“Dude,” I groaned, while Mick and Riff cackled away. “You need to work on your aim.”
“My aim’s pretty good when the moment calls for it,” Ghost smirked, already focused back on the mirror.
“If that’s the case,” Riff jumped in. “Why’s the toilet seat always covered in piss after you use it?”
“Fuck off,” he retorted, giving Riff the middle finger.
“You want a water?” Mick asked as I wiped the sticky remnants of pomade from my fingers. I caught the way he made sure to specify, instead of just asking if I wanted a drink.
While I’d wanted them to know about rehab, I’d made it clear they didn’t have to change their habits because of me. Sure, it would make things harder, but I didn’t want to be the reason anyone walked on eggshells. I’d already been enough of a burden. Enough of a fuckup.
Still, a week ago, when we met in London to go over the final tour logistics, something shifted. It was the first time we’d all been together since before I went to the Willow. Over dinner, Riff had announced they’d agreed to keep booze and drugs out of the green room. And if I wanted to hit up an afterparty, one of them would stick with me, just to make sure I was okay.
I hadn’t known what to say other than to push back, to beg them not to change things because of me. The gesture made my chest twist with a mix of gratitude and guilt, especially since Thump hadn’t looked all that thrilled about it. But Riff and Mick were adamant. They said they would do whatever they could to help me stay on track. Noctis—the band—was a family, they reminded me, and families made sacrifices for each other.
And right then, in a crappy fast-food restaurant over questionably cooked fried chicken, some of the fear I’d felt when Riff and Clara picked me up from the Willow began to melt away. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the booths were sticky, and the smell of grease hung heavy in the air, but none of it mattered. For the first time in what felt like forever, I could just breathe. The weight of my mistakes seemed a little less sharp here, tucked into a corner with people who had my back.
“Yeah, man,” I said, offering Mick a smile of my own. Small, but filled with overwhelming gratitude.
Mick stood, ready to raid the kitchenette fridge, but froze when the green room door swung open. Clara walked in, rocking an oversized Noctis shirt, black skinny jeans, and a staff lanyard. Barely five feet tall, with honey-blonde hair and the faceof an angel, she could’ve fooled anyone into thinking she was quiet and sweet. Wrong. What she lacked in height, she made up for in personality and sheer volume. Managing five overgrown babies, she’d made it clear from day one that no bullshit would fly. She’d cussed all of us out at least once, and while we loved her like a sister, we were also low-key terrified. Just the way Clara liked it.
“Okay, boys,” she said, waving a clipboard that contained our setlist. “It’s a packed house out there, and the Parisians are ready to party.” She glanced around the room at each of us before frowning. “Where the fuck is Theo?”
“Here!”
Theo, a.k.a. Thump, appeared behind Clara in the doorway, shirtless as usual and sporting a brand-new hickey on his neck that kind of looked like the state of Texas. I thought it was pretty impressive, actually, though Clara seemed to disagree.
“How many times do I have to tell you?!” she bellowed, and the four of us winced in sympathy with our scolded comrade. “Keep their teeth and claws off your body when you have a show. And if you can’t follow those rules, at least keep them to somewhere we can cover with a damn shirt!”
“I—” Thump started, but was immediately cut off as Clara continued her tirade.
“Butthat monstrosity—” She jabbed the giant purple bruise on Thump’s neck, and he squawked in pain. “Has no hope of being covered, and we don’t even have a new makeup artist until tomorrow!”
“We’re getting a new makeup artist?” Riff paused his strumming to ask.
“Yeah, you’ll meet them at breakfast,” Clara replied, before turning back to Thump. “You’re coming with me.”
She yanked Thump’s wrist and hauled him from the greenroom, and he turned back, eyes wide, silently screaming for help. Before the door slammed shut, Clara called out, “Fifteen minutes. Get ready!”
Mick, Ghost, Riff, and I moved like we’d just been set on fire, scrambling to finish getting ready and leave the green room. When we reached the side of the stage, the support band, a popular trio from the UK called Half Life, had just finished their set. Once they left the stage, the crew would change the sets and instruments over to ours, and we’d have around fifteen minutes to get into position.
“Merci, Paris!” the lead singer, Trix, shouted to the crowd. “We hope you had a great time tonight. Are you ready for Noctis?”
The audience roared in response, and Clara had been right—the arena was packed. The vibrations from their screams and stomping feet rumbled through me, setting my nerves alight and my blood buzzing.
This was my favourite high. One no drug or drink could ever touch. The rush of adrenaline that came from storming onstage and demanding the crowd’s attention, begging for their love through music, and finding a shared kind of peace in the songs that I—wehad created.
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I glanced at Riff, who was bouncing on his feet. He was just as excited as I was, and when he met my gaze, he grinned. “Ready, brother?”
I held out my fist, which he bumped with his own. “Always.”
Half Life left the stage, and Trix stopped in front of Riff and me. “Good luck out there,” she said, brushing away the damp blue strands that had stuck to her forehead. Her eyeliner was smudged, and her pink Hello Kitty shirt was stuck to her chest with sweat, but she looked exhilarated. The kind of happy that only came after an awesome show in front of a good crowd.
“Thanks for warming them up for us,” I replied.
“The French know how to party,” she laughed, and I watched as she pulled a yellow scrunchie out of her pocket and pulled her hair into a messy bun. “Now I need a shower, a stiff drink, and a spliff.”
My muscles locked up, and suddenly all I could think about was an ice-cold glass of vodka, the drops of condensation pooling at its base, almost but not quite touching the crisp paper of a freshly rolled joint. God, I could practically smell the tangy smoke, feel the burn as it filled my lungs and made my body fl?—
