Page 12 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

The energy on stage and beyond is wild.

I don’t think we’ve ever headlined anything this big. Hell, if someone had told me ten years ago, when I was playing tiny clubs in LA for a crowd of six, that my band would be headlining a major European rock festival, I wouldn’t have believed it.

But here I am—one of the four motherfuckers to light up this field tonight to the delight of nearly a hundred thousand fans. I mean, it doesn’t get any better for a boy from East LA.

The bass reverberates through my body as I pluck the strings. The noise of the crowd as they clap and sing along fills me to the brim, fills my chest with something real and powerful.

Still, my mind is elsewhere. Jett's furious face flashes before my eyes again and again. I can’t erase his words from my head. Can’t forget what he said to Wendy, calling her a whore. Again. The injustice of it all twists inside me like a knife.

No woman deserves to be treated that way.

Even his sloppy attempt to clock me doesn't rile me up as much as his attitude toward the woman he calls his girlfriend. Under different circumstance, I would have fought back, but with minutes left before our stage entrance, I held back.

We’re in the middle of the set. Chance is about to do his signature ten-minute solo, and I’m the guy whose single task in this portion of the song is to make him sound better.

Plus, he’s been hammered since the morning, so he’s a little out of it.

You can’t really tell from the audience, but I know better.

The stage lights move from Justice and beat down on me for a flicker of a moment before moving to Chance.

The heat and the sweat under my outfit only amplify my frustration.

My fingers falter on the fretboard, the rhythm slipping through my grasp.

I struggle to regain my focus, but the memory from earlier keeps intruding.

Fucking Jett, being a coward, putting his goddamn hand on me.

Chance catches my eye from across the stage halfway through his solo, his brow furrowed. He mouths something at me, but I can't make it out over the pulsing music. His expression darkens, and I know he's pissed at my lack of concentration.

We barrel through the rest of the set, the adrenaline from the performance still pumping through my veins as we exit the stage to the racket of the crowd.

My heart pounds, a mix of post-show high and guilt churning in my gut.

I fucked up tonight, and everyone knows it—the band, the crew, the audience.

The mistakes were glaring, impossible to ignore.

In the dressing room, the air is thick with sweat and tension, and I grab a towel from one of the crew members to wipe my face.

I ignore the fact that I’m still caked in makeup as I try to steady my breathing and ground myself.

The confrontation with my bandmates is imminent, and I brace myself for the fallout.

Justice stalks over to me, his steely gray eyes flashing with anger. "What the hell was that, man? You were all over the place tonight."

I meet his gaze, defiance battling with shame. "Everyone has off nights. It happens."

"Not like that, it doesn't," Chance pipes up, running a hand through his sweaty, sandy-colored hair. "This is about that chick, isn't it? Jett's girl?"

I clench my jaw, not wanting to admit how much Wendy has gotten under my skin. "Don't worry about it. I'll handle my shit."

Chance sighs and swirls in his spot, yelling at no one in particular, "Hey, someone give me a fucking shot!"

Justice steps even closer, all up in my face. "An off night? You nearly tanked the entire set, asshole."

The space between us is vibrating with hostility, and I feel the weight of his accusation, the truth in it. But I can't bring myself to admit the real reason for my distraction.

Before things between me and Justice escalate, Zander steps in. "What are you doing, man?" he asks. "You trying to start some shit with Jett?"

I bristle at his question. I don’t even get it myself—my growing concern for Wendy. I’m not explaining that I don’t like how the Sonic Trash drummer treats his girl. "Fuck off, maybe."

"Jett's a dick, but that's not our problem, is it?" Justice says. "We all know it. After this tour leg, his shit band is out."

"Don’t be a hero," Chance murmurs his agreement. He’s on the couch, and the makeup artist is rushing to remove the makeup from his face so he can hit the shower.

I feel the pressure of their collective disapproval, like some unspoken expectation to fall in line.

"I'm not trying to be a hero. I just… I’m not going to ignore it when I see something wrong."

Zander throws up his hands. "Dude, you barely know this chick."

I don't have an answer. At least, not one I'm ready to admit out loud. The truth is, I feel drawn to Wendy in a way that’s hard to explain. Like she's a puzzle I need to solve, a story I need to unravel.

I push past them, heading for the showers. "You know what? Get bent, all of you. I don't need this shit."

I shower, change into clean clothes, and leave the dressing room without saying a word to anyone. Usually, we’d just invite some people over and hang out, maybe have some drinks. Chance would do hard stuff somewhere in the back of the room.

But tonight, I’m in no mood. Tonight, I have to clear my head.

The festival grounds are slowly dying down around me as I stroll through the artists' section. Crew members scurry about, breaking down equipment, clearing the stages, picking up trash. Tomorrow, we do it all over again before we leave this city for the next one.

I drift without direction for a while longer, the sting of my bandmates’ words still fresh and raw. Mistakes? Sure, I made them—enough to fill a song or two with shame and regret—but they're not the apocalypse lurking in my thoughts.

No, that shadow belongs to Jett Vice and his treatment of Wendy—a real issue tangled with moral dilemmas that need confronting.

And honestly, she probably doesn’t need saving. The way she inserted herself between us when Jett blew up was a real turn-on. She’s a force to be reckoned with, all five foot five inches of her small stature.

You’re screwed, Velez.

And then I find myself standing in front of the Sonic Trash tour buses. I spot Wendy’s silhouette by the gear trailers, her bright orange hair hard to miss in the darkness. She's leaning against the side panel of the vehicle, a beer dangling from her fingertips, her posture relaxed yet alert.

My heart stutters in my chest, and I pause for a bit, watching her. She looks like she's waiting for something—or someone.

I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves before I approach. "Hey."

She turns to the sound of my voice, her eyes meeting mine. There's a flicker of surprise in her gaze, followed by something else—something warm and inviting.

"Oh… What brings you to this neck of the woods? I thought oil and water don’t mix."

I shrug, erasing the distance between us until I'm leaning against the trailer beside her. "Just out for a walk. Needed to clear my head."

Pause.

"Hey," she blurts out heatedly. "What the hell was that during ‘Release Me’?"

"Oh, that." I scratch the back of my neck. "Bad day."

"You’re a bass player. It’s like the easiest instrument."

"You’ve heard that too?"

"Yeah. You really did your boys dirty."

I chuckle, unsure if she’s seriously pissed off at me for those mistakes or simply pulling my leg. "Are you saying I played like shit tonight?"

She nods, taking a swig of her beer. "You did play like shit. You came in late a few times. Your lead singer looked mad."

"Ah, yeah, all bands have that one guy who’s always upset at everyone and everything."

"I know."

We lapse into silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air between us. I can feel the heat of her body beside me, the faint scent of her sugary perfume mingling with the smoke from the distant campfires.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, taking in the way the scattered light plays off her hair, the curve of her lips around the bottle. She's beautiful in a raw, unfiltered way that makes my heart ache inside my rib cage. Such an odd, unfamiliar feeling.

"I'm sorry about earlier," I say, breaking the silence. "With Jett, I mean. He had no right to treat you like that."

She shrugs, her gaze fixed on the bottle in her hands. "It's not your fault. Jett's always been...intense."

I frown, not liking the way she says it. Like she's used to his anger, his outbursts. Like she's resigned herself to being treated like shit.

"You deserve better," I say. The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. At first, I think she's going to brush me off, tell me to mind my own business.

But instead, she smiles. A real, genuine smile that lights up her whole face. "That’s right. I do."

Something hot that has nothing to do with the alcohol or the post-show high spreads through me. It's her, plain and simple.

Wendy. The girl with bright orange hair and an unshakable attitude. The girl who's crawled under my skin and taken up residence in my thoughts in less than a day.

"If I were you, I’d break up with that asshole," I supply matter-of-factly.

She takes another swig of beer, then offers me the bottle.

I accept it, my fingers brushing against hers as I take it from her hand.

I bring it to my lips, the cool glass still warm from her touch.

It's a small thing, sharing a drink like this, but it feels intimate somehow.

Like a secret has passed between us. An almost kiss.

"So, you never answered my question," she says, nudging me with her elbow. "What happened tonight?"

I shake my head. "You're never going to let me live it down, huh?"

"You’ll be all over YouTube tomorrow morning," she says, her sarcasm evident. "Haters will eat you up for those fuckups."

"Ouch." I clutch my chest in mock hurt. "You really know how to wound a guy's ego."

She grins, unrepentant. "Hey, I call it like I see it. And what I saw tonight was a shit player who couldn't keep up with his own band."

I raise an eyebrow, taking another sip of beer before handing the bottle back to her. "Oh, is that right? And I suppose you could do better?"

"Damn straight," she says, rolling her shoulders and popping her hips before she does a very convincing imitation of a bass player on stage.

I laugh, charmed by her confidence. "Well, maybe you should give me lessons sometime."

"Maybe I should." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "But I don't know if you could handle it. I'm a tough teacher."

"I think I could handle anything you dish out," I say, my voice low and full of promise.

The air between us crackles, just like it did once before. I find myself leaning closer to her, drawn in by the heat of her body.

She doesn't pull away, her gaze locked on mine. I'm tempted to erase the distance completely, to taste her lips, to see if they're as soft as they look.

But I don't. Because as much as I want her, I know it's not the right time. Not when she’s someone else’s girl.

So I pull back, clearing my throat and looking away. "Anyway, I should probably get going. Early morning tomorrow and all that."

She nods, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face before she schools her features into a neutral expression. "Yeah, me too."

"Hey, you’re gonna be alright…with your boyfriend?—"

"I’m sleeping on the crew bus," she says before I finish my sentence.

"That’s good." The idea of her sharing a bed with Jett makes me sick to my stomach.

"Yeah. They’re cool." Wendy moves, just a half step, as if to let me know she really does need to go.

The conversation comes to a natural stop, and I find myself grabbing at my laminate attached to my belt.

"Here," I say, unclipping the pass and holding it out to her. "Come see us tomorrow."

Wendy’s eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her delicate features as she takes in the offering.

She reaches out, her fingers grazing mine as they close around the pass.

I wonder if she did it on purpose. A shiver runs through me at the contact, a jolt of something primal and unmistakable.

Wendy studies the pass, turning it over in her hands.

The dim light catches on the holographic logo, casting shimmering reflections across her face.

"You sure that’s okay? I know they don’t make extras."

"Yeah. Totally. I’ll just tell my manager I lost it." I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my heart hammers against my ribs.

"I don’t know… After what Jett pulled earlier, maybe your manager won’t want me there."

"Not his call. Besides, I think it’s bullshit that you got kicked out. Wasn't your fault. Jett’s the one who made it into a problem when there was none. Management’s already talking about removing Sonic Trash from the bill after this tour leg is over."

"Are you serious?" Fear crosses Wendy features. "Shit. Really?"

"Listen to me," I say in a low voice. "Jett's a big boy. He knows he needs to behave if he wants to keep playing these gigs. If that happens, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with his attitude."

She looks away, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. I want to reach out, to smooth my thumb over her mouth. But I keep my hands to myself, curling them around the beer bottle instead.

"His temper," I supply, "is going to be the end of him one day. I’m not telling you this out of spite. I’m telling you this because guys like him rarely last. So just remember. That's on him, not you."

Wendy tucks an orange strand behind her ear. "I really should go," she murmurs, but she doesn't move.

"Yeah," I agree, even as every cell in my body screams in protest. "But listen, if you ever need anything... If you ever want to get away for a bit..." I swallow hard, forcing the next words out. "You can always come over to our tour bus. No questions asked. No strings attached."

"Okay," she whispers. "Thank you."

With that, she slips the pass into the back pocket of her black skinny jeans and turns to leave. My eyes trace the sway of her hips, the bounce of her hair, and the night air feels suddenly cold against my skin, bereft of her warmth, as I watch her walk away.