Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
BODHI
We’d made it to Milan, and I was grateful for the breather. Three days off after back-to-back shows and barely any sleep. Vienna already felt like a blur, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d made it onstage, let alone through an entire show, without collapsing.
Nope. That was a lie.
It was all because of Iggy.
I’d still been half asleep when I woke up on the bus in Vienna after less than an hour of shut-eye.
The panic attack had wrung me dry, so I let Iggy steer me wherever I needed to go without complaint.
I hadn’t expected him to ignore his own room in favour of mine, but after feeling that exposed, that raw, I was grateful for the company.
That didn’t stop the embarrassment from hitting later.
The band had no obligations before the show, which meant we could sleep in more than usual. Normally, I was up well before call time. Partly because my sleep was always fractured, but also because I needed to feel productive. Like my day held more than just sleeping, travelling, and singing.
Dr Williams had drilled it into me. Take time for yourself.
Build habits that keep your brain busy in a good way.
Raise dopamine naturally, not chemically.
Rehab had given me the space to figure out what that meant for me, and that was where I’d fallen back in love with drawing.
Before art therapy, I hadn’t touched a pencil since high school.
Now, I made sure to draw something every day.
An anime character. A stranger through a window.
A plant wilting quietly in a hotel room.
It didn’t matter what. It just mattered that I did it.
So, I set my alarm earlier than necessary. Enough time to draw, or watch an episode of something, or start a movie. Mundane shit. Normal-people shit. The kind of life you didn’t get much of when you were famous and dragging yourself across Europe on a tour bus.
But last night, Iggy had tucked us into bed, and I’d been too wrecked to remember my alarm. He didn’t know about my routine, so he let me sleep until the last possible moment. And when I woke up to his fingers playing with my hair, to his soft smile as I blinked myself awake . . .
I didn’t spiral.
Didn’t panic about losing my “me time” or ruining my day because I’d chosen rest instead.
I did, however, try to bury my face in my pillow out of sheer embarrassment.
And because Iggy was Iggy, he’d only slapped my ass, hard, and told me to get a grip. Said there’d probably be more panic attacks in our future. More vulnerable moments. That next time, it might be me holding him together.
He hadn’t looked at me with pity. Hadn’t treated me like glass. He acted like waking up together was normal. Like what we were dealing with was normal. Like we were normal.
It was exactly what I needed.
After the show, we stayed one more night in Vienna. Separate beds this time. Iggy insisted I needed space to decompress. He only stopped by long enough to grab his things, then left me alone with Riff.
On his way out, he kissed my cheek and whispered, “Lean on your friends too.”
So I did.
Riff and I made it through two episodes of Attack on Titan before he finally said what he’d been thinking.
“You really like him, don’t you?”
He kept his eyes on the screen, knowing I’d shut down if he looked at me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“He was with you during a panic attack,” Riff replied. “You won’t even let me in the bathroom when you’re throwing up.”
“Because your face makes me throw up,” I shot back, petulant. He elbowed me in the side.
“My point is,” he said, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “You let him take care of you. The only person who’s ever really done that is your mom. But you dropped your guard for Iggy.”
“It’s different with him,” I muttered. “He . . .”
I wanted to say it was because we’d been through rehab together. But that wasn’t my secret to tell. So instead I said, “He doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.”
Riff finally looked at me, and I caught the flicker of hurt before he masked it.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” he said quietly.
I smiled and leaned into him. “You do,” I replied. “But that’s okay. It means you care.”
He sighed, sinking back into the pillows. “So, what’s different about Iggy? Besides the pink hair and the insane wardrobe.”
I huffed a laugh, thinking about the crop top he’d worn that day.
Bright yellow. “Yes, I fuck men” stamped across the front in black.
About how he’d laughed so hard he snorted when Thump tried to slut-drop and split his jeans clean open, baring his asshole to the room.
About how he’d butchered Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” in the shower, loud and proud and gloriously off-key.
About the way he’d kissed my lips, my cheeks, my nose, and my eyelids just this morning, whispering that I was strong. Alive.
“He’s just . . .” I said softly. “Iggy.”
And he’d always been Iggy. From the day we met.
Loud and unfiltered, pushy and obnoxious, all in the best ways.
It didn’t matter whether I was an addict or a rock star.
Iggy never changed the way he looked at me.
He still smiled brightly when I made him laugh.
Still said exactly what he was thinking, whether I asked for it or not.
Still held onto the idea that we could live something close to normal, even after all the fuckups and bad decisions. That we deserved another chance.
“Look at you,” Riff teased, poking my cheek. “Smiling like a fool in love.”
The smile I hadn’t realised was there vanished. “I—no. I am not in . . . not love,” I spluttered. “Ha. No way.”
He laughed, climbing off the bed and stretching his arms overhead. “The lady doth protest too much.”
“Fuck off.”
Riff waved as he opened the door to my room, but paused on the threshold and glanced back over his shoulder.
“If you’re really not interested,” he said lightly. “Maybe I’ll shoot my shot.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid. “Don’t you fucking dare,” I snapped, teeth clenched.
“Not in love, my ass,” Riff smirked. “See you on the flight, lover boy.”
Unfortunately for him, he was already safely in the hallway when my pillow slammed into the door.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Iggy looked up from his phone, frowning.
We were stretched out on his bed, doing our own thing.
He was watching videos of dogs doing stupid shit, and I was drawing him.
The morning flight from Vienna had been just under ninety minutes, but despite the short journey, we’d skipped playing tourists in favour of a lazy day.
I was still wrung out from the non-stop travel, and Iggy’s hip had been bothering him, so I’d insisted we do absolutely nothing.
He would’ve fussed if I said it was for his benefit, guilt-ridden over me missing a day in Milan despite the fact I’d been here more than once.
So I lied. Told him it was for me. That I still felt off after the panic attack on the bus.
And because he was a people pleaser, he agreed without hesitation.
Besides, we still had two days before I went back onstage. One day of rest wouldn’t kill us.
Except it wasn’t going to be total relaxation.
“What kind of surprise?” he asked.
“If I told you,” I said, not looking up from my sketchbook. “It wouldn’t be a surprise.”
He plucked the pencil from my fingers and leaned in. When I lifted my head, we were nose to nose, the gold flecks in his green eyes catching the light.
“What if I don’t like surprises?”
I smirked. “You’ll like this one.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Promise?”
I closed the distance and kissed him, pulling back just long enough to murmur, “Promise.”
Iggy melted into me, settling his chin on my chest. My hands slid instinctively into his hair, the pink a shade softer now than when we’d reunited in Paris. I made a mental note to drag him to a store and find the right dye. Muted colours didn’t suit Iggy. He was meant to stand out. To shine.
“What do I need to do for this surprise?” he asked.
I massaged his scalp, earning a quiet hum as his eyes fluttered shut. “Wear something fancy.” I tapped his nose. “And paint that pretty face of yours.”
His eyes flew open, grin spreading wide.
He pushed up onto his hands and knees and crawled over me, slow and deliberate, like a predator that knew it had already won.
My hands slid to his ass. He’d ditched his leggings the moment we arrived in his room after check-in, padding around in one of his cropped shirts and a skimpy red thong that had been tormenting me for hours.
We still hadn’t gone further than kissing since the photoshoot, and my dick had been half hard for days. His skin was warm under my palms, and the lace did nothing to hide how hard he was, pressed against my hip.
“You think I’m pretty?” he breathed.
His breath tickled my lips, sweet from the pastry he’d eaten after dinner. I squeezed his cheeks, making him grind against me. His smile broke, mouth falling open on a soft, breathless moan.
“You know you’re pretty,” I said.
Iggy leaned in for a kiss. I turned my head at the last second, and his frustrated whine made me grin.
“Time to get ready.” I slapped his ass, earning a yelp. “We leave in an hour.”
I nudged his shoulder, sending him flopping onto his back. I rose from the bed as he sprawled across the mattress, limbs splayed like a starfish, pouting up at me.
“Tick tock, Iggy Pop,” I said, winking before retreating to my room.
An hour later, after a shower and shave, I came back to his room dressed in a sheer black shirt and fitted pinstripe slacks.
When Iggy opened the door, my breath caught.