Page 11 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

Three best friends who left Northern Cali for LA a few years ago. That’s where they found the last member of the band—Cruz. And the rest, as they say, is history.

If anyone can write songs about fucking and praying at the same time, it’s those guys.

Cruz . I don’t know why my mind returns to the mysterious bassist all of a sudden.

I’m backstage, watching Jett and the guys perform their latest single in front of a decent-sized crowd pressed against the barricade.

And instead of thinking about my future with my boyfriend, I think about the man I really shouldn’t be thinking about.

By the time Sonic Trash finishes their set, the crowd is primed and ready for the next band, their energy in the air palpable.

It’s hectic with roadies clearing the stage and preparing it for the next artist, but we’re allowed to stay in the wing and watch the next set. Jett steps away occasionally to greet some people, so

I’ve hardly had time between songs when the music isn’t booming to tell him he was amazing.

"You liked it, baby?" He grins at me, his eyes a little glassy, which tells me he’s been drinking without my knowledge, but so far, he’s been good.

"Of course I liked it."

"Come here." He draws me closer and places a kiss on my lips in front of everyone. I hear a couple of claps from the crowd and a whistle.

"You go, Jett!" someone shouts over the music.

"That’s my baby girl!" Jett yells out, shooting his index finger in the air. "That’s my fucking ride or die, y’all!"

I ignore the fact that I’m a little uncomfortable with his arm squeezing my shoulder too hard. Any man publicly announcing his love is a man you should probably hold on to. I know my mother would say that.

"I gotta go talk to some guys, babe, okay?" he whispers to me during the next short pause between songs.

I nod.

Jett disappears into the sea of people cramming the backstage area.

He doesn’t return for a while. The band’s set is over, and I’m still rooted to my spot, watching the changeover.

Next up is The Deviant, and their props and stage lights are freaky.

Gives the illusion that you are indeed in a church, and I’m a little intimidated by the fact that it makes me feel like a sinner.

For thinking about their bassist while I’m taken.

I scan the surroundings once more, but Jett’s nowhere to be seen. Then my gaze lands on the group of people emerging from around the corner.

The Deviant.

I recognize them immediately. All-black stage outfits, faces hidden under makeup.

They’re like a magnet, drawing people closer and closer.

And despite somewhat uniformed costumes, I spot Cruz right away.

It’s his hair and body. You can’t really mix them up with the other three.

He’s got big shoulders, and I bet he works out.

Probably lifts weights. I mean, you have to be in shape to be touring this much.

Doesn’t matter the age. Being on the road is exhausting.

I know that because Jett keeps reminding me about it all the time.

I’m distracted for a second by a crew member asking me to step aside so he can check some cables. When I look up, Cruz is in front of me, smiling weakly.

"Hey, we meet again," he says loudly over the racket of the crowd and the background music.

"Ah, hi."

"You look great." His eyes drop to my feet and then slip up my body and to my face. And I at once feel naked. I had no idea a man could do this. I’ve definitely heard about the trick—undressing a woman with his eyes, but I’ve always thought it was exaggeration.

Never been on the receiving end of it. Until now.

"So do you," I reply.

He chuckles. "It’s just a work uniform."

"I don’t believe people out there"—I gesture to the crowd in front of the stage—"think that."

"I hope they don’t."

There’s a moment where it’s somewhat awkward between us. Just a split second—a heartbeat longer than it should be—the space between us almost crackling with static.

Wake up, bitch!

What the hell are you doing?

Cruz leans in, closing that already-teetering gap, and asks softly, "How are you holding up after last night?

" His voice drops to his lower register.

I can almost feel him—like a hum beneath my skin—and Jett has never reached me this way before.

It's disorienting. And not in a bad way, leaving me breathless and on the edge of something unnamed.

Bad Wendy.

Very bad Wendy.

I’m caught off guard by this realization.

What is this shit? Why now and here while we’re surrounded by all these people?

"I'm okay," I say. "Just tired, you know? It was a long couple of days."

"Your boyfriend treating you well?"

I shrug, trying to play it off. "It's not a big deal. He was just stressed about the show, that's all."

Cruz frowns, clearly unconvinced. "You don't have to make excuses for him. What he did was not okay."

"I don’t think it’s the time or the place to discuss my relationship," I reply with a smile.

"Sorry. You’re right."

Around us, the backstage area is a flurry of activity as The Deviant's crew hustles to put the finishing touches to whatever needs those touches.

They dart through shadows, lost in a whirl of last-minute adjustments.

Out there, on the other side of the barricade, the crowd is feverish with anticipation.

People of all ages, dressed in the band’s merch or something similar to what their favorite band member wears on stage, are pressed against each another.

"Good luck," I tell Cruz. "Or break a leg. I don’t know what to say in these situations. I don’t really mean you should break a leg, but?—"

"Good luck doesn’t really help, right?" he finishes my sentence for me. "Or at least, that’s what they say."

"Yeah. I’ve heard that too."

"Don’t worry, we got this." He winks at me, his charm cutting through layers of expertly applied makeup.

"Velez?" someone calls, pulling Cruz’s attention.

Looking over his shoulder, he raises a hand in an easy wave at the source while neon lights coming from the rack suspended above dapple his skin like liquid fire.

A jittery man materializes from behind the velvet curtain, anxiety written all over him as he pats Cruz on the back—a touch that seems urgent and a little patronizing. "We’re gonna do a quick one-on-one right now with those YouTube guys," he urges, oblivious to my presence.

"What, right now?"

"Yes, right now."

"We go on in ten minutes, man."

"That’s the whole point. They’ll film that part. But we need you to say a couple of words too."

Cruz nods dismissively, brushing it off with casual coolness. "Yeah. I’ll be right there."

"Hurry up, alright?" the man insists, finally shifting his gaze to me. He says nothing before disappearing into the dim glow of backstage.

"Fucking Angelo," Cruz mutters under his breath, and I guess it’s just a reflex, but he rakes his hand through his hair streaming down his shoulders and a strand sticks out right on top of his head.

I suppose it’s an instinct for me too. I reach up to put it back in place, my fingers careful not to mess up the rest. "Sorry," I mouth at him, straining upward.

"Your hair…" So soft and nice. "You got a little…

mmm." I feel like an acrobat all of a sudden balancing on my tippytoes—if platforms had those, of course—to brush my palm over the top of his head to smooth my work.

Another charged second passes between us when our gazes meet in this tiny space. Before I’m completely lost in the moment, I pull back slightly. "Sorry. Hair is my specialty," I blurt out the first excuse that comes to mind.

He punches up an eyebrow.

"Cosmetologist in progress," I explain.

"See, I told you you’ll get where you need to get."

I swallow hard, my heart suddenly racing in my chest. There's something about the way he looks at me, the gentle understanding in his eyes, that makes me want to spill all my secrets, to bare my soul to him right then and there.

"What the hell is going on here?" Jett’s voice demands right behind me.

My pulse stutters. I feel a rush of panic, my stomach twisting into one huge knot.

Please don’t make a scene.

But, of course, when I turn to look at Jett, his eyes are blazing with fury.

"Hey." I plaster a smile onto my face, but it’s a futile attempt to pacify him.

Jett's not listening, his gaze locked on Cruz. "I knew it," he snarls. "I knew you were trying to steal my girl, you fucking punk." He whips out his hand and slams his palm into Cruz’s chest.

Heads swivel in our direction. I can feel the eyes of the stage crew and band members on us, their whispers like a thousand tiny daggers against my skin.

"Jett, please. You’re drunk." I sandwich myself between them before the blow is reciprocated. My heart is thrashing behind my ribs as I raise my hands to keep Jett at bay. "Let’s not do this here. Let's just go somewhere and talk about it."

But he's beyond reason. I can tell by the stench of alcohol wafting at me from his mouth. "You're nothing but a lying, cheating whore," he spits out, shoving his finger at my shoulder right above my collarbone. "And this asshole"—he shifts his attention to Cruz—"needs to learn his lesson."

A fist flies right past my head, surely aimed for Cruz’s jaw.

I can’t tell what the result of the attempt is, though, because this is the moment when chaos erupts around us.

People are shouting and pushing through as they try to intervene.

I'm jostled back and forth. And then the security guards are there, their arms wrapping around Jett and dragging him away.

"Fuck you, Velez!" he yells.

Hysterical flashlights dance across the crowd. "Everyone clear out! Only the band and their crew stay. No guests! I said no guests! Everyone out!"

In an instant, I'm being pulled away too, strong hands gripping my arms as they escort me out along with the rest of the onlookers. The last thing I see before the curtain falls is Cruz’s face—puzzled, shadowed by a touch of melancholy.

Five minutes later, when the first chords of The Deviant's set vibrate through the festival grounds, I’m standing outside the backstage area, cut adrift from everyone and everything.

What a shit show of a day.