I’d felt guilty asking him to come with me. I wasn’t just risking my own sobriety tonight, but his too. If I fucked up, that was on me. But if he did, I’d be carrying that weight as well.
Still, some probably idiotic part of me believed we’d be okay. That together, we could make it through in one piece. We’d made a pact. We’d promised to watch each other’s backs, to keep each other grounded. Sure, we were walking straight into the lion’s den, but I was convinced we’d come out the other sideproud, intact. That if we survived tonight, the rest of the tour would feel easier somehow.
I was reaching for my phone to text him when the elevator pinged. The doors slid open, and I swear my heart stopped.
“Holy fuck,” someone, maybe Riff, muttered beside me.
Iggy stepped out in a pair of Docs, and my eyes dragged up his pale legs, slim but powerful from years of ballet. Over the pink flowers tattooed across his thigh. Up to leather hotpants cut obscenely high, long legs on full display. I didn’t need to see it to know his dancer’s ass was barely contained.
His midriff was bare. Over his chest sat a thick leather harness, straps converging at an O-ring between his pecs. Thin silver chains draped across his chest, offering the barest illusion of modesty. Every time he moved, they swayed, flashing glimpses of small, rosy nipples already pebbled by the cold.
His bright pink hair fell loose around his shoulders in soft waves, and his makeup was dramatic: a dark, smoky eye not unlike my stage look, and a clear gloss that made his lips look dangerously pouty.
Fuck.
He looked hot.
I’d seen Iggy in makeup before, but never like this. Never weaponised. And the way my cock stirred at the sight of him was deeply inconvenient given how unforgiving my pants were. I tried desperately to think of unpleasant things.
Abandoned puppies.
Tax audits.
Wet socks.
It didn’t help.
When he stepped up beside me, I caught his peaches-and-cream scent, and the situation only got harder.
“Hey,” he said, smiling.
“Hey yourself,” I replied, swallowing. “You look nice.”
“Nice?!” Clara squawked. “He looks gorgeous.”
“Damn right,” Thump added. He lifted Iggy’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles like a Regency suitor. “My darling, you look downright fuckable.”
Ghost smacked the back of Thump’s head. “Down, boy,” he scolded, dragging him away by the collar.
Riff slung an arm around Iggy’s shoulders, and the chains shifted again, flashing skin. I snapped my gaze back to Iggy’s face just in time to catch his smirk.
He’d noticed.
My cheeks burned.
“Alright, my dudes,” Riff announced, steering Iggy towards the doors. “Our carriage awaits.”
Outside, a Sprinter van idled at the curb. Walking behind Iggy confirmed my suspicions. His ass was very visible, and we all got an eyeful as he climbed in.
“One day,” Thump sighed dreamily. “I’m gonna wear him down.”
“One day,” Mick replied, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna earn yourself a sexual harassment suit. Or a case of bruised balls. Possibly both.”
“I need to know what exercises he does to get an ass like that,” Clara muttered, checking her reflection in the van window.
Once we were strapped in, the van pulled away and dropped us outside the KitKatClub. The queue was already huge, but Clara worked her magic and got us straight inside. Privileged? Absolutely. But it was cold, and we were wearing almost nothing, so I wasn’t about to complain.
“This is insane,” Iggy said, eyes wide as he took it all in.
