By the time I curled back into bed, planning to nap like Ghost had suggested, the panic had dulled to a manageable hum.
My breathing evened out. My muscles softened.
I turned onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow that still smelled faintly like Bodhi, telling myself I’d only needed a little help getting through the day.
And for the first time in hours, everything finally felt easy.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
BODHI
The green roomat Zurich’s Hallenstadion was nice but cramped. Unlike some of the sprawling backstage setups we’d had on this tour, it felt more like a café that had been repurposed for people who refused to sit still. High-top tables, narrow chairs that were only comfortable if you didn’t linger too long. The walls were covered in some kind of fancy floral wallpaper, the sort you’d expect in a boutique hotel rather than at a rock venue. A tall fridge hummed in the corner, stocked with beers and wine bottles ready to be cracked open.
Thump and Ghost were posted up at one of the tables, nursing cans of Swiss lager after asking me no less than four times if I was really okay with it. Mick sat nearby, elbow propped, picking methodically through a bag of chewy, fruit-flavoured candy without ever lifting his eyes from his e-reader. Everyone was ready. Tuned up, settled in, waiting for the clock to run down until showtime.
Riff was the only one missing, holed up in the dressing room down the hall, letting Iggy work his magic.
I’d barely seen Iggy all day.
He’d been dead asleep when I left for my radio interviewwith Frequency Z, and somehow still out cold by the time I got back three hours later. I would’ve returned sooner, but Riff had strong-armed me into lunch at a local gourmet burger joint. Apparently, it was beloved by the people of Zurich, and after demolishing two thick beef patties stacked with smoky bacon and cheddar, I couldn’t argue with them.
I brought one back for Iggy to try, already imagining the look on his face when he bit into it. Instead, I found him exactly where I’d left him. Asleep. Face smushed into my pillow like he was searching for me in his dreams, pink hair a wild halo around his head.
For a moment, worry flickered. He’d been sleeping a lot the last few days. But Milan was busy, and I knew the bus did a number on his hip, so when I watched his chest rise and fall, slow and even, the concern eased. He looked peaceful. Soft. A contrast to his usual chaos.
His honey-blond roots were really starting to show now. We hadn’t had time to hunt down hair dye, which gave me an idea. I cornered Trix, the lead singer of our support band and a fellow expert on brightly coloured hair, and asked for recommendations.
That turned out to be a mistake.
What kind of hair does he have? What’s his natural colour? Any allergies? Does he prefer vegan products? What shade of pink does he really like?
By question twelve, my brain was threatening to melt out of my ears. Trix took pity on me and offered to take Iggy shopping herself when we got to Munich tomorrow. The timing worked perfectly. A day off between shows. A chance for Iggy to relax, indulge in all the pampering shit he pretended not to love as much as he actually did.
“Hey, man.”
I blinked, dragged back to the present. Ghost had taken a seat at my table without me noticing.
His eyelids were smudged with purple shadow, dark enough to look almost black until the light caught the violet shimmer. His bleached hair was artfully messy, darker roots grown out just enough to add another layer of grunge to his whole look.
Iggy had done a damn good job.
I felt a swell of pride thinking about how far he’d come. At the start of the tour, he’d been almost timid, second-guessing himself, unsure whether he was overstepping with his suggestions. Now? Now he took no shit from any of us.
Case in point: Thump.
After ignoring Clara’s repeated warnings and turning up late for makeup because he’d been too busy fucking, Iggy had followed through on her earlier threat and made him look like a knockoff Alice Cooper. Thump had learned his lesson fast, and hair and makeup now camebeforeextracurricular activities.
Growth, in every sense of the word.
And down the hall, with a brush in his hand and confidence in his bones, Iggy was doing what he did best. Making us look like a better version of ourselves.
“S’up, brother,” I said to Ghost. “You good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He scratched the back of his neck, a habit he only had when something was eating at him. “Have you, uh, talked to Iggy this afternoon?”
My brows drew together. “Sort of,” I said. “He was asleep when I got back. By the time he woke up and ate something, it was time to head here.”
