“Come on, Iggy,” I coaxed, softening my voice like I was trying to wake a kid from a nap.
I nudged his shoulder until he rolled onto his back. He’d fallen asleep in a cropped T-shirt that read“Gay Panic Generator”and tight lilac boxer briefs. My mouth went dry at the sight of the fabric straining over his morning wood, and I forced my gaze up to his face instead. His hair was in a messy bun, strands sticking out wildly, and the pillow had left a red crease across his cheek.
He stretched, arms overhead, legs long and bare, back arching, making his shirt ride even higher, revealing more of his slim torso. Then he blinked at me, bleary and confused.
“Bodhi?” he croaked, voice rough as gravel. “What’re you doing here?”
“We’ve gotta get to the airport.” I turned to his suitcase, thankfully already packed, and spotted a hoodie and sweats thrown on top. “Let’s get you dressed.”
I took his hand and pulled him upright, guiding his legs over the edge of the bed. Iggy didn’t speak, just stared at me with bleary, half-lidded green eyes.
“Arms up,” I said, and he obeyed. I slipped the oversized hoodie over his head and helped him find the sleeves. Then I knelt and fed the sweats over his feet, sliding the fabric up his shins. His smooth, warm skin brushed my knuckles as I tugged them to his knees. I helped him stand, steadying him when he listed sideways, and pulled the sweats over his thighs and the round curve of his dancer’s ass, settling the waistband at his hips.
Still half asleep, Iggy leaned forward until his forehead rested on my shoulder, his nose brushing my throat. He was a few inches shorter than me, which meant he fit too perfectly in this position.
“Need t’brush my teeth,” he mumbled, breath warm enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“No time,” I said gently, my hand settling on his hip. “Do it at the airport. Where are your shoes?” He waved vaguely towards the door without lifting his head, and I spotted his battered Docs. “Okay. Hold on.”
I stepped away, watching to make sure he wouldn’t topple. He stayed upright, barely, but his eyes were closed again. I grabbed the boots, dropped them in front of him, and he blinked long enough to step into them. Once he was dressed, I scanned the room: his phone on the charger, which I unplugged and tucked into his hoodie pocket, then the charger into his backpack. I also grabbed his toothbrush and travel toothpaste from the bathroom, knowing he’d want them later.
Satisfied nothing was left behind, I slung his bag over my shoulder, grabbed his suitcase, and wrapped an arm around his waist to guide him to the door.
Just as I reached for the handle, Iggy’s fingers closed softly around my wrist.
“Thanks, Bodhi,” he murmured, tilting up to press a sleepy, gentle kiss to my cheek. “You’re the best.”
“You’re welcome, Iggy Pop,” I murmured, brushing my lips against his temple. Not a kiss, just a touch. “Let’s go.”
He stayed glued to my side as we moved down the hallway, dragging his feet like an extra fromThe Walking Dead. He yawned so widely his jaw cracked, then rubbed one eye with the cuff of his hoodie, looking about five seconds from collapsing back into sleep.
When we reached the elevator, Riff was waiting with Ghost, who looked just as wrecked, hair a mess and face slack with exhaustion as he rested against the wall.
“Tour’s gonna be fun if we’ve got a bunch of early starts,” Riff joked.
His gaze flicked from where Iggy’s head rested on myshoulder to where my hand curled around his hip. I resisted the urge to snatch my hand away like a kid caught stealing cookies. Better to act natural. Like this was normal. Like I wasn’t wrapped around the band’s makeup artist I’d supposedly only met two days ago.
Riff held my stare, and I could see the questions forming behind his eyes. But I kept my expression easy, faintly amused, like nothing was out of place. I could tell he didn’t buy it, not entirely. Riff knew me too well. But for now, he let it slide and turned his attention to Iggy.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes this morning?”
“Fuck off,” Iggy mumbled, eyes barely cracked open, lips puckered in a sleepy little pout.
Riff laughed, too loud and enthusiastic for the hour. Ghost winced, pressing the back of his head harder against the wall by the elevator.
“Let’s get to the airport,” Riff said as the elevator pinged and the doors slid open. “These boys need some caffeine.”
We arrived in Amsterdam without further incident, and both Iggy and Ghost were much more alive by the time we stepped off the plane. There was only one show scheduled for Amsterdam, and Clara had planned things so that we’d drive to Berlin as soon as we wrapped. Then we’d get three days off before three nights of back-to-back shows.
There’d be interviews, a couple of meetings, a fan meet-and-greet, and a photoshoot.
But no stage for three whole days.
In comparison, Amsterdam was basically a free-for-all. No obligations except my interview over the phone beforetomorrow night’s show. Clara told us to explore, be tourists, relax. For once, our time actually belonged to us.
Because it was such a short stop, we weren’t in a hotel. The label had rented two townhouses in Jordaan. One for the band and our security guys, and the one next door for Clara, Iggy, Dylan, and the crew who’d flown with us. The ones hauling the trucks loaded with our gear were staying closer to the arena.
The seventeenth-century townhouse was surprisingly spacious, with rooms spread over three floors and a converted attic. Huge bay windows looked out over a narrow cobblestone street, flooding the place with light. The neighbourhood was pretty and private, perfect for when we needed to exist somewhere people wouldn’t bother us.
