Chapter 5 #2
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t tease me, Just Bodhi. Sit.”
He obeyed, dropping into the chair, stiff as a board. His shoulders were high enough to graze his ears. After our earlier chat, I knew the tension wasn’t about me. He just needed something, anything, to drag him out of his thoughts.
“What can I do for you today, sir?”
He pushed a hand through his unstyled hair, the strands falling right back across his forehead. “Uh . . . a smoky eye, I guess. And something to hide the bags.”
I nodded and grabbed a colour-correcting concealer. “Right. So, more gothic shadow daddy, less tired emo boy.”
Bodhi blinked. “The fuck is a shadow daddy?”
Riff barked out a laugh. “The moody, broody guy in books who fucks women with shadow tentacles. Chicks dig it.”
Bodhi and I both turned to stare at him.
“How do you know what a shadow daddy is?” I asked.
Riff shrugged, still strumming. “I’ve read smut before. I’m cultured.”
“As cultured as bacteria,” Bodhi deadpanned.
Riff flipped him the bird and went back to playing, and I turned my attention to Bodhi.
“Ready?”
He nodded, and I got to work. We fell into silence. Not awkward, not heavy. Just . . . easy. I watched the stiffness gradually bleed out of his shoulders as I primed his eyelids, preparing them for the black shadow I planned to lay down.
A glance around the room told me Riff and Mick were busy, Thump and Ghost were still MIA, and Clara had vanished to continue her crusade of keeping a multi-city tour from collapsing into chaos.
“This takes me back,” I murmured, softly blending the black pigment into the crease of Bodhi’s eyelid.
He sat perfectly still, as if carved from marble. Like something you’d see in the Louvre if they specialised in beautiful, emotionally complicated rock stars.
“At least this time,” he said, “I know you’re not threatening me when you talk about beating my face.”
I huffed out a laugh, using a baby wipe to brush away a light dusting of black powder from his cheek. “This face is too pretty to punch.” I tapped his cheek with the handle of my brush. “Though I’ll admit, I was tempted when you pretended not to know me.”
“I would’ve deserved it,” he muttered, a small crease forming between his brows.
I smoothed it with my fingertip. “Water under the bridge,” I whispered.
When Bodhi opened his eyes, I sucked in a breath. His irises were shockingly blue, like oceans caught in a storm, and for one reckless moment, I was drowning. His warm breath ghosted across my lips, and that’s when I realised that I’d leaned in much, much closer than necessary to apply eyeshadow.
Clearing my throat, I snapped upright and tucked a strand of pink hair behind my ear. Bodhi’s cheeks had gone faintly red; he bit his lower lip as he watched me dig through my kit for a yellow concealer. My fingers fumbled, overeager, and the bottle slipped from my grip.
“Fuck,” I hissed, bending to grab it.
Unfortunately, Bodhi bent at the same time, and our heads collided with a dull thunk. I landed on my ass, mortified.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“Shit, are you okay?” Bodhi crouched in front of me, hand outstretched like he wasn’t sure whether to help or cradle my skull.
“Try not to kill the new MUA on his first day,” Riff called without looking up, and Bodhi rolled his eyes.
I slid my hand into his and let him pull me up. “Sorry about that,” I said, laughing too loudly, too brightly, trying to brush off the embarrassment prickling up my neck.
“How’s your head?” he asked, voice threaded with real concern.
“Never had any complaints.” I added an exaggerated wink for good measure.
His expression flattened. “You’re despicable.”
I cackled, leaning in again—at a respectable distance this time—with the concealer. “Look up.”
He obeyed, eyes lifting to the ceiling as I dabbed the product beneath them with my fingertip.
Silence settled again, still not heavy, but weighted in a different way.
Familiar. Intimate. Painting his face like this tugged me back to the Willow.
To our weekly art therapy sessions where he’d sit quietly while I experimented with designs, shapes, and colours.
Where he let me turn his face into whatever my imagination conjured, trusting me to create something beautiful.
And now here we were again, same closeness, same quiet, same unspoken thing between us.
“Do you ever miss it?” The quiet question slipped out before I could stop it.
Bodhi’s gaze flicked to mine, then back to the ceiling. “Rehab?”
I hummed in confirmation and swapped the yellow concealer for one that matched his skin tone. I added a thin layer under his eye before blending it out with a sponge.
“Sometimes,” he murmured. “I miss the safety, I think. The easiness of it all.”
I froze, sponge pressed against his cheekbone. He didn’t usually speak in paragraphs, and I was scared that if I breathed too loudly, moved too quickly, he’d retreat back into his shell.
“In rehab, there were no temptations,” he said.
“I didn’t have to worry about what I’d do if someone offered me a drink.
Or whether I’d even want to say no if someone passed round a joint.
” His chest sagged with a sigh, and the heaviness of his words settled somewhere deep in me. Too familiar. Too close.
“Out here, it’s different,” he went on. “I’m worried about what people will think if they find out I’m a recovering addict—what the fans will think.
And . . . am I the boring one now? Because I can’t drink or party without risking everything again?
And what about the band? Are they supposed to stop having fun because of me? ”
His hand curled into a fist in his lap.
“It’s just hard, you know? In rehab, none of that mattered. We had counsellors on the bad days. We had structure, distractions . . .” His voice hitched. “And I had—”
He bit down on the rest, stopping himself.
But I knew exactly what he meant to say. God, I knew.
I had you.
I reached out, carefully, like I was approaching a skittish animal, and placed my hand over his.
Bodhi’s fingers immediately curled around mine.
He didn’t lift his gaze, but the way his grip tightened told me everything.
He needed the contact. Needed something solid while the storm churned inside his head.
“You’re not boring,” I whispered, squeezing his hand. “And these guys obviously adore you. They’d move mountains to keep you healthy. Safe.”
He let out a low noise, halfway between disbelief and resignation. I didn’t let it stop me.
“I’m not a therapist,” I went on. “Hell, six months ago my best advice would’ve been to crack open some wine, pop a pill, and fuck the pain away.”
Bodhi snorted, quiet, genuine, and finally looked at me.
“I know how you’re feeling, Just Bodhi,” I said softly. “And maybe it’s not convenient that I’m here, but I’m glad fate shoved us back together. When shit gets hard, I’m glad I’ve still got you.” His mouth pulled into the widest grin I’d seen on him in ages, something bright and startling.
“Thanks, Iggy Pop,” he said, using the nickname he’d teased me with back at the Willow. Hearing it again made something warm swell up inside me. I wanted to pull him into a hug, kiss his cheek, tell him he wasn’t alone.
But that would’ve been too much. Too intimate for two people who were supposed to barely know each other. Too revealing. And I wasn’t ready to give the game away yet.
So I settled for flashing him a wry smile and my middle finger.
Then I went back to painting his face like nothing had changed, while somehow, everything had.
When everyone’s makeup was finally done, I helped them with their hair if they needed it, straightening collars, fixing a few stubborn curls, and making sure each of them looked stage ready.
There was a lot of black. A lot of leather.
But when they stood together in the green room under the fluorescent lights, I understood exactly why they had the following they did.
Individually, they were hot. As a group? They were a weapon. A cohesive wall of sex, swagger, and attitude ready to storm a stage and own it.
I’d be lying if I said Bodhi wasn’t attractive on a normal day.
Anyone with functioning eyes would notice that.
But in his stage gear? Fuck. Shadow daddies could never.
His hair was clipped short on the sides, longer on top, slicked back with pomade except for a few rebellious strands that fell forward to brush that razor-sharp jaw.
The dark makeup around his eyes added the perfect amount of drama, making him look like the kind of unreal, too-beautiful model Pinterest kept trying to convince me wasn’t AI generated.
His outfit wasn’t even complicated: ripped black jeans, battered Docs, and a sleeveless leather vest crusted with studs and zips. But on him, it all came together like he’d stepped straight out of some rock-god fever dream.
Fans of all genders would be clawing at security for the chance to climb onstage and lick sweat off that man’s ridiculously tattooed skin.
His chest, arms, ribs . . . covered. A butterfly in the middle of his chest, a dragon curling around his ribs, a compass on one arm, a dagger on the other, flowers woven between.
Vines trailed over his collarbones and up his throat like they were trying to claim him.
There was hardly an inch of him left untouched by black ink, and I caught myself wondering if his legs were the same under the jeans.
“They look good, huh?” Clara said, arms folded as she surveyed the guys’ final checks. Well, she was watching; I was straight up ogling.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “They do.”
“You did a great job, Iggy.” Her manicured hand settled on my shoulder. “Sasha was right to recommend you.”
I snapped my head towards her, and the smile of approval she gave me nearly inflated my entire rib cage. I wanted to preen like some ridiculous, fancy bird.