Page 14 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

The tour bus is a cocoon of clashing scents—sweaty T-shirts, stale cigarette smoke curling through the air, and that sharp chemical bite of cocaine.

The strap of my bass digs into my shoulder as I adjust it for comfort.

I’ve got a tune in my head that I’ve been messing around with.

Nothing solid. Just something I may pitch the next time we get together to write a new song.

Right now, though, it’s not about creating anything new. It’s about the chaos and the fun.

Across from me, Chance is sprawled out on the couch like a king without a court, his eyes two black holes engorged with euphoria. His grin is loose and lazy; he’s lost in whatever high he's riding again. I don’t think he’s been sober or clear-headed during this entire tour leg.

Zander sits in the makeup chair while Di carefully applies the intricate designs around his eyes, transforming him into the masked madman behind the drums that our fans worship a little too much.

Justice paces back and forth in the narrow aisle, his fingers twitching restlessly at his sides. I don’t know what his problem is today, but I remind myself not to get on his bad side.

"How’s it looking, boys?" Angelo asks, boarding the bus. "Are you ready to rock this place or what?"

"We were born ready, my man," Chance pipes up.

I watch him taking another hit of his joint, which I know isn’t the only thing he’s taken tonight. A knot twists in my gut. This isn't like the old days when we'd pass one around to take the edge off before a show. The hard stuff Chance is into now—it's going to burn him out way too fast.

I rise from my spot and sit next to him.

"Yo," I whisper, leaning into him a little. "Maybe ease up a bit, huh?"

Chance chuckles and waves off my concern with a dismissive hand. "Always the worrywart. Tonight's going to be epic."

His words slur slightly, and I exchange a loaded glance with Justice. We both see it, the way the drugs are eating Chance alive, but no one wants to be the buzzkill who takes away his poison. Truth is, there’s no time for him to get his shit together with the kind of schedule we have.

Chance offers me a rolled-up bill, a challenge in his bloodshot eyes. "C'mon, live a little." He pulls out a packet of coke from the back pocket of his pants.

I shake my head. "Nah, man, I'm good. One of us needs to keep our head on straight."

Chance shrugs and takes another hit of his joint and then sniffs a line.

Justice pops a couple of pills and chases them with a swig of whiskey. I absently pick at the skull tattoo on my forearm, wishing I could shake the sinking feeling that everything's about to crash and burn.

We're brothers in the spotlight, feeding off the energy of the crowd, but here in the shadows, I wonder how much longer we can keep up the act before it all falls apart. Chance most of all.

When we step out of the tour bus, the air feels muggy and the sky is heavy with rain clouds.

The distant roar of the crowd bleeds into the chaotic energy of the working crew backstage.

We have one interview before tonight’s set, and, of course, we’re in full gear, our stage outfits and makeup on.

Six security guards escort us to the media tent, where Justice and Zander ramble through the questions using their rehearsed answers.

After the interview is over, we’re bombarded by fanboys from smaller bands trying to get autographs and photos.

I don’t mind it. Ten years ago, I was that dude, someone who looked up to other major bands, someone who wanted to get to the same place where I’ve arrived.

To this place of fame and fortune. But it’s dreary here. Dreary and lonely.

"Guys, sorry!" Angelo shouts over the din of the crowd, waving his hands at everyone. "But we have a set to play."

He navigates through the sea of bodies with an urgency matched by the pulse of anticipation in the air, gently but firmly coaxing people aside.

It isn’t until we make it to the main stage that I notice that our guitarist isn’t with us.

"You seen Chance?" I ask Zander.

He shakes his head. "I thought he was with you."

"Do you see him with me?"

"Probably went to take a piss or something."

I scan the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of Chance, but he's nowhere. I mean, he’s hard to miss with that makeup on.

A sense of dread coils in my gut as I weave through the throng of people. The drums from the current act on stage reverberate through my bones, only amplifying my anxiety.

Where the hell is that big motherfucking baby?

"Yo, Petey?" I stop one of the crew guys. "Have you seen Chance?"

He scratches the back of his neck, thinking for a second. "Nah, man. I thought he was with your lot."

My panic is on the rise now as I push past the clusters of people, inspecting every nook and cranny, every restless shadow.

I can hear the roar of the crowd, drowning out everything for a few moments.

It’s a thundering crescendo of applause as the band before us finishes their last song and is about to clear the stage.

And we’re missing our fucking guitarist. Great. Fucking great.

Justice and two security guards intercept me on the opposite side of the backstage area.

"Chance’s missing," our lead singer announces with a pissed-off face as he pulls me aside. Even a layer of makeup can’t hide that goddamned frown crossing his forehead.

"I fucking know. I’ve been searching for him."

"Shit," he mutters, looking up at the sky.

Zander rushes over from out of nowhere. "Did you check the bathrooms?" he asks.

"Already covered that," Justice answers, the tension in every word growing tighter.

"What about the women’s?"

"The women’s?" I clarify, my eyebrows raised.

"Did you fucking see him?" Zander presses, lowering his tone to a growl. "Do you really think he'd notice right now what bathroom he’s using? He’s probably so high, he thinks he's goddamned Jesus walking on water."

"And how exactly is this my problem?" I fire back, frustration flaring up unexpectedly. The question seems irrational—I know it—but in this madness, my mind isn’t reasoning very well. I’ve been lowkey pissed off about Jett Vice all day today and also worried about Chance.

Apparently, for good reason too. Although everyone had access to drugs, most of us managed to steer clear. But not him.

"Nobody’s saying it’s your problem, asshole," Zander hisses out.

"Come on, Z-man." Justice rests a hand on our drummer’s shoulder. For once, he’s actually doing what a guy in charge is supposed to do. The opposite of instigating a fight.

I’m quiet, my jaw clenched, my fists tight. There’s a sheen of sweat coating the back of my neck underneath my hair, and I’m not liking the direction this evening is taking or the dynamics between us. Going on stage when chemistry is off is the worst.

Plus, our guitarist is missing.

"Hey, you three!" Angelo shouts.

We all turn in the direction of his voice.

"Get your asses over here! Now!" he barks, snapping his fingers before vanishing around the corner.

We bolt, security hot on our heels, adrenaline spiking like electricity crackling through a wire. We dodge and weave through a labyrinth of roadies dismantling equipment from the stage, then barrel past crowds of scantily clad girls partying with other bands.

The narrow passageway leading into the guts of the arena feels suffocating amidst its tangle of wires and fluorescent lights.

Up ahead, Angelo is hunched in predator-like readiness behind a stack of battered black travel cases plastered with stickers. And slumped against the stone wall is Chance—ashen-faced, with slick beads of perspiration covering his skin.

Oh shit.

"Close it up!" Justice commands, gesturing wildly for security to scatter and redirect the masses. Instinct takes over as they spin people around with professional precision, sealing away this pocket of vulnerability from curious eyes.

"He's barely breathing," Angelo supplies, his fingers pressed against Chance's neck.

Next to me, Zander is starting to freak out. He’s pacing in small circles as he runs his hands over his dirty-blond hair. "The show starts in twenty. What are we gonna do?"

"Just hold on." I drop into a crouch next to Angelo and slap Chance’s cheek gently. "Hey, man. You hear me?"

Seconds tick by excruciatingly slowly.

"Hey, bro?" I press on.

"We need to get him up," Angelo says, his eyes darting like skittish fireflies in the dusk, checking to see if the coast is clear.

His hand flickers through the air as he signals to two guards.

I rise to my feet. "Listen, he's not in any shape to perform," I tell our manager, my voice serious amid the distant thrill of the crowd filtering through the walls.

Angelo acknowledges with a nod. "I see that."

"Let’s just get him out of here first," Zander suggests, gesticulating wildly.

"Take him to the dressing room," Justice adds.

The security guards hoist Chance between them to guide him away from prying eyes. We move as one shadowed entity down corridors and into the band’s dressing room.

There, we carefully arrange Chance on the couch, and Angelo kicks out everyone but the band and a single guard.

"Anyone know what he took?" our manager asks, his gaze darting between the three of us.

There’s a knock on the door. "Not right now!" he snaps.

"It’s Samantha," a voice shouts from outside, then the door swings open and our PR girl slips in. She moves to the center of the room and stares at Chance for a few seconds. "What’s he on?"

"Probably coke," Zander pipes up, rubbing the back of his neck.

"He did some H earlier," Justice says with a heavy sigh.

"You gotta be kidding me," Angelo mutters under his breath. "What is this dufus thinking?"

"He’s not," I murmur under my breath.

Samantha approaches the couch and shakes Chance’s shoulder. "Hey, you think you can do the show, or do you want to take the night off?"

He offers her a loopy smile. "Hey, Sam…Sammy…"

"Chance?"