“The bar’s open,” Jay announced as he led us into the event space. “No alcohol on site.”
That was one of my favourite things about him. Jay was fiercely supportive of Bodhi’s sobriety. He’d struggled with substance abuse himself at the height of his fame, and he made damn sure Bodhi was never put in a position that could jeopardise his recovery. That promise extended to me too, which I didn’t take lightly.
“Iggy!” he exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. “You look stunning as ever.”
“Thanks, Jay,” I laughed, pecking him on the cheek.
Clara had helped me pick out my outfit for the night. Skinny, high-waisted trousers that cut off a few inches above my ankles. A cropped black blazer worn against bare skin, shimmering powder dusted across my chest. Chunky, high-heeled Louboutin boots with those iconic red soles. My pink hair was freshly dyed, the top third pulled back into a messy bun. My makeup was smoky and dark, and my ears were adorned with a pair of dangling Tiffany earrings Bodhi had gifted me for my twenty-eighth birthday.
Bodhi, on the other hand, was dressed in his usual onstage uniform, same as the rest of the band.
He slid an arm around my waist and tugged me into his side, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“Shall we get a drink?” he asked, gesturing towards the bar.
I nodded, and he led me through the swelling crowd. We paused now and then to greet other musicians, actors, and industry people, but eventually made it to the bar tucked into the back corner of the room.
The space was all dark wood and low light, with exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling. It had an urban, curated feel. Trendy, but not cold. Spacious without losing its intimacy. At the front of the room stood a modest stage. The boys’ instruments were already set up, but the keyboard had been replaced with a baby grand piano, its lid propped open like it was waiting to be touched.
“What are you feeling, baby?”
Bodhi handed me a menu listing a handful of mocktails and soft drinks. The mocktails sounded tempting, but I wasn’t keen on anything pretending to be alcohol. That meant no nojitos and no strawberry dry-quiris.
“Just a Sprite,” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
He grinned and squeezed my ass, and I tucked myself closer to his side while we waited for our drinks.
As the night wore on, the room filled quickly. Bodhi drifted in and out of conversations, introducing me to old friends and collaborators, always circling back to me like an anchor.
At eleven, Jay climbed onto the stage and gave a short speech, thanking Noctis for trusting Ghostlight and for the work they’d poured into the album. Then Mick followed, speaking on behalf of the band. Thump sulked good-naturedly beside the amps, still bitter he hadn’t been allowed near a microphone for fear of what might come out of his mouth.
At eleven-thirty, Jay returned to the stage and called the band up for their performance.
Bodhi reached for my hand and tugged me towards the frontof the crowd. Before stepping away, he leaned in and kissed me quickly, softly.
“I hope you like it,” he murmured into my ear.
Then he was gone, joining the others under the lights.
Clara appeared at my side, radiant in a silver cocktail dress that caught the light every time she moved.
“You’ve heard the song, right?” I asked her, trying to sound casual.
She just smiled and tapped the side of her nose.
“You’re unbearable,” I muttered.
“It’ll be worth it,” she said, blowing me a kiss.
Bodhi stepped up to the mic, one hand wrapped around it, the other tucked into his pocket. The room quieted almost instantly, the hum of conversation dissolving into anticipation.
“Alright,” he said, voice warm and steady. “Before we play, I just want to take a second.”
A few playful groans rippled through the crowd, and he smiled, easy and genuine.
“Tonight’s a big deal for us. This album is something we fought for. Not just to make, but to make itourway.”
He glanced back at the band, then out at the room again.
