Resonance

Chapter 8

CHAPTER

EIGHT

IGGY

The Amsterdam show came and went, and before I’d even caught my breath, we were bundled onto the tour bus and rolling towards Berlin.

Clara and I stayed with the band since it was only one night on the road, while Dylan and the rest of the crew followed separately once the gear was packed away.

With seven of us squeezed into the bus, space was .

. . theoretical at best. I felt a flicker of guilt for Clara, stuck in close quarters with six guys, but given how long she’d been doing this job, I figured she’d survived worse.

By the time we boarded, I was beyond exhausted. I face-planted into one of the lower bunks without checking who was above or opposite me and was asleep before my cheek fully met the pillow.

Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep for long.

The drive took just over seven hours, and I ended up tossing and turning until we pulled up outside the hotel we’d be calling home for the next five days.

The bunks were about as comfortable as I imagined tour bus beds ever got, but being folded into a space barely larger than a coffin had done my hip no favours.

The stiffness I’d joked about when we arrived had sharpened into something persistent.

I spent most of the first day in bed, alternating ice packs and heat pads like it was a full-time job.

Even after soaking in the oversized tub and stretching across the suite floor, the ache refused to loosen its grip.

There was an easy solution. A painkiller would’ve had me back on my feet, wandering tourist hotspots by lunchtime. But painkillers were what had kicked off my downward spiral. The very thing that landed me in rehab.

Now, I even hesitated over paracetamol. Back home, Gloria would dispense whatever I needed like a pharmacist with a clipboard, or I’d grit my teeth and wait it out. Usually, the ice and heat were enough. After seven hours curled into myself on a bus, they barely made a dent.

I was pretty sure Clara would have something if I asked. But I worried she’d hand me the whole box. And I worried that asking her to give me only one would raise questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

So instead, I leaned on my brand-new sobriety pact with Bodhi.

Me:

I need help.

His reply came almost instantly, and the thought that I might’ve scared him made my chest tighten.

Bodhi:

What’s wrong?

Are you okay?

Do I need to call someone?

I could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve lied. But there were two words that mattered more than anything in recovery.

Me:

I’m safe.

I’d barely started explaining when his response popped up.

Bodhi:

Thank fuck.

Me:

My hip’s killing me, and my usual methods aren’t working.

Bodhi:

What do you need?

I sighed.

It would’ve been easy to say Oxy. Easy to reach for the version of myself that chased numbness and chemical relief. The one who swallowed pills and chased strangers because feeling something was better than feeling nothing.

But that wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore.

I was sober. I had a job. I was building connections that weren’t transactional or destructive. I was still learning this new version of myself, and I didn’t want to ruin it before it had a chance to stick.

Me:

I need painkillers, but my roommate used to dispense them for me, and asking Clara feels weird.

Bodhi:

Give me five minutes.

That made me frown.

I was halfway out of bed to grab a fresh ice pack when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Bodhi standing there in a T-shirt and gym shorts, hair damp, skin flushed.

“You’re sweaty,” I observed.

He shrugged, looping a towel around his neck. “I was in the gym with Thump and Riff.”

He stepped inside and perched on the edge of my bed, pulling out his phone. “Are you okay with Tylenol?”

I frowned. “That’s paracetamol, right?”

“I think so. It’s an over-the-counter painkiller.”

“Then yeah.”

When I sat beside him, I noticed he was texting Clara.

“What are you doing?” I asked, worrying the edge of my thumb between my teeth.

“Telling her I’ve got a headache and to bring meds to your room.”

“Won’t she think it’s weird you’re here?”

He smiled, easy and reassuring. “Nah. I came to check on you after your first night on the bus. Headache just happened while I was here.”

I snorted. “Tragic. Shame I don’t have medicine for you.”

He laughed. “You make me laugh. Best medicine there is.”

I shoved his shoulder. “That was appallingly cheesy.”

He opened his mouth to fire back, but a knock interrupted him. I moved to stand, and he placed a warm, steady hand on my thigh.

“You’re hurting,” he said quietly. “Stay.”

He crossed the room and opened the door to Clara, who held a red box of what I guessed was Tylenol.

“You’ve got a headache?” she asked.

“Just a mild one,” Bodhi replied, rubbing his forehead. “Too little sleep. Too much gym.”

She stepped inside, smiling at me. “How was your first night on the bus?”

“I don’t remember it,” I said.

She laughed, popping open the box. “Yeah, you were out cold. You’ll adjust to the long days.”

She turned back to Bodhi. “Want me to pop out two?”

He nodded, and she placed the pills in his palm.

“I should probably watch you take them,” she added.

“Clara, I—”

“I’ll make sure he does,” I cut in quickly. “Might feel less awkward since I don’t know him as well.”

She hesitated, eyes flicking between us. For a heartbeat, I wondered if she could see through us. If she’d worry I was a risk to Bodhi’s sobriety.

What she didn’t know was that this entire dance was for me.

After a moment, she nodded and let it go. I didn’t let myself breathe properly until the door clicked shut behind her. And only then did I realise my hands were shaking.

Bodhi crossed the room to the minibar and grabbed a bottle of water. Neither of us commented on the conspicuous lack of alcohol, and I didn’t mention that I’d waited until the lobby was empty before asking reception to clear it out.

After I took the pills, I shuffled higher up the bed and sank back into the pillows with a contented sigh.

It was probably psychosomatic, but I could’ve sworn the tight grip around my hip was already beginning to ease.

My eyes drifted closed, and when I opened them again, Bodhi was watching me with something soft and unreadable in his expression.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I asked. The clock on the wall read just after four, and I had no idea what the rest of Noctis were up to.

Bodhi crossed his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I thought maybe . . .” He ducked his head, though I didn’t miss the faint pink creeping into his cheeks. “We could hang out. If you want.”

My mouth split into a grin. I flung my arms wide and shifted to the right side of the bed, patting the empty space. “I’m all yours, Just Bodhi. Saddle up, partner.”

He laughed, dropping the towel from his neck onto the dresser beneath the wall-mounted TV. “I’ll get your bed all sweaty.”

“I love it when a bed gets all sweaty,” I shot back, squealing when he jabbed me in the ribs.

“You’re terrible, Iggy Pop.”

Bodhi stretched out beside me, our bodies aligned from shoulder to toe, close enough that there wasn’t a single inch of space between us.

He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and turned on the TV, then unlocked his phone.

A few taps later, the animated show playing on his screen appeared on the TV instead.

“Why are we watching cartoons?” I asked.

“It’s not cartoons, it’s anime,” he grumbled, and I had the distinct sense he was pouting.

An American-accented voice filled the room, and a red-haired guy holding a skateboard appeared on screen. “What’s it about?”

I yawned and rested my head against Bodhi’s shoulder, the lingering exhaustion catching up to me now that my body had finally relaxed. He lifted his arm and draped it around me, letting me settle in more comfortably.

“It’s called Sk8 the Infinity,” he said. “It’s about this group of skaters who compete in secret races. Then this new guy shows up—he used to be a snowboarder—and he ends up being super good.”

I knew I should’ve been watching the screen, but I stole a glance at Bodhi instead.

He was more animated than I’d ever seen him, smiling without realising it as he talked through the characters and the story.

It was pretty fucking adorable, watching a man who looked like a god onstage get this excited about a Japanese cartoon.

I forced my attention back to the TV. “Sounds like you’ve seen this before.”

“A couple of times,” he said, clearing his throat before mumbling, “It’s my favourite.”

I grinned and curled further into his side just as a blue-haired guy wiped out spectacularly on a skateboard while his red-haired friend laughed his ass off.

“Then I can’t wait to love it too.”

I couldn’t see Bodhi’s face, but the way he squeezed my side told me everything I needed to know.

He was happy.

Day two was another day off. For me, at least. The boys had a packed schedule over the next forty-eight hours: a fan meet-and-greet in a pop-up shop crammed with exclusive merch today, then a photoshoot and radio interview tomorrow.

After that, it was two shows back to back before hauling ass to Prague for a single night.

I only had to do the guys’ makeup before the meet-and-greet, and once that was done, I was free as a bird.

I lingered in the shop for a while, watching them pose for photos and chat with fans.

It was strangely entertaining, seeing people squeal and trip over themselves just to exist within arm’s reach of the band.

When you liked a celebrity enough, it was easy to forget they were just normal people underneath the stage lights and curated mystique.

After a quick lunch break, I ditched the boys and wandered Berlin at my own pace.

My hip felt better after a proper night’s sleep in a real bed.

I hadn’t taken any more Tylenol, sticking to ice packs and heat pads instead while Bodhi and I burned through more episodes of his favourite anime.

We’d made it eight episodes deep and ordered room service before we both started drifting off, and he’d left with a sleepy, soft “goodnight” that still made my chest feel warm hours later.

I’d just had my photo taken at Checkpoint Charlie when my phone rang. Bodhi’s name flashed across the screen.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, um . . .” He trailed off, and my brows knit together.

“Bodhi—”

“The guys wanna go to the KitKatClub tonight.”

“And you want to go?”

“I mean, I guess?” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve really hung out with them between shows, and . . .”

“And you miss them,” I finished.

“Yes,” he sighed. “And I know it’s probably a bad idea.”

That felt like an understatement. I didn’t know exactly what the KitKatClub was, but judging by the band’s track record, it was almost certainly a club, and clubs weren’t exactly sober-friendly environments.

Still, I understood where he was coming from.

Bodhi was used to unwinding with his bandmates, and the list of things he could comfortably do with them had shrunk drastically since he got clean.

“Riff doesn’t want me to go,” he added quietly.

“But you do.”

“I just want to be there,” he said, frustration creeping in.

“I don’t want everyone making concessions for me all the time.

I want to walk into a club, not drink, not take anything, and still enjoy myself with my friends.

I want us to have a good time without knowing it was planned around my recovery. ”

“Are you worried?” I asked, because it felt like the right thing to do.

“Yes, but . . .” He hesitated, and I knew what was coming.

“But?”

“Iggy, will you . . . will you come with us?”

There it was.

“Clara’s coming too,” he rushed on. “There’ll be a few of us. You and I can stick to the dance floor or the smoking area, and if it gets hard, we’ll leave. Straight back to the hotel. Food. Decompressing.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exhaling slowly.

Every instinct told me it was a bad idea. The temptation would be everywhere. Loud music, bodies pressed close, substances passed hand to hand. It would be easy to slip, easy to disappear into the moment and take ten steps backwards before we even realised it.

But we wouldn’t be alone. We’d have each other. Extra vigilance. Extra care. The guys already knew about Bodhi’s recovery, so it wouldn’t just be on me to keep an eye out. And if I faltered . . . I trusted that Bodhi would steady me, just like I would him.

Hopefully.

“Please, Iggy?” he said quietly. “If you’re with me, I’ll feel safe. Like it’ll be okay. Because of our pact.”

I closed my eyes and tightened my grip on the phone. We couldn’t hide forever. At some point, we had to step back into the world and trust ourselves to survive it. Maybe this was exposure therapy on hard mode. Maybe if we made it through tonight, the rest of the tour wouldn’t feel so daunting.

I exhaled, the decision already tumbling from my mouth before I could second-guess it.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Bodhi echoed, relief flooding his voice. “Okay, great. I’ll tell you the details when we get back to the hotel.”

“Sure,” I said, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. “See you later.”

“Bye, Iggy Pop.”

The line went dead. I kept walking until I found a narrow alley where I could stop and breathe, letting my heart settle back into my chest. Once I felt steady enough, I pulled out my phone and opened a browser.

KitKatClub Berlin.

I barely made it past the first page before my eyebrows shot up towards my hairline.

A fetish club.

Okay. Also a nightclub. A very famous one. But the photos were . . . something else. Leather straps. Fishnets. Harnesses. Bodies wearing next to nothing. Some wearing absolutely nothing at all. And no one looked remotely fazed by it.

My mouth curled into a slow smile.

I opened a new tab and searched for clothing shops nearby.

By the time I left the alley I had a mission, and a credit card that was about to suffer dearly.