Page 13 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

On Saturday, I wake up to a vacant tour bus and the smell of stale cheap coffee.

The thin mattress squeaks beneath me as I roll over.

A spring jabs into my back. Another glamorous morning in the crew vehicle.

Whoop-de-fucking-do. Still, it's better than sharing a bus with high and drunk Sonic Trash guys.

I rub the remnants of last night's mascara from my eyes and fumble for my phone. A text from Jett glows on the screen.

Need ur help landing the vodka deal today, babe. Don't flake on me.

I sigh, tossing the phone aside. Flake on him? That's rich coming from the king of empty promises.

As if on cue, Cruz's words echo in my head.

You deserve better.

And deep down in my gut, I know it. But a greater part of me that’s been scared to be alone, scared to be what I was before I met Jett, keeps whispering things at the back of my mind. Things that speak of depressing solitary nights and no permanence.

Jett needs me.

He’s not really denying that, and I suppose it’s true what they say about us women—we love with our ears and not our brains. Because my brain has been screaming for me to run ever since I got off the plane, but my ears adore all the cheesy words the prospects of a better future.

I think I am becoming my mother , I conclude as I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind the lids like psychedelic fireworks in the darkness.

LA is calling me home, but I can't bail now. Not yet.

I throw on yesterday's crop top, hoping the lingering scent of cigarettes and sweat will blend in with the festival crowd for the time being. I decide to take a shower and change later in the day when the band’s bus is empty and no one is creeping on me from the common area.

Jett's already in a pissy mood when I find him by the press tent, surrounded by his band of merry dickheads.

"…believe that shit?" He kicks a nearby amp, feedback screeching.

Several crew members turn their heads at him, probably wondering what his problem is and what the amp has to do with it.

"Fuck 'em," Griffin says. "They think they're hot shit just 'cause they headline."

"Their drummer can't even keep a beat."

Jett is definitely wrong.

You don't need to be a drummer to recognize when someone's got that kind of magic. I've been around enough bands to tell who's got it, and The Deviant? They've got it in spades. Meanwhile, Jett's got his own mess to sort out, always tearing others down just so he can feel an inch taller.

This all loops through my mind as I edge closer to the Sonic Trash guys, this odd mix of heat curling in my chest—part frustration for Jett’s nonsense and that cringeworthy second-hand embarrassment gnawing at me because he's my boyfriend.

"Amateurs," Jett snorts out as I hover at the edge of their little bitch-fest. "I'll show them how a real rockstar parties."

Is this really what I signed up for? Babysitting an oversized toddler with an overinflated ego? Somehow, I won’t feel guilty if these guys get kicked off the tour for real.

Jett finally notices me, his scowl morphing into a wolfish grin. "There's my girl." He moves to stand closer. "Ready to charm some investors today?"

I force a smile, the muscles in my cheeks aching with the effort. "Sure thing."

He slings an arm around my shoulders. "Cool. Tag along to check us out doing more press, baby?"

Like I have a choice.

For the next couple of hours, I trail behind Jett and his bandmates through the media area.

The girls, mostly models hired to advertise various booze and energy drinks, flock to him, all pouty lips and barely there outfits.

He laps up the attention, his hand lingering a little too long on the small of a blonde's back, his eyes raking over a brunette's endless legs.

Meanwhile, I stand to the side and watch all this unfold in front of me. Finally, when there’s a small window between the interviews and the band’s scheduled time to sit in the merch booth and sign autographs, I pull Jett aside.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?" I hiss at him.

He rolls his eyes, annoyance evident on his face. "I'm kinda busy here."

"Busy? Is that what we're calling it now?" I scoff. "You're practically drooling over those bimbos."

"Relax, babe. It's just part of the game." He flashes me a smile. "You know you're the only one for me." His words ring hollow. A well-worn script he's recited a thousand times.

I want to scream, to shake him, to make him see how much his actions are tearing me apart. But I swallow the words, my throat tight with unspoken rage. "Whatever."

Pause.

He narrows his eyes. "Is that why you’re fucking interrupting me? To tell me I can’t be seen with other women because you—what?—got some sort of patent on me?"

"Are you even hearing me right now? People are watching this, watching you pawing other women’s bodies. It’s humiliating."

"I am working, Wendy. You need to get that into that empty head of yours. This is how things are done in this world. You gotta share me with others."

I’m speechless. I don’t really want to argue over this. It’s useless anyway. If he wants to grab other asses in front of the cameras, fine by me.

And Jett’s already turning back to his adoring fans.

I watch him saunter off. Five minutes later, his arm snakes around some redhead's waist.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to block out the sensory overload. The sun beats down on my skin, the heat oppressive and inescapable. The scent of sweat and cheap beer clogs my nostrils, making my stomach churn. I realize I haven’t had breakfast yet. I forgot.

I take a deep breath, the air thick with the weight of my disillusionment. This is my reality, a far cry from the fairy tale I once imagined. But I'll be damned if I let it break me.

I square my shoulders, my resolve hardening like armor. If this is the game, then I'll play it better than anyone. I'll smile and simper and charm my way through this fucking circus.

But in the darkest corners of my heart, I know the truth. This isn't living. It's barely even surviving. And sooner or later, something's gotta give.

The VIP area on a Saturday night is a world unto itself. A glittering bubble of privilege and debauchery. The sun is still up, lingering above the horizon when Jett leads me through the crowd, his possessive hand on the small of my back.

I feel eyes on me, appraising, judging. I tug self-consciously at the hem of my too-short dress, wishing I'd chosen something less revealing. But he asked me to dress nicely, so I listened.

We approach a secluded booth, where Mick and Clem are already seated in the chairs. There’s a collection of bottles and some glasses are on the small table in the center.

"Jett, my man!" Clem gestures at the empty couch. "You killed it last night."

"Thanks. Was a sick set for sure."

The three of them exchange handshakes and back pats.

"Look at this lovely creature." Mick flashes me that nasty smile of his. His eyes rake over me, lingering in places they really shouldn't.

Jett grins and flops onto the couch, oblivious or uncaring that his business partner in the making is paying a little too much attention to his girlfriend.

A couple more guys join us. Shots are poured. Weed appears.

I don’t really feel like drinking today. I’m starting to develop a headache, but the conversation flows smoothly. Lots of talk about money and potential markets and strategies.

So the least I can do is pretend to be enjoying this little get-together.

Things become muddy after a couple of drinks.

Yes, an empty stomach will do that to you.

Eventually, I find myself sandwiched between Jett and Mick, the leather of the seat sticking to my thighs in a way that’s unpleasant.

The table is littered with empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays.

The air is heavy with the stench of cigarette smoke and weed.

Mick signals to a passing waitress, his hand grazing her ass as she leans in to take his order. I look away.

Is this what Jett aspires to? This clichéd caricature of wealth and power?

The waitress returns with a bottle of champagne, the label proclaiming it to be some rare vintage. Mick pops the cork with practiced ease, and the foam spills over onto the table. He fills four flutes, handing them out with a flourish.

"To new partnerships," he toasts, his eyes fixed on me. "And to the beautiful women who inspire us."

I raise my glass, then take a sip, and the champagne is bitter on my tongue.

Jett and Clem are immediately deep in conversation, their heads bent together conspiratorially.

I tune out their talk of market shares and distribution deals as my eyes wander over the people crowding the rest of the tent and the VIP area.

"So what do you do, Wendy?" a voice asks off to the side. "Besides being a beautiful young woman?"

I turn and meet Mick’s gaze.

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my thigh, fingers inching beneath the hem of my dress. I stiffen, and my breath catches in my throat. Mick leans in close, his alcohol breath hot against my ear.

"You know," he murmurs in a suggestive voice. "There's a lot of opportunity in this business. For a girl like you, the sky's the limit."

His hand creeps higher. Yes, I’m buzzed, but not buzzed enough to ignore the fact that his touch is making my skin crawl.

I glance desperately at Jett, but he's lost in his own world, his eyes glazed over as if he’s staring into some far-off universe where he’s the biggest star of the show.

"I think you’re misinterpreting," I tell Mick quietly, hoping that I sound ballsy enough for him to get the hint.

Just as tension knots in the silence, a girl drifts over to Mick's other side. She giggles and slaps his shoulder, inviting him to join her for shots.

Grim relief washes over me. I’m glad the old fart is preoccupied with someone else’s ass, but she’s not much older than me, so I don’t even know what I should feel.

I clear my throat as I lean toward Jett and whisper in his ear, "Hey, babe? Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Jett barely glances my way, his eyes still locked on Clem. "Not now, Wendy. We're in the middle of something."

I press on. "Jett. Please."

He sighs loudly. His face is a huge mask of annoyance as he turns to me. "What is it?"

I lower my voice some more. "It's just... Mick's getting a little handsy. It's making me uncomfortable."

Jett's gaze flicks to Mick, whose hand has already slipped under the girl’s skirt and is very blatantly grabbing her ass check.

"Come on," my boyfriend mutters. "He's just being friendly. Don't make a big deal out of it."

I’m not sure if we’re looking at the same thing anymore. "So you don’t mind if he tries to finger me in front of everyone too?" I hiss out angrily.

"Shut up," he grits out, his eyes flashing with warning. "We need Mick, okay? So just...play nice."

He returns his attention to Clem, their conversation resuming as if I never spoke. I sit back, and my skin crawls as Mick's hand settles on my knee once more.

The music pulses around me. Laughter rings out, shrill and grating.

I feel like I can't breathe.

I thought I wanted this life.

Thought I could handle it.

I was wrong.