bodhi gestured for me to join them. I unglued my boots from the floor and walked over, dragging my makeup trolley behind me.
“Dylan, this is Iggy, our new makeup artist.”
The tour manager grinned like a Cheshire Cat and thrust out a meaty hand.
“Good to meet ya, my dude,” he said as I slipped my hand into his.
His calluses scraped against my fingers, proof of what I assumed were years of hard labour.
“If you need anything at all, just holler. And . . .” He leaned in conspiratorially.
“If any of these knuckleheads give you trouble, you come straight to me.”
His bubbly demeanour soothed some of the nerves coiling in my stomach. “You got it.”
Dylan stepped back and turned his attention to the band. I glanced at Bodhi, catching the soft smile tugging at his mouth. The kind that said, “Don’t worry, you’ve got this,” without him uttering a single word.
“We need you onstage for a quick soundcheck before the doors open,” Dylan said. “Harper wasn’t totally satisfied with the balance last night, so he wants to tweak it.”
“Such a perfectionist,” Riff sighed, shaking his head as if the request annoyed him. But the smirk on his face told a different story. I imagined he’d happily play his guitar at any hour of the day.
“We’ll meet you guys in the green room,” Clara cut in. “I need to show Iggy around before he sets up his station.”
“Cool beans,” Dylan replied. “I already told Harper he’s got thirty minutes, no more. If it were up to him, he’d be sound-checking all night and we’d have no show.”
We said our goodbyes and I followed Clara, who spent the next half hour giving me the backstage tour. The green room was the final stop, and I was grateful Harper—the sound engineer, apparently—had wrangled an extra ten minutes with the band, giving me time to set up before they returned.
The green room held a cracked leather couch that sagged in the middle, some matching armchairs, and a small kitchenette with a fridge and food platters covering the counters. The venue had organised a mini banquet for the band, and I was relieved when Clara confirmed I could take some.
“They always make too much,” she said. “And the boys never eat much before going on. Micah says it makes him feel bloated when he starts jumping around with his bass, while Rafe complains about needing to shit during the show.”
“Charming,” I mumbled through a mouthful of bread as I opened my trolley to grab supplies.
Usually, I’d have access to a dressing room with more counter space and better lighting, but Clara explained the ones here were being refurbished. It didn’t matter, though. I’d done makeup everywhere, from a proper photography studio to the back seat of a drag queen’s Nissan Micra.
A metal cabinet sat against the wall behind the couch, so I pulled out several bottles, tubes, and tubs, and lined them up within reach.
Brushes and sponges followed, along with makeup remover, brush cleaner, and a pack of baby wipes.
I’d just pulled a collapsible ring light out of my backpack and was plugging it in when the band finally arrived.
One by one they poured through the door, noise swelling to fill the previously quiet room. Thump and Ghost made a beeline for the food, apparently not sharing their bandmates’ concerns, while Riff pulled an acoustic guitar from a case in the corner and sank into one of the armchairs.
Bodhi entered last, always somehow a step behind everyone else, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Okay, boys.” Clara clapped her hands, commanding the room without even trying.
“We’ve got two hours until you’re on. I want everyone ready and dressed in ninety minutes so we can get backstage.
” She pointed at Thump. “You’re first. We need to cover the landmark on your neck, and if you’re in the chair, you’re less likely to run off somewhere and fornicate. ”
Thump groaned and approached the folding chair like a condemned man heading to the gallows. Ghost pulled on his Bose headphones. Riff started plucking at his guitar. Mick settled back with his e-reader.
And then there was Bodhi.
Perched on the edge of an armchair, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the water bottle in his hands.
Except he wasn’t seeing it. I’d found him like that a few times back at the Willow—in the far corner of the library, on our favourite bench in the garden—folded in on himself and lost so deep in his head it was like he’d forgotten the world around him.
Everyone else knew what they needed to do to get ready for a show.
Bodhi clearly didn’t. Before rehab, his pre-show ritual probably looked different.
A drink. A line. Something to smooth the edges.
Now all of that was gone, and he looked .
. . untethered. Like his hands didn’t know where to go without the wrong thing in them.
When it came to doing their makeup, I hoped Clara didn’t leave him until last. He needed something to do. Something to keep his mind from going to dark places.
Thump flopped into the chair with a melodramatic sigh, flashing me a cheeky grin. “Hey, hot stuff,” he purred.
Ah. So he was the resident flirt. It made sense.
Shortest guy in the band, bright blond hair, and a face wholesome enough to be in a Milky Bar ad.
He clearly overcompensated by fucking his way through the tour.
I wasn’t sure who in the band was queer and who wasn’t, but based on the look Thump was giving me, alive, breathing, and of legal age summed up his sexuality.
“Alright, little drummer boy,” I said. “What am I doing with you today?”
Thump slung an arm over the back of the chair, legs spread wide. “Anything you want, baby. I’m an equal opportunity lover.”
And there it was. Confirmation. Not that I needed it.
A packet of crisps whipped through the air and cracked him across the side of the head. He squawked and glared around the room. Bodhi stared back, unimpressed. “Stop harassing him.”
“I wasn’t harassing him!” Thump protested, chucking the packet back, where it landed on the floor between Bodhi’s feet.
“You were a step away from pulling your dick out just in case your flirting wasn’t obvious enough,” Mick said without looking up from his e-reader.
I caught Thump’s chin between my fingers and gently turned his face towards me, giving him my sweetest, most saccharine smile. “As flattering as your offer might be—and trust me, you weren’t subtle—I’m not interested in sleeping with a colleague.”
His eyes went comically wide. “O-okay.”
The others snickered. When I stole a glance at Bodhi, he had that soft, barely there grin I’d become addicted to pulling out of him.
“Tick tock, love,” I said, letting go of Thump. “Either tell me what you want, or I’m making you look like an extra member of KISS for funsies.”
“Just eyeliner,” he blurted. “And Clara says this needs covering.” He pointed at the massive purple bruise on his throat.
“Yeah, that’s gotta go.” I leaned in, examining the monstrosity. “How’d they get it to look like Texas?”
Someone snorted, and Bodhi muttered, “That’s what I said.”
It took twenty minutes to finish with Thump.
Five for a few dashes of concealer and some artfully messy eyeliner, and fifteen to deal with the hickey without making it look like I’d just painted over it with tempera—though Clara claimed anything was better than the “hack job” she’d done last night. Her words, not mine.
“Okay, and . . .” I wiped away a stray smudge of black “You’re done.”
Thump leapt from the chair and strode towards Ghost. He yanked off his bandmate’s headphones, whispered something, and the two disappeared together.
“Who’s next?” I asked no one in particular.
“Me.”
I nearly levitated out of my skin. Bodhi stood behind me, hands shoved in his pockets, head tilted, smirking.
“Christ,” I hissed, swatting his shoulder. “Warn a guy when you’re planning to sneak up on him.”
“But then it wouldn’t be sneaking, would it?”