Chapter 5 #3
Considering I hadn’t worked professionally in a while, especially not solo and not at this scale, I could admit it: I’d done pretty damn well.
I knew not every night would run this smoothly.
Schedules would get tight, emergencies would pop up, someone would smudge eyeliner at the last second. But tonight? Tonight I was proud.
“Hey,” I called out, and all five heads turned towards me. I held up my phone. “Mind if I get a picture? To send to Sasha?”
“Fuck yeah,” Riff said immediately. “We can all flip her off for ditching us.”
“I wouldn’t put ‘having a baby’ in the same category as ditching,” Mick added dryly.
“At least we got a hot replacement,” Thump said, tossing me an over-the-top wink.
“Two minutes before we move,” Clara warned. “Strike your pose, idiots.”
I opened the camera app and lifted the phone, thumb hovering over the button, only for Bodhi to frown.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Uh, taking a photo?”
“Get over here,” he said. “You’re in it too.”
My mouth dropped open, and a squeak escaped. Like, an actual squeak.
“Yeah, come on, Iggs,” Riff said, beckoning me over.
“We look this good because of you,” Ghost added. “You gotta be in it.”
“I-I uh—”
“One minute,” Clara cut in. She snatched my phone, smacked my ass, and pointed. “Move it, newbie.”
I walked over in a daze, and the group shifted automatically, making space for me in the centre like this was a VIP fan photo. My pulse tripped. This was the kind of thing people paid good money for, and here I was getting it for free.
“Ready?” Clara said.
Everyone called back their agreement.
Then Bodhi’s hand wrapped around my waist. He leaned in close enough that his breath brushed my ear, and a shiver raced down my spine so fast I felt it in my toes.
“Smile, Iggy Pop,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through my skull. “You did good.”
“Everyone say ‘Noctis!’” Clara ordered like a tired school photographer.
“Noctis!”
She tapped the screen several times, and then the moment was over.
The guys headed towards the side of the stage just as the support band wrapped their set.
I hung back for a second, scrolling through the photos.
I picked the best one—one where everyone’s eyes were actually open—and sent it to Sasha and Gloria.
Gloria replied with a single thumbs-up emoji, because she was completely useless with anything technology adjacent. Sasha followed seconds later.
Sasha:
They look amazing! Knew you could do it, boo.
Me:
Thanks for believing in me.
Sasha:
Always. Love you, Iggs xoxo
I opened the photo again and zoomed in on Bodhi and me. We were both smiling. Like, really smiling. His head was tipped towards mine, resting lightly against it, his hand curled around my hip. And I was leaning into him, just a fraction, but enough that the camera caught it.
We never took pictures in rehab, because no phones allowed. The only proof I had that he and I had ever existed in the same orbit were the photos of my art on Bodhi’s face Darren had printed from our art therapy sessions.
But now I had a new one. A real moment of the two of us together. A damn good one too.
And despite everything we’d been through, individually and together . . . we looked happy.
I shoved my phone into my pocket as the support band left the stage. They exchanged a few words with the boys from Noctis before fleeing towards their own green room to relax. Probably have a drink. Maybe a smoke. Maybe a joi—
“Ready to watch the show?” Clara asked, appearing out of nowhere. The woman moved like she existed in multiple places at once. There, gone, and back again, always on the verge of nagging someone into submission.
“Hell yeah,” I replied, watching Dylan hand Bodhi a microphone.
Beyond the wings, the crowd’s chants echoed through the arena. French, English, and sheer, untamed excitement. Even if I couldn’t make out every word, the mood was thick enough to choke on.
These boys were loved.
The five of them formed a tight circle, arms slung over shoulders. I leaned in just enough to catch Bodhi’s voice over the backstage noise.
“I think I said everything I needed to last night,” he began. “But tonight’s our last one in Paris before Amsterdam, so let’s get on that stage and give the French a good fucking show.”
The others cheered and stacked their hands in the centre. Bodhi inhaled to finish the pep talk, but Riff cut him off. “To me, to you, and the French girls who scream ‘Sacre bleu!’”
There was a beat of stunned silence, then they exploded into laughter, throwing their hands up with a shout.
“Sacre bleu!”
Then they were gone, swallowed by the blackness of the stage. The crowd seemed to sense what was coming, and silence fell like a curtain. Eerie, unnatural. If I’d dropped a pin, it would’ve echoed like a gunshot.
Suddenly, a soft, mournful violin note cut through the dark, and a warm spotlight bloomed over Ghost. His black violin glinted as he swayed, coaxing the melody into the air.
A low, thrumming bass joined him, another spotlight revealing Mick.
Thump followed with gentle taps to his cymbals, so delicate it barely fit him, and a third light flooded his elevated kit.
Then the guitar hit. Heavy and commanding. Riff’s head was thrown back when the spotlight caught him, making him look like he was born for his space on the stage.
And everything stopped.
Darkness swallowed the stage again, just for a breath.
Then a final spotlight ignited.
Bodhi stood alone at the front of the stage, arm raised to the heavens like a fallen god begging to be worshipped. The arena froze, every breath held hostage.
“Bonjour, Paris,” he purred into the mic, tilting his head forward to survey the audience. His smirk was wicked, hungry. And in that single second, I knew I wasn’t looking at Just Bodhi anymore.
This was Bodhi Hart. Lead singer of Noctis. An incubus onstage. Devourer of devotion.
And he was fucking hot.
“We are Noctis,” he announced, smooth and wicked. “And tonight . . .” He paused, letting the tension coil around the crowd. His smirk deepened. “Tonight, you’re ours.”
The crowd detonated, and Bodhi lowered his arm, slow and theatrical, like dropping the blade of a guillotine.
“Let us hear you scream!”
And then the lights exploded, the band launched in, and the arena went fucking feral.
For the next ninety minutes, I couldn’t tear my eyes off Bodhi. He owned every inch of that stage, leaping, growling into the mic, hair soaked as if he’d showered in his own sweat. He didn’t just endure the intensity, he fed on it, and I snorted when he shook his head like a drenched puppy.
My mind drifted, unbidden, to rehab. To the day he confessed that performing made him feel seen. And I realised: I was lucky enough to see him now too.
But not just the rock star, all swagger and sin. I saw the man behind the mask. The one with fragile edges and quiet fears. The boy who worried sobriety made him boring. The guy who adored his mum, never knew his dad, and tried, every damn day, not to fuck up his progress.
Knowing all that made something in my chest twist. I wanted to walk right onto the stage. Not to perform, because that wasn’t who I was anymore, but to stand beside him.
To tell him plainly, “I see you, Bodhi.”
And I just wished, for his sake, that could be enough.