He nodded, still frowning. But when he turned to the fans, his whole face shifted, smirk locked in, posture loose. In half a second he’d flicked the switch from Just Bodhi to Bodhi Hart, rock star, and suddenly I wasn’t sitting across from my annoyingly charming friend anymore. I was staring at the frontman of Noctis, human pheromone dispenser.
The girl gasped so violently her knees wobbled, and honestly? Relatable. If I were confronted with that level of sex appeal head on, I’d probably collapse like a Victorian widow too.
Christ, it was barely an hour ago I’d been fanning myself, thinking about him bending me over in some hypothetical den of debauchery... and here I was giving myself another semi.
For fuck’s sake.
“Hey there,” Bodhi said, cool and smooth, like he had all the time in the world.
The girl squealed at a pitch only dolphins should hear. The boy just nodded like a bobblehead doll. Part of me wanted to tell Bodhi to tone down the charisma before they passed out, but I had to admit, I was curious. I’d never seen him with fans up close.
“I c-can’t believe it’s y-you!” the girl shrieked. From her accent, she was Welsh, though I wasn’t sure how her vocal cords survived speaking at that frequency.
Bodhi raked a hand through his dark hair, and the girl swayed like she was having heart palpitations. The boy stared like he was memorising every movement.
“Are you guys here for the show?” Bodhi asked.
“Y-yeah, man!” the guy stammered, thrusting out a trembling hand. “I’m Rhys. W-we travelled from Cardiff just to see N-Noctis.”
Bodhi shook his hand. “I really appreciate that, man.”
“Are the rest of the band here?” the girl asked, whipping her head around like Mick might leap out from behind a potted plant.
Bodhi jerked his thumb at me. “Nah, we’re doing our own thing tonight.”
The girl turned to me, and her eyes went wide. “Ohmygod,” she breathed. “Did we interrupt your date?”
“No!” I yelped, far too loudly. Out of the corner of my eye, Bodhi looked like he was swallowing a laugh. “No, no date. Just two friends. Hanging out. Chillin’.”
I cringed at myself so hard I nearly pulled a muscle.
“Iggy’s the band’s new makeup artist,” Bodhi said smoothly. “I was showing him around Amsterdam.”
“We’re really sorry for interrupting.” Rhys held up his hands. “Can I get you guys a beer?” He looked between us. “I’ve got some Molly, if you’re into that?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
The fans didn’t notice, but Bodhi went rigid beside me, fist curling on the table. I mirrored him instinctively.
This was the first time either of us had been offered drugs straight to our faces since leaving rehab. And we both froze. The sensible answer was no. Obviously no. A big flashing neon, rehab-approvedNO.
But neither of us were saying it. We just stared at the two blissfully oblivious fans, and my treacherous mouth was already beginning to form a sound suspiciously like “Ye?—”
“No.”
I snapped my head towards Bodhi. He was smiling up at them, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was tight, strained. But he’d said it first. He’d said no before I could ruin everything with one syllable. Relief hit me so hard I felt hollow, like someone had cut all my strings at once.
“I’m not into that,” he said. “And I don’t like drinking the night before a show.”
Total lie. But he couldn’t exactly tell them the truth, and I didn’t blame him.
“No problem!” Rhys said quickly, cheeks red. “Sorry if that was inappropriate.”
Bodhi stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re all good. Did you guys want a photo?”
“Yes, please!” the girl squealed, rummaging for her phone before spinning to me. “Do you mind taking it?”
“Not at all,” I said, absurdly grateful to have something to focus on.
