Page 1 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

There's a moment in life that strikes hard, maybe once, sometimes twice. Like a sledgehammer to the head, it jolts your brain into overdrive, and suddenly, you're questioning everything.

Where am I?

How did I end up here?

Has it all been a colossal waste?

I figure it's different for everyone. This existential crisis makes you doubt whether the road you’ve chosen leads to where you truly want to go. It's not something penciled in on a calendar; it ambushes you when you're least ready to tackle it, both physically and mentally.

For me, it happens on a Thursday morning in June as I step off the Lufthansa plane and find no one waiting at the arrival gate in the Munich Airport.

So I stand in the crowded terminal, lost and feeling like a complete fish out of water, panicking a little while the rest of the passengers are dispersing in various directions.

A flash of orange hair catches my eye in a reflection on the glass wall—oh, right, that's me. I’m still getting used to this new color.

The first time Jett saw me with it, he said I looked like a carrot.

I remember wondering—since it was coming from my boyfriend—if he meant it as a compliment or disapproval.

You can never quite tell with Jett Vice.

" Schei?e! " A severe-looking woman in a black pantsuit glares at me as my overstuffed gym bag topples into her path when I turn around.

I flash an apologetic grin. "Sorry! Ich spreche kein Deutsch! " I don't speak German! It’s one of the few German phrases I memorized before this trip. You know, in case of emergency.

Also, I was told a lot of people here understand and speak English.

The woman huffs and continues walking.

I step away from the foot traffic and dig my cell phone out of my jacket’s pocket.

I stab at the buttons as rising frustration is starting to replace fear.

Jett was supposed to meet me. He knows I’m terrified of traveling alone to unfamiliar places, especially those where English isn’t the first language.

The line rings once, twice. "C'mon, Jett, pick up..." I mutter under my breath, then bite my lip.

Finally, he answers with a slur in his voice, which doesn’t surprise me at all. "Hello?"

"Jett? I’m here. I just landed," I shout over the racket of the terminal.

"Wendy! Babe!" Jett yells. "You made it!"

In the background, I hear music and voices—mostly women squealing and lots of English.

"Jett, where the hell are you?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady as I'm jostled by a passing cluster of people dressed in identical hoodies. "You said you'd meet me at the airport!"

"Ahh fuck, sorry, babe," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Got caught up with some press shit. You know how it goes."

I close my eyes, mentally counting to five while my blood pressure skyrockets. "No, Jett, I don't know how it goes, seeing as I just flew across a damn ocean for you. You said you’d be free on Thursday."

"What do you want me to do? I’m fucking working."

"Can’t you take a break and pick me up like you promised?"

"Chillax, honey," Jett says with an infuriating chuckle. "I'll call you back soon, alright? Gotta handle something."

"Jett, wait—" But he's already hung up.

I glare at my phone, resisting the urge to hurl it across the terminal. I’m already terrified of the bill I’ll be getting for this call. Roaming is expensive. This is disappointing, but certainly not surprising. Jett’s done it before. He has a tendency to over-promise stuff.

Then why are you still with him?

I shove that little voice down. I can’t let it ruin my life's master plan.

With a heavy sigh, I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and storm off toward the baggage claim.

The area is a whirling sea of bodies all jockeying for position, shouting over each other in a dozen different languages. The scent of sweat and overpriced fast food chokes the air around me.

With my flaming hair and ripped tights, I feel painfully conspicuous among the suited businessmen and glamorous European women in chic outfits. Sure, there are people in jeans and leggings, but for some reason, I still feel very American and very country.

When I see my luggage, I gently elbow my way through the masses, barely dodging a collision with a stout man. Small women like me have no choice but to get a little aggressive sometimes.

I scramble for my neon leopard print suitcase as the man mutters something in German that I'm sure isn't complimentary. Nothing in German ever sounds so. I flash a tight smile again, saying I’m sorry. " Entschuldigung . Excuse me. Entschuldigung ."

My phone buzzes insistently from my pocket, and I fish it out.

Jett's name is on the screen. For a second, I'm tempted to ignore it because I can’t afford another call in a foreign country, but I jab the answer button instead, hoping he’s found a moment in his busy schedule and is on his way to get me.

Based on what I found online, the drive from the airport to the festival grounds is only half an hour. It’s not like he has to cross multiple borders. It’s a straight shot out of the city.

"Should I wait for you?" I ask immediately.

"Babe! Wendy! Can you hear me?" Jett's voice is muffled, barely audible over the sounds of laughter and pulsing music. "I'm sorry, it’s this promo thing. Can’t leave just yet. Y'know, with the label guys... And there’s a potential investor."

"Are you seriously bailing on me right now?" I shoulder my way through the crowd as I wrestle my huge rolling suitcase behind me.

"It’s important."

"More important than your girlfriend?"

"Don’t be like that."

My gym bag slides from my shoulder and into the crook of my arm. I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth, trying to tamp down my irritation. Of course he’d find a way to turn it all back on me. Silly Wendy for thinking she’d actually come first for once. "Jett, I swear to God..."

"Look, just get a cab," he slurs, and I can practically see him waving his hands around in my mind's eye, a half-empty bottle of vodka clutched in his fist. "Tell them to drop you off at the artists’ entrance. They all know where it is. I’ll meet you then, yeah? I'll be waiting for you! Iloveyoubye!"

He hangs up before I can get another word in, leaving me gaping at my phone in the middle of the heaving crowd once more.

Un-fucking-believable.

I look around helplessly at the unfamiliar faces, the bustle of the terminal, and I feel utterly, hopelessly alone. At least, until I spot two girls, no older than eighteen, both sporting hoodies that say I’ve been Justified.

If one has never heard a single song from The Deviant, they’d probably fail to get the meaning behind the words. No, it has nothing to do with justice that’s responsible for interpreting the law. It has everything to do with the notorious lead singer of The Deviant, Justice Cross.

Our eyes meet for a split second, and we share a sense of camaraderie—the kind that one alternative kid feels when he meets another alternative kid.

"I love your tee," one of the girls says in accented English, pointing at the Linkin Park logo slapped across the front of my T-shirt.

"Thanks. I love yours."

"Maybe see you at Ragnarock?" She winks.

"Maybe." I smile.

Then, with a groan, I hoist my bag up on my shoulder and start marching toward the terminal’s exit.

The cab ride seems to stretch on for forever because of the traffic around the airport. The city blurs past in a haze of unfamiliar sights and sounds. Buildings and signs whirl in a kaleidoscope of dizzying colors that somehow seem different here.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching as the towering concrete of Munich gradually gives way to stretches of green.

There’s an angry dark cloud forming on the outskirts of the city, and I start wondering if we’re getting some rain this weekend.

I hope not. That’s never a good thing for a festival like the one Jett’s band is playing.

God, what am I even doing here?

Chasing after a guy who can't even be bothered to pick me up from the damn airport. And then I think back to my mom's words, the words she’s been knocking into me ever since I was little.

Find yourself a man who'll take care of you, Wendy. Don't end up like me.

Well, sorry to disappoint you, Mom, but it looks like I've gone and fallen for another asshole. One just like dear old Dad. May he rest in peace.

The only difference is that Jett is famous and has money.

Dad drank all the money we had away.

The cab jolts to a stop at a traffic light, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I look out the window to see the festival grounds ahead.

A sprawling sea of tents, amusements, and stages.

And somewhere in that throng is Jett, probably already halfway to blackout drunk and surrounded by a gaggle of groupies.

I feel a surge of jealousy boiling up inside me, hot and viscous. After all the shit I've put up with, he couldn’t even follow through on his own promise.

I think of all the nights I’ve spent waiting up for him, patching him up after drunken brawls, listening to his grandiose rants about the band's "imminent success."

And for what?

To be relegated to an afterthought, a footnote in the epic saga of Jett Vice?

Am I what I claimed I’d never become—a doormat?

The cab swerves toward the signs indicating the artists’ entrance and comes to a stop a few minutes later in front of the barricaded parking lot.

Right before I left, I exchanged whatever money I had on me to Euros. Those Euros come in handy now as I thrust a wad of cash at the driver and clamber out of the cab. He hurries to help me with my luggage and then gets back into his vehicle and disappears.

I stand there for a moment, inhaling the fresh air. Even the faint barbecue scent from the campers smells different here.

I dial Jett to let him know I’m here, at the gate, but instead, I’m greeted by his voicemail.

Great.