Chapter 10 #2
But his expression wasn’t guarded. If anything, he looked . . . hopeful. Like he wanted me to go with him. It eased something in my chest, because this wasn’t a pity invite since I had nothing to do. He hadn’t asked out of some weird sense of obligation.
“Okay,” I said after a beat. “I’ll go.”
The photoshoot was chaos. Lights flashing, voices barking directions, assistants darting back and forth like headless chickens. But in front of the camera, Bodhi was effortless.
The shots were for a spread in RIOT, a German-based music magazine. A kind of get-to-know-you introduction. First came the shoot, then, once they wrapped, he’d sit down with the journalist in the café beneath the studio.
Wardrobe had pulled together three looks.
A leather vest and tight jeans that echoed his stage wear, an immaculately tailored black suit worn shirtless, and finally, an obscenely tight black corset for something more artsy.
Against the blood-red backdrop, every outfit only amplified Bodhi’s good looks, and I had to keep reminding myself not to openly drool.
“Ja, Bodhi, just like that,” the photographer called over the rapid click of the camera. “Chin up a little more, ja. A bit more . . . there. Sehr gut.”
He moved from pose to pose with barely any direction. Spending time with Bodhi offstage made it easy to forget he was a professional. This was his job, and fuck was he good at it. Just like when he stepped under stage lights, the person in front of me wasn’t my friend anymore.
This was Bodhi Hart, lead singer of Noctis. Someone men, women, and enbies all wanted a piece of.
And I’d been lucky enough to get a taste, even if it was only a sample.
He was in his third outfit, the corset, when he wandered over.
I’d been leaning against a white brick wall at the back of the studio, keeping out of the way.
No one seemed to mind that he’d brought me along, though the photographer had taken an alarming amount of pleasure in turning my face this way and that, complimenting my bone structure.
Still, I’d stayed tucked into my corner, watching Bodhi work.
“What do you think?” he asked.
He offered me a bottle of water he’d snagged from the catering table. Because apparently rock stars got a full spread at photoshoots. Not that I was complaining. I’d already demolished several macarons and more tiny sandwiches than I cared to admit.
“It’s a lot,” I said, twisting the cap open. “But it looks fun. And you look hot.”
He smiled, ducking his head, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.
“Favourite outfit?” he asked, gesturing to himself.
“The corset,” I said immediately. “Your waist?” I pinched my fingers together. “Chef’s kiss.”
He nudged my thigh with his foot. “What about the makeup?”
I frowned, tipping my head. “What about it?”
“You’re a makeup artist,” he shrugged. “I want your opinion. Especially since you’ve already established I’m hot.”
I laughed. “Shut up.”
He crouched in front of me, the tight trousers pulling across thighs built not from gym reps but years of throwing himself around onstage.
“Seriously,” he said. “Tell me.”
He tipped his head back to drink, and my eyes betrayed me, tracking the way his Adam’s apple moved. I forced myself to blink and meet his gaze.
“It’s nice,” I said honestly.
They’d gone with smoky black eyes and little else. Similar to what I did for shows. It worked, obviously, but for something like this . . .
“But?” he prompted.
I sighed. “I just think they could’ve gone further. Especially with the corset. They talked about an artsy vibe, and it feels like they stopped halfway.”
He didn’t frown. Didn’t bristle. He just listened.
“What would you have done?”
I pursed my lips, scanning him properly this time.
“Smudge the black out more,” I said slowly. “Add gold pigment to echo the corset accents. Not powdery gold. Liquid. Like it’s melting.”
His eyes lit up, like he could already see it. Without another word, he stood and crossed the studio to speak with the photographer. They talked briefly. Then Bodhi came back grinning.
He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
“What’s happening?”
He didn’t answer, but I took his hand anyway.
Bodhi led me to the unattended makeup table and dropped into the director’s chair, crossing one leg over the other. Then he held out his hands.
“Paint me.”
I blinked. “The fuck are you on about?”
“I told them you’re my usual makeup artist,” he said casually. “They’ve got what they need. Now we get to play.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” He gestured to the table. “Go wild. Pretend we’re in the Willow and bring your idea to life.”
Under the studio lights, his eyes practically sparkled. He’d derailed the end of a professional photoshoot just so I could experiment.
“You’re insane,” I breathed.
“Nope.” He grinned. “I’m a world-famous rock star.”
I snorted. “And this is one of the perks?”
“Exactly.”
I hesitated. “You’re sure this is okay?”
“Yep. Might even make the magazine.”
I scoffed and grabbed a blending brush. “Sure it will.”
“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re good.”
I started blending, softening the black shadow until it faded toward his brow.
“Your usual looks are pretty simple,” I said. “I could teach you if you want.”
“Wouldn’t look the same,” he replied. “Not if it wasn’t you.”
I ignored the way my chest tightened and worked on the other eye.
Once I was satisfied, I rummaged through the kit until I found a small jar of fine gold pigment and a bottle of mixing liquid. I poured a little of each onto a metal palette and stirred until it looked like molten gold.
“Perfect,” I murmured.
When I turned back to Bodhi, he was already watching me, eyes intent, curious. Then he closed them and tipped his head back, offering himself up without a word. Just like he’d done many times before.
I studied my canvas, glancing between his skin and the product, weighing my options. I wanted it messy but deliberate. Cool. Avant-garde. Not like a three-year-old discovering paint for the first time.
In the end, I ditched the brush and dipped my finger straight into the mixture.
I pressed it gently into the inner corner of his eye, leaving a small bloom of gold on his lid.
With a clean finger, I smudged the edges just enough to soften them, careful not to dull the shine or let it disappear into the black beneath.
I repeated the motion, working towards the centre, then added a smaller touch at the outer corner.
I layered until it looked wet, molten. Alive.
When I finally stepped back, the image in my head matched what I saw in front of me.
“All done.”
Bodhi opened his eyes and stared into the mirror. He didn’t speak right away, his expression unreadable as he took it in. My heart thudded against my ribs. It might’ve looked good to me, but it was his face. If he hated it, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle that.
“Iggy,” he began, and I swallowed.
Here it comes.
“I fucking love it.”
Relief hit me so hard I almost sagged. Bodhi stood and dragged me towards the photographer, who cut off his conversation with an assistant mid-sentence and slapped his cheeks dramatically, suddenly looking like the kid from Home Alone.
“Meine Güte! Bodhi, you look unglaublich.”
I didn’t know what the last word meant, but his grin said enough.
He turned to me. “This is your work?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good, right?” Bodhi said, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Think it’ll photograph well?”
“Auf jeden Fall!” The photographer herded him back towards the backdrop. “Position, bitte.”
Bodhi posed, and under the lights, the gold looked like it was melting, as though it had been poured straight onto his skin.
An idea struck me so suddenly I gasped.
“Wait!”
Every head turned.
I bolted for the makeup table, grabbed the pigment, mixing liquid, and a small spatula. I returned a few minutes later, small tub of my creation in hand.
“Would you mind if I try something?” I asked, nerves buzzing.
The photographer studied the metallic liquid, then smiled. “Natürlich.”
I joined Bodhi on the backdrop.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Just experimenting.”
He practically vibrated with excitement. It was . . . adorable. I’d never seen him like this.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Close your eyes. Head back,” I said, and he obeyed instantly. I glanced at the photographer. “You might want some close-ups.”
He adjusted his camera without complaint.
“Don’t move,” I told Bodhi.
“Promise.”
I scooped the gold onto the spatula and held it above his eye, letting it drip along his lash line. Then more. Just enough that it began to trail down his cheek like liquid tears. I repeated it on the other side and stepped back.
“Schon! Wunderschon!” the photographer exclaimed. “Okay, Bodhi. Open your eyes and pose. Eins, zwei, drei.”
He did as asked. And of course, he looked unreal.
The camera clicked non-stop as the gold was reapplied again and again, each take more striking than the last.
When it was finally over, the photographer clapped me on the shoulder, praising me in a jumble of German and English. Bodhi echoed the sentiment, minus the German, and it wasn’t until we left the studio that I realised how tightly I’d been holding myself together.
Thankfully, Bodhi had a half-hour break before his interview, and I needed an iced coffee and a vape. He’d changed back into his T-shirt and joggers, his face now clean and bare.
“Did you have fun?” he asked as we headed towards the lift.
“I did.” I stopped walking and caught his hand. “Thank you. That meant a lot.”
He squeezed mine, blue eyes bright.
God, I wanted to kiss him.
“I really want to kiss you.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Clearly, that rush of gratitude had short-circuited my brain, because I definitely hadn’t meant to say them out loud.