A shadow passed over his face. He smiled again, but it was weighted, tinged with something sad. Something he didn’t say out loud.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Same.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
IGGY
It seemedNoctis was bigger than I’d realised. If the luxury accommodation hadn’t already given it away, the size of the venue definitely did. The Accor Arena was huge, and according to Clara, could hold over twenty thousand people. Tonight was their second and last night in Paris, and both shows had completely sold out.
Our group arrived at the venue about an hour before the doors opened, and the line of people stretched for what felt like miles. The boys had travelled separately to Clara and me, and when their vehicle pulled up in front of ours, the screams from fans who spotted them were deafening. When Bodhi stepped out last, they somehow climbed to a decibel that threatened to perforate my eardrums. I made a mental note to ask Clara for ear plugs as we followed the band through the stage door, grateful when the security team finally shut out the noise.
“Hey, bros!”
A stout man with a round belly, greying hair, and a thick goatee jogged over and stuck out a hand for the boys to shake. Based on the lanyard around his neck, I guessed he was one of the crew.
“That’s Dylan,” Clara murmured beside me, nodding towards him. “He’s the tour manager and helps me babysit these asshats on the road. Keeps them on schedule, makes sure the stage is set up correctly.”
I chuckled, glancing back to where Dylan was already chatting happily with the band. He seemed like the happy-go-lucky type—more the cool dad to Clara’s firm-but-fair mother routine.
“Iggy.”
Bodhi’s voice caught me off guard. We’d patched things up over coffee that afternoon, but hadn’t spoken since returning to our rooms for a pre-show power nap. Even though we’d agreed to be friends and do the whole “getting to know each other” thing again, I hadn’t expected to speak to him tonight. Not until he was seated in the makeup chair, anyway.
The band had all turned towards me, and Bodhi gestured for me to join them. I unglued my boots from the floor and walked over, dragging my makeup trolley behind me.
“Dylan, this is Iggy, our new makeup artist.”
The tour manager grinned like a Cheshire Cat and thrust out a meaty hand. “Good to meet ya, my dude,” he said as I slipped my hand into his. His calluses scraped against my fingers, proof of what I assumed were years of hard labour. “If you need anything at all, just holler. And...” He leaned in conspiratorially. “If any of these knuckleheads give you trouble, you come straight to me.”
His bubbly demeanour soothed some of the nerves coiling in my stomach. “You got it.”
Dylan stepped back and turned his attention to the band. I glanced at Bodhi, catching the soft smile tugging at his mouth. The kind that said, “Don’t worry, you’ve got this,” without him uttering a single word.
“We need you onstage for a quick soundcheck before the doors open,” Dylan said. “Harper wasn’t totally satisfied with the balance last night, so he wants to tweak it.”
“Such a perfectionist,” Riff sighed, shaking his head as if the request annoyed him. But the smirk on his face told a different story. I imagined he’d happily play his guitar at any hour of the day.
“We’ll meet you guys in the green room,” Clara cut in. “I need to show Iggy around before he sets up his station.”
“Cool beans,” Dylan replied. “I already told Harper he’s got thirty minutes, no more. If it were up to him, he’d be sound-checking all night and we’d have no show.”
We said our goodbyes and I followed Clara, who spent the next half hour giving me the backstage tour. The green room was the final stop, and I was grateful Harper—the sound engineer, apparently—had wrangled an extra ten minutes with the band, giving me time to set up before they returned.
The green room held a cracked leather couch that sagged in the middle, some matching armchairs, and a small kitchenette with a fridge and food platters covering the counters. The venue had organised a mini banquet for the band, and I was relieved when Clara confirmed I could take some.
“They always make too much,” she said. “And the boys never eat much before going on. Micah says it makes him feel bloated when he starts jumping around with his bass, while Rafe complains about needing to shit during the show.”
“Charming,” I mumbled through a mouthful of bread as I opened my trolley to grab supplies.
Usually, I’d have access to a dressing room with more counter space and better lighting, but Clara explained the ones here were being refurbished. It didn’t matter, though. I’d donemakeup everywhere, from a proper photography studio to the back seat of a drag queen’s Nissan Micra.
A metal cabinet sat against the wall behind the couch, so I pulled out several bottles, tubes, and tubs, and lined them up within reach. Brushes and sponges followed, along with makeup remover, brush cleaner, and a pack of baby wipes. I’d just pulled a collapsible ring light out of my backpack and was plugging it in when the band finally arrived.
One by one they poured through the door, noise swelling to fill the previously quiet room. Thump and Ghost made a beeline for the food, apparently not sharing their bandmates’ concerns, while Riff pulled an acoustic guitar from a case in the corner and sank into one of the armchairs.
Bodhi entered last, always somehow a step behind everyone else, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
