“What’s your greatest wish for when we get out of here?” he asked.
I thought about all the answers I could give. Music. Success. My friends. My mom. Staying clean.
But none of them felt honest enough.
So I went with the one that did.
“To just be happy.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Iggy smile.
“I hope you get your wish, Bodhi,” he said. “I hope we’re both happy in the end.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
IGGY
A few dayshad passed since our little tryst after Bodhi’s photoshoot, and now we were in Prague.
Both Berlin shows had sold out completely, and the boys had enjoyed throwing themselves around the stage after a rare pocket of rest. Bodhi and I hadn’t touched since we’d mutually blown each other on the floor of a maintenance cupboard, but we’d made up for it by stealing quick make-out sessions when no one was around. Lingering touches that looked accidental if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
We weren’t exactly keeping our... whatever this was a secret. But as far as everyone else knew, Bodhi had only just gotten out of rehab, and the last thing he needed was a lecture about what was best for him. Besides, if they found out I was a recovering addict too, Clara would probably hit the roof.
So for now, we kept it on the down low. Lived for ourselves. Enjoyed each other.
Figuring out this new sober life together.
And it was fun. Sneaking off to bathrooms to kiss and dry hump before slipping back into the green room like nothing had happened. If anyone suspected anything, it was Riff. Mostlybecause he watched Bodhi like a hawk on a good day. Every now and then I’d glance over and catch him already looking at us, a smirk tugging at his mouth, something knowing glinting in his eye. But he never said anything. At least not where I could hear it.
I took that as a win.
We’d left Berlin immediately after the show, all piled on the bus. This time the drive was only four hours, and we rolled into Prague in the early hours of the morning. One show tonight, then straight back on the bus for Vienna.
Everyone was wrecked.
Sadly, there’d been no time to sleep in. The label had organised another meet-and-greet before the show—no pop-up shop this time, but an even earlier call time. The boys were cranky, Ghost especially. Clara was nursing a migraine, and Dylan was barking orders at the crew like a drill sergeant.
And my hip had chosen today of all days to lock up completely.
I was hobbling around like the Tin Man before Dorothy found the oil can. Bodhi didn’t say anything, but whenever no one was talking to him, I could feel his eyes on me. The weight of his concern.
But we were balls deep in the tour now. Different cities every night. Shows stacked back to back. Berlin had been gentle in comparison. That pace wasn’t the norm, though, and I wouldn’t always get to clock out and ice my hip in bed.
No. I had to put on my big boy panties. Grin and bear it. Cry later, alone, in the privacy of my bunk slash coffin.
“The circles under your eyes are getting darker,” I said, keeping my voice low.
It was two hours until they went onstage, and I was reapplying Bodhi’s makeup after the meet-and-greet. I wipedaway the concealer I’d used that morning and winced slightly at how much deeper the shadows had grown in just a few days.
“Are you still struggling to sleep?”
The rest of Noctis were scattered around the room in their usual pre-show rituals. Riff noodling on his guitar. Mick reading. Thump looked particularly exhausted, which was saying something, because instead of finding a hole to fuck, he was planted on the couch playing a game on his phone with Ghost.
“A little,” Bodhi admitted, eyes tipped towards the ceiling, bloodshot but steady.
I pressed fresh colour-corrector beneath his eyes, using more than usual, hoping I could hide at least some of his exhaustion.
