Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
IGGY
Who knew sober fun could actually be . . . fun? I wasn’t sure if it was the activities themselves or the fact I got to do them with Bodhi, but we ended up having a genuinely great time.
Our first stop was a museum full of optical illusions, upside-down rooms, and far too many selfie stations.
Bodhi willingly took photos of me posing in a fake train carriage, sinking into a giant neon ball pit that looked like a swimming pool, and on the steps of a pink private jet that gave off Barbie on acid vibes.
Then, under the excuse that the label would want fresh content for Noctis’s Instagram, he surprised me by posing for a few himself.
By the time we stumbled back outside, we were starving, so we devoured frikandel and bitterballen and took more pictures with stroopwafels bigger than our faces. From there we rented a tandem bike, which turned out to be a mistake, since I . . . did not know how to ride a bike.
Given that my dad was a Conservative MP and my mum was the CFO of an international bank chain, they weren’t exactly the sort of parents who’d taught their children normal childhood things.
My brother, Jethro, and I were raised by a nanny who’d had two replaced hips and the mobility of a Victorian ghost, but I like to assume she would’ve taught us if she physically could.
Anyway, people rode bikes everywhere in London. I’d watched them for years, and it looked simple enough. So, once I convinced Bodhi to give the tandem a go, I climbed onto the front seat with the blind optimism of someone who clearly didn’t value his own life.
Shockingly, it was not simple. At all.
“Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t ride a bike?!” Bodhi screeched from behind me as we swerved like a drunken cartoon character.
A car honked on our left. I jolted so hard the entire bike jerked towards the vehicle. “I didn’t think it mattered!”
“It definitely matters!” he yelped as we narrowly dodged a pedestrian who shouted at us in Dutch. “If I’d sat up front, we might’ve lived to see another year!”
At one point, we hit a curb, bounced into the air, and I genuinely thought we had died. Bodhi shouted something that sounded like a prayer and clutched my waist like I was the last life raft on the Titanic.
By the time we returned the bike, I was sweating like I’d run a marathon and Bodhi looked paler than usual. He made me promise never to operate anything with wheels ever again, and looked relieved when I admitted I didn’t have a driving license.
We ducked into a cat-themed museum next—an absolute wet dream for Gloria—and I bought her a fridge magnet of a fluffy orange cat playing piano and smoking a cigarette.
“Are you a cat person?” Bodhi asked as I paid.
“Not really. My roommate is obsessed, though.” I took the paper bag from the cashier and slipped it into my pocket. “I’m not anti-cat or anything, but I think I’m more of a dog guy.”
“I never had a pet growing up,” Bodhi mused as we strolled towards the Red Light District. Seeing sex workers leaning out of glowing windows felt like an Amsterdam rite of passage I couldn’t skip.
“My mom and I had this tiny-ass apartment,” he went on. “Barely enough space for the two of us, let alone a dog. But there was a dog park a few blocks from our building. Riff and I used to sit there for hours begging people to let us pet their dogs.”
I laughed. “So you and Riff have known each other forever?”
Bodhi shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark denim jacket, and I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow. He glanced down at the contact but didn’t pull away.
“Yeah,” he said. “His mom and mine went to high school together. They’re best friends, so we were around each other a lot.”
“Two best friends in a pod.”
“Oh, fuck no,” he said, grinning. “I hated him at first.”
“No way.” I glanced up at him with a grin, the streetlights along the canal throwing half his face into soft shadow.
“Yep. He was a mouthy little fucker and always stole my Yu-Gi-Oh cards.”
I cackled. “What a douche.”
“Absolutely,” Bodhi smirked. “But then he got a PlayStation for Christmas, and I got to play it first.” He sighed as though disappointed. “Couldn’t stay mad after that.”
“Boys are so easy to please.”
He laughed and glanced at me. “What about you?” he asked.
I frowned. “What about me?”
“We never talked about this stuff in rehab. Tell me about your friends.”
“I, uh . . .” I twisted a strand of hair around my finger, heat creeping up my neck.
“I’ve got Gloria—my roommate. The cat lover.
But she’s in her fifties, and since I’m paying rent, she kind of has to tolerate me.
” I winced at how pathetic that sounded.
“And there’s Sasha, but she’s in LA, so I barely see her anymore. ”
I tipped my head back, letting the cool night air wash over me. The stars glimmered in a way I never saw through London’s smog, and I tried to count them, hoping the numbers might calm my racing heart.
“I always had someone to go out with. Before rehab, I mean.” The words spilled out in a rush, like they were escaping a locked cell.
My brain begged me to shut the fuck up, but my mouth wasn’t cooperating.
“There was always someone ready to party or fuck or whatever, but they weren’t friends.
Not the kind you call when a pipe bursts or you get hit by a car. ”
I glanced sideways and caught Bodhi watching me. “So . . . yeah. Twenty-seven, and I’ve basically got no friends.” I forced a tight smile and let out a small, self-mocking laugh. “Pretty pathetic, right?”
Bodhi stopped walking so abruptly that I nearly stumbled. When he slipped his arm out of mine, my stomach dropped. Shit. Had I said too much? Dumped too much of my mess on him?
I opened my mouth to apologise, but then his hand found mine. He laced our fingers together and kept walking, tugging me gently along the cobbled street like nothing had happened.
“You do have someone, Iggy,” he said, his voice low and certain.
I peeked up through my lashes and found him looking back at me with a soft smile. One of those smiles he only ever seemed to save for me.
“You’ve got me.”
My throat tightened. “W-what?”
We wandered over the Red Light District’s threshold, the warm streetlights bleeding into crimson. On anyone else it would’ve looked menacing—demonic, even—but on Bodhi, the glow made him look like he did onstage. Powerful, striking . . . otherworldly.
“You’ve got me as long as you want me,” he murmured.
A small, helpless smile tugged at my mouth. “At least for the next twelve weeks.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Let’s get through the tour, and then we’ll see what happens after.”
I squeezed his hand and leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. The spice-and-sandalwood scent of his aftershave filled my lungs, and the knot in my stomach finally loosened.
Eyes closed, I let out a slow, contented breath. Letting him guide me forward, I trusted he wouldn’t lead me anywhere I couldn’t follow.
“I’m glad I’ve got you, Just Bodhi.”
And I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard him whisper, soft as a secret, “Always, Iggy Pop.”
We ended up touring the Museum of Prostitution, which was . . . enlightening. I left wanting a pair of thigh-high leather boots and with a mental shopping list of sex toys to buy the minute I got back to London.
“I won’t lie,” I said as I dragged Bodhi across the road towards the Lebanese restaurant we’d picked for dinner. “If I had my own place, there’d absolutely be a circular bed, a heart-shaped bath, and a sex dungeon in the cellar.”
“Are cellars common in Central London?” he asked with a teasing grin, not even blinking at my architectural plans for debauchery.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. A loft. A sex loft.”
“Bit cramped for a dungeon.”
“It won’t matter when I’m on my back,” I shot back, sticking my tongue out.
“Or your front.” He bumped my shoulder and waggled his eyebrows.
A vivid image slammed into my brain—me, face down, ass up, Bodhi railing me in my imaginary sex dungeon. My cheeks flamed and I immediately stared at my shoes. “You’re ridiculous,” I muttered, giving his arm a half-hearted shove.
Bodhi slung an arm around my neck and reeled me in. Earlier, the scent of his aftershave had been comforting. Now it was halfway to giving me a semi.
“And you,” he said, voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Are a bad influence.”
A shiver crawled down my spine, and I mentally slapped myself. This was Bodhi. My friend. My rock-star friend. My incredibly attractive rock-star friend who filled out tight jeans like a sin. Christ. The whole city reeked of sex and lust, and apparently, I was overdue for a distraction.
“Let’s eat,” I blurted, stepping out of his hold, grateful we’d finally reached the restaurant. “I’m fucking starving.”
I opened the door for him and swept my arm out like a butler greeting royalty.
“Age before beauty.”
Bodhi smacked the side of my thigh as he passed and held a tattooed finger inches from my face. “Respect your elders.”
I snorted and followed him inside. A server led us to a small table tucked at the back of the restaurant, safely removed from the bar in the centre of the room.
Alcohol was everywhere in the real world—woven into dinners, celebrations, first dates, bad days, good days.
We couldn’t exactly hide from it unless we locked ourselves in a windowless bunker.
But we could keep it at arm’s length. Sit far from the bar.
Stick together. Be each other’s safety net while we balanced on the rickety tightrope of sobriety, wobbling forward one day at a time.
And at least marijuana was confined to the city’s coffee shops, which helped a little.