Page 10 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

I wake with a start, realizing that I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

The memories of last night's bullshit flashes through my mind like the remnants of a bad dream. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up slowly, taking in the surroundings of the crew's bus. I slept in my clothes, and they’re all wrinkled. Whether I want to or not, I’ll have to go get my shit from the band’s bus. Besides, my phone is dead.

The bunks are all empty, but there’s noise coming from the common area, and I make my way there.

Keith, one of the techies, sits at the table, his eyes glued to his phone, his hand hugging a paper coffee cup.

"Good morning," I say, my voice still rough with sleep.

Keith shifts his gaze to me. "Hey." He tips his chin. "What’s up?"

"Is Nell here?"

"Nah." He shakes his head. "Out. Working, like everyone else."

"I see." I pause, feeling like I’m intruding. "You don’t have an iPhone charger by any chance?"

"Sorry. Mine’s android."

"Okay."

A knock at the door jolts me fully awake. "Wendy?" a voice comes from outside. "You there?"

"Your boyfriend?" Keith chuckles, getting to his feet.

"Sounds like it," I mutter groggily.

"Well, I’m out anyway." He grabs his phone and coffee and heads for the door. I follow him, running a nervous hand through my tangled orange hair.

He swings the door open and exits the bus, briefly greeting Jett standing there. With flowers.

And not just flowers. They’re goddamned roses. Their colors are almost too bright against the cloudy sky and the boring bus exteriors lined up behind them.

I freeze on the top step. The height advantage makes me feel a little better.

"Can we talk, babe?" Jett asks, his voice pleading, and he looks at me with an uncharacteristic softness in his dark eyes. There’s a tentative smile on his lips, and I think I understand why he has so many female fans. Most girls don’t know shit about drums, but a smile like that will surely grab your attention.

"Please, Wendy. I was an ass last night. I know it. I swear this won’t happen again."

I hesitate, my heart thumping against my ribs. The scent of the roses wafts toward me, sweet and heady, and for a second, I allow myself to hope. Maybe this time will be different.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry," Jett says, his words tumbling out in a rush as he takes two wide strides to close the distance between us. "Please, let me make it up to you. Let's go get some breakfast and talk this out."

He reaches for my hand, his fingers brushing against my skin.

I feel the old familiar spark, the pull toward him that I've never been able to resist. I know I shouldn't be doing this.

My pride cringes at the way my heart sways.

My mother's words are whispering that stupid nonsense again in the back of my mind—about a man and about his place and money and how women need all that to survive.

Against my better judgment, I nod. "Okay." I accept the flowers from him. "Just let me grab my stuff and then I need to get changed."

Thirty minutes later, after I’ve brushed my teeth and fixed my hair and makeup, Jett and I are sitting at a small café table in the VIP area.

He’s surprisingly calm. Usually, he’s the worst when he’s hungover.

The distant thrum of a bass and the screech of guitars drift over from one of the smaller stages across the field where the bands have been sound-checking all morning.

The festival is coming to life around us with artists, vendors, and attendees arriving.

It’s noisy and chaotic, but my focus is solely on the man across from me.

I wonder if I'm making a mistake by giving in so easily.

Jett leans forward, his elbows on the table, his bleached hair falling into his eyes. "I know I've been a dick lately, babe," he says. "It’s the stress of the tour, the pressure to write the new album...it's been getting to me. But that's no excuse for how I've treated you. For real."

I nod, my fingers absently tracing the patterns of the plastic tabletop. I want to believe him. I truly do.

"I need you, Wendy," Jett continues, reaching across the table to take my hand. "I can't do this without you."

"What?" I ask absentmindedly. "Write the new album?"

"Come on. I’m serious." He pulls my wrist to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. "I’m talking about the vodka deal. It’s an investment in our future. For you and me."

My dumb heart starts melting a little. I’m forgetting all about last night’s humiliation.

Because that’s Jett. He can make you feel like shit one minute and like his most prized possession the next.

And I’m positive I’m a masochist, because I think I enjoy this back and forth a little.

The low is crap, but the high that comes after the low is better than any drug.

Not that I’m a pro, but I have a pretty wild imagination and have seen enough in the past couple of years.

"The band, everything...it's all going to be huge, baby," Jett coos, squeezing my hand. "And I want you by my side through it all and after. You’re my ride or die. Remember?"

His words are sweet and seductive at the same time. Looking back at when I was broke, couch-surfing, and cheated on by my previous boyfriend, I wasn’t a nice person. It must be the same for him. Things are taking longer than he expected and he’s irritated. That’s why he’s like this.

At least, that’s how my brain rationalizes his behavior from last night, especially in front of Cruz.

Ah, now I get where the tall, dark, and handsome term came from.

I don’t have any other way to describe The Deviant’s bassist.

Hold up, bitch!

Why are you thinking about another man when your perfectly acceptable boyfriend is trying to earn forgiveness for being an ass?

"Jett—" I start, but he interrupts me, kissing my knuckles again.

"I know, I know. I'll cut back on the booze. I promise, babe."

His eyes are pleading. If my resolve was wavering minutes ago, it’s completely gone now.

While my heart yearns to believe him, the rational part of my brain screams at me to walk away, to remember all the times he's made promises before and broken them. Still, there’s a fraction of me that can’t forget the good times, the laughter, the passion.

.. He came into my life when I was at a very low point, and he made it interesting.

And currently, he’s the only safety net I have.

Would it be so bad to give him an opportunity to get better?

"Okay," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the distant thrum of music. "One more chance, Jett."

His face breaks into a grin, and he raises my hand to his cheek, pressing it against his face. "You won't regret this, baby. I swear, things are going to be different from now on."

As he signals the waiter for the check, I try to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind, the one that whispers that I've heard those words before.

Instead, I focus on the warmth of Jett's hand in mine, the glimmer of hope in his eyes. But unfortunately, I can’t unsee him taking a long swig from the beer bottle in his other hand. Doubt stirs in my gut.

Who drinks at noon?

The next few hours blur by in a surprisingly fun haze.

I love these sprawling multiple-day festivals—the kind bursting with many stages and endless crowds.

It's always chaos, vibrant and pulsing, where you bump shoulders with fascinating strangers or rekindle sparks with half-remembered faces from your past. I guess because high school felt like one long series of misfit moments for me, slipping into this scene feels like home.

Here, wrapped in the electric drone of music and excitement, I finally feel like I belong—like I'm part of something that matters.

And I know I’ve been a whiny bitch ever since I stepped off the plane, but I have to give Jett some credit. Being his girlfriend comes with its perks, especially when it means I get the same VIP treatment his band does.

I spend the earlier part of the afternoon accompanying Jett and the rest of the guys from Sonic Trash to some press events and get to see a couple of on-camera interviews.

One for some British YouTube blogger and another for a local music magazine.

Then Jett and Kian join a podcaster in another tent, and Ramses and Griff do a live Q&A for a radio station.

One of the publications talks the band into doing a quick photo shoot, and I watch that unfold too.

Watch Jett doing his thing, transforming into the guy I want him to be all the time.

A guy with an easy smile and a charming demeanor.

It all slips into place like a well-worn mask.

He jokes with the photographers as if they’re the best of buddies, and I wish he’d always be this mellow.

The rest of the band join in, their energy infectious as they pose for the cameras, goofing around like a bunch of overgrown kids.

I stand off to the side, observing the controlled mayhem of the press area.

Fans clamor for attention, waving posters and shouting the band's name.

Jett and the others indulge them, signing autographs and taking pictures with their Cyber-shot cameras, their faces alight with genuine joy.

It's moments like these that remind me of why I fell in love with him in the first place–his drive, his talent, the way he comes alive on stage.

As the day progresses, the festival kicks into high gear. Smaller bands take various stages scattered throughout the festival. If you stand between two of them, their music blends together in a jumble of sounds, and you can’t really tell the bands apart.

When dusk is starting to slowly settle over the fairgrounds, Sonic Trash is the first band to breathe life into the massive main stage, where only four acts are set to perform tonight, with The Deviant closing.

I mean, everyone knows about The Deviant. If not because they like their music, then because they’re out of their freaking minds.