The five of us followed Clara into the lobby and towards the elevator tucked away near the reception desk. It was late, well past midnight, so the place was quiet. Other than the concierge, there was only one other person, and the two of them were locked in a heated discussion.
“I’m supposed to be in the room reserved for Sasha Davidson. She couldn’t make it, so I’m staying here instead.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” the concierge replied, voice calm despite the clear frustration directed at them. “I’ll need to see some form of identification before I can let you into the room.”
The not-quite guest, dressed in black capri leggings and a cropped powder-blue hoodie with the hood pulled up, let out a sharp sigh and gripped the edge of the reception desk until their knuckles turned white.
“Okay, first, I’m a man, but thanks a bunch for assuming.”
The concierge’s eyes widened, and they lifted their hands in a silent apology, but the other man kept going. All the while, the sound of that voice tickled something in my brain. Something familiar.
“Second, I can’t show you an ID for the room, because as I already said, I’m not Sasha Davidson. She couldn’t come, so I’m here instead.”
“Oh, crap,” Clara hissed, pulling my attention away from the commotion at the front desk.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I think that’s our new makeup artist, and I forgot to change the name on the room.” She shoved the white envelope with ourroom keys into my hands and hurried off towards the desk. “I am so sorry!”
“Who’s that?” Riff asked, bumping my elbow and nodding towards where Clara was now speaking with the other two.
“Not sure. Clara said something about our new makeup artist.”
“Huh.” He frowned. “I thought we were meeting them tomorrow.”
“Maybe she didn’t expect them to be checking in this late,” Mick said, catching the tail end of our conversation.
“Are we going up or what?” Thump groaned, leaning against the wall beside the elevator.
I looked down at the envelope and flipped through the keycards until I found one with his name. “Here,” I said, passing it to him. “You can go up if you want. I’ve still got Clara’s key, so I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll wait too,” Ghost said. “I wanna see how much redder the concierge’s face gets if our new MUA keeps glaring at him.”
“How do you know he’s glaring?” Mick asked, tilting his head.
“Dude, the concierge looks like he’s about to piss himself. There’s no way he’s not getting hit with some serious stink eye.”
As the five of us laughed, Clara wrapped up her conversation at the desk and led the newcomer over. I was glad to see a freshly coded keycard in his hand. His hood was pulled low, hiding most of his face, though a few strands of fuchsia hair slipped free and trailed down towards his chest.
“Okay,” Clara said as she stopped in front of us. “Looks like you’re meeting the new makeup artist sooner than expected. Everyone...”
The stranger pushed his hood back, revealing a head of vividpink hair, and my breath caught in my throat. For a second, the world seemed to tilt. Standing in front of me was someone I never thought I’d see again—not after two months together behind the aged brick walls of the Willow, surrounded by other addicts.
Wide green eyes met mine, filled with the same shock that was twisting in my chest.
It was . . . it washim.
“This is Iggy.”
CHAPTER
TWO
IGGY
Sober life was weird,but somehow, I was surviving.
On my graduation day from rehab, Gloria, my flatmate and probably my only real friend, picked me up from my two-month retreat in the ass end of Kent. Walking through the gates and spotting her bright pink vintage Mini Cooper, I’d had this sudden, ridiculous surge of gratitude for a friend so completely the opposite of me.
