Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
BODHI
Iggy didn’t turn up for work.
When I walked into the lobby, already ten minutes late, Clara was going postal. At first, I thought it was because of me. That I was the last one down. Turns out, I was the least of her worries.
After my fight with Iggy earlier that day, I’d locked myself in my room.
Riff had tried to talk to me, knocking, calling, asking if things were okay.
If we’d worked it out. I wasn’t in the mood to admit that things had only spiralled further, so I’d taken the coward’s route and pretended to be asleep.
Ignored his calls and the knocks. Squeezed my eyes shut and hoped that if I begged my brain hard enough, sleep would come.
It did.
Hard enough that I slept straight through my “you’re going to be fucking late” alarm and staggered into the lobby convinced I’d be the last one there.
Except I hadn’t. Because Iggy wasn’t there.
“Where is Iggy?” Clara demanded the second I joined the group.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m not his keeper.”
The words came out sharper than I meant them to, and the looks I got told me as much. Confusion, concern, a little surprise. I guessed they had a right to it. We’d been inseparable for weeks, even before everyone knew about us.
Clara studied me for a beat, then sighed. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Well, I’ve tried calling him. He’s not answering. I don’t know where the fuck he is.”
“Has anyone been to his room?” Riff asked, his eyes flicking to me and away again.
“No—”
“I’ll go,” I said, cutting her off.
Clara nodded immediately. “Okay. I’ll let Dylan know we’re running late.”
I turned for the elevator before anyone could say anything else.
By the time I reached Iggy’s floor, my chest felt tight. I knocked once, then again. Then a third time, louder, calling his name. The silence on the other side of the door stretched too long, settling heavy in my gut.
This morning, when I’d left him, he hadn’t been okay. Not even close. And as much as I tried to rationalise it, a part of me knew I shouldn’t have left him alone.
But I hadn’t had a choice.
If I wasn’t in recovery myself, the thought might never have crossed my mind.
But his spiral had started tugging at mine, waking up urges I’d worked too damn hard to quiet.
As much as I loved him, I had to put myself first. When it came to sobriety, that wasn’t negotiable.
If the roles were reversed, I’d want Iggy to do the same.
I hoped he understood that. Hoped he could, eventually.
But standing here now, staring at a closed door and an unanswered phone, hope didn’t do much to steady me.
Maybe he was ignoring me. Maybe he needed space, time to cool off. To breathe without me hovering over him and poking at wounds he wasn’t ready to face.
Or maybe it was something worse. Something dangerous.
My hand hovered over the handle, heart pounding, dread curling tight in my chest as one thought eclipsed all the others.
If he was high in there right now . . .
What the fuck was I supposed to do?
I’d spent so long lost in my own head, running through every possible outcome, that I hadn’t realised how much time had passed since I last knocked. I was just about to try again when the elevator chimed and Riff stepped out.
He let out a breath and waved me over.
“Come on, man,” he called down the hall. “Clara’s about to go on a rampage.”
I gave Iggy’s door one last look before turning away. Regret and guilt clawed at me with every step, trying to drag me back. To keep me there, knocking until my knuckles split. Calling his name until he answered, or until someone made me stop.
I climbed into the elevator beside Riff and stared at our reflection in the mirrored doors as they slid shut.
“Where is he?” Riff asked.
“He’s sick,” I said quickly.
The lie came too easily.
Lying had been second nature when I was using, and apparently that muscle never really atrophied.
This time, at least, it wasn’t for me. It was for Iggy.
We all had a job to do, and I couldn’t blow off a show because he hadn’t answered his door.
Thousands of people had paid to see us. The machine didn’t stop just because something was wrong backstage.
Iggy had a job too. He was supposed to be in the lobby with the rest of us. But he wasn’t answering, and I couldn’t tell them why. Not yet. Not without proof that there was something real to panic about.
I didn’t know how far he’d gone with Bella and Trix the night before. I’d smelled weed, a bit of alcohol. For all I knew, that was it. A relapse, sure, but not necessarily a crisis. Not necessarily him spiralling straight into something harder.
He could be asleep in his room right now, knocked out. Hungover, worn down by a late night and our stupid fight.
A small, anxious voice in my head whispered that it probably wasn’t that simple.
But my options were limited. And if I wanted the label to listen to what the band wanted after the tour, I had to play along for now. I had to keep things running smoothly.
“Right,” Riff said.
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his face. But I knew him. He wouldn’t push, not about this. He knew when to back off, knew that prying would only make things worse.
I told Clara the same lie when we got back to the lobby. Said Iggy had eaten something weird and that he’d thrown up and gone back to bed. That he’d slept through her calls because he was exhausted.
That part, at least, wasn’t a lie.
Clara accepted it more easily than Riff, probably because she was juggling too many other fires to interrogate one more problem. She was pissed, sure, but sickness wasn’t something she could yell into submission.
“It’s fine,” she huffed as we piled into the van headed for Olympiahalle. “You’ll survive one night doing your own hair and makeup.”
“Not everyone will,” Ghost teased, ruffling Thump’s already chaotic curls.
Thump smacked his hand away. “Fuck off.”
I leaned back in my seat and stared out the window, the city blurring past, my jaw tight.
I was almost grateful we were running late.
When we reached the arena after hitting unexpected traffic, there was no room left to think.
We were herded straight into a rushed soundcheck, the kind where everything blurred together, and then suddenly the doors were opening and it was time to get ready.
I did my own eyeshadow and liner, which looked nowhere near as good as when Iggy handled it.
Ghost hovered nearby, making sure I didn’t end up with full-on panda eyes, and then Clara did a final inspection, arms crossed, gaze sharp, approving us one by one.
Not long after, we were standing in the wings, watching the tail end of Half Life’s set.
By the time it was our turn, I just wanted it over. Wanted the lights to go out so I could get back to the hotel and break Iggy’s door down if I had to.
I was twitchy. Wired tight. But somehow, it worked.
Onstage, the crowd fed on it. Whatever anxiety was coiled in my chest got twisted into something louder and sharper.
They screamed until their throats were raw, shoved each other around in the mosh pit, fists pumping in time with Thump’s drums. The chaos felt alive, electric, like it was chasing the same restless energy that was tearing through me.
From the outside, it probably looked like any other show.
Inside, there was only one thing on loop in my head.
Iggy. Iggy. Iggy.
I was almost surprised I didn’t sing his name instead of the lyrics.
When we finally cleared the stage, Thump slapped my back, breathless and grinning as he wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Fuck, man,” he said. “You were on fire tonight. I thought you were gonna dive straight into the pit at one point.”
“Yeah, uh . . .” I scratched the back of my neck, forcing a smile. “Just felt extra hyped tonight.”
Again, not exactly a lie.
Riff caught me as we entered the green room. He leaned in close, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
“What’s going on, Bodes?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing,” I lied, because apparently I was committed to the bit.
He studied me for a second, then shook his head. I didn’t miss the flash of hurt that crossed his face before he tucked it away.
“You don’t have to shut me out,” he said, gripping my shoulders and giving them a firm squeeze. “You’re my brother, man. Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”
My eyes burned. I swallowed hard and leaned forward, resting my forehead against his, the way we’d done since we were kids.
“Yeah,” I rasped. “I know.”
By the time we got back to the hotel, I was a mess of competing sensations. Fear sat heavy in my gut, sharp and unrelenting. Adrenaline still buzzed under my skin, looking for somewhere to go. And beneath it all was a single, stubborn determination.
I needed to see Iggy.
I needed to know he was in one piece.
Clara and I were the last out of the van. Before she could join the others heading for the elevator, I caught her arm.
“Have you got the spare room keys on you?”
She frowned, already digging into her purse. “Yeah. Why? Lose yours?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I just want Iggy’s. I wanna check on him, but I don’t want to wake him if he’s asleep.”
“Oh.” She nodded like it was nothing. “Sure.”
She pulled out a white envelope stuffed with duplicate keys and pressed Iggy’s into my hand.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll bring it back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she waved me off. “We’re checking out tomorrow anyway. Just hand it in then.”
I didn’t bother with the elevators. I took the stairs two at a time, lungs burning by the third floor, questioning every life choice that had ever led me here. By the fifth, my thighs were on fire and my chest was heaving.
“Fuck,” I muttered, stopping in front of Iggy’s door.
I braced my hands on my knees, forcing my breathing to steady. When I could see straight again, I knocked.
No answer.
I didn’t care if he was asleep anymore. I was done waiting.