Page 15 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

"I gotta tell you something, Sam. You’re too cute to be working with a bunch of assholes like us." He reaches up, his fingers inching toward a strand of her hair. But Sam’s too quick. She straightens before he can grasp anything more than air.

"Hey, dude," I cut in smoothly, catching his attention. "You alright?"

"Never better, man." His grin is lopsided but genuine as he then lunges for my hair, his grip firm and unapologetic.

"Seriously, man," I grumble through clenched teeth as I work on freeing myself from his vice-like clutch. "Let go."

Chance chuckles obnoxiously, slurring out a tipsy "snip, snip" while crafting scissors with the fingers of his free hand. The memory bites. Asshole tried to give me a haircut a couple of weeks ago while I was asleep. I’m still pissed at him. If not for Justice and Zander, I’d be a bald motherfucker right now.

"Hey, dude," our drummer steps in. "We’re about to hit the stage. What do you wanna do?"

"Stage?" Chance drawls, looking at us with his glazed eyes like we’ve all just grown extra limbs.

"Lookit, buddy," Angelo says sternly. "If you want to take a night off, you need to tell me right now."

In the corner, Samantha is shaking her head. Her mouth is a thin line, her posture rigid.

"Dude?" Zander whispers. "You think you can stand?"

We all know that if Chance can’t get up, we won’t have a guitar player, and we’re the fucking headliner. Canceling the show is not an option. With so many people in attendance, it could turn into a riot.

"Oh, we got a set to play," Chance mutters as if his memory has finally returned.

"Yes." I nod. "We’re the headliner. Remember?"

Chance attempts to push himself off the couch to no avail.

Time seems to pass in uneven intervals as Justice and Zander attempt to get Chance up.

"Just leave him," I snap, dropping to my knees beside our guitarist. His skin is ghostly under the harsh light of the dressing room. "Look at him! He needs a hospital, not a fucking stage."

Angelo's eyes flash with desperation. "We can't cancel. Not now. First of all, the label will have our heads. Second, have you seen that crowd? We’ve got over a hundred thousand people who paid a lot of money to see you guys play."

I glance toward the door, where anticipation seems to seep through from outside—an invisible tide pressing against the thin walls, ready to burst at any moment.

"What do you suppose we do?"

"We can ask Jeff," Zander suggests. Jeff is the guy who plays guitar for the band that went on before us.

"He doesn’t know the songs," Justice says.

"It’s better than no guitar at all," I argue.

"Fuck Jeff," Chance mumbles, waving his hands haphazardly. "I got it. Just give me a minute."

But a minute turns into five, then ten, then fifteen.

Eventually, there’s a knock on the door. The tour manager's checking on us. Angelo steps out for a moment to talk, then returns wearing an even darker expression. He orders everyone but the three of us to leave.

As soon as the door shuts, he says, "Not performing is not an option tonight. The crowd is drunk and getting rowdy. He has to go on."

"He can’t." I motion at Chance’s slumped form.

"Where does he keep his stash?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I mean where does his keep his drugs?" Angelo stresses every word with a frown creasing his forehead.

"You want to shoot him up?" Justice whispers the question.

"Do you idiots understand what will happen with a crowd like the one we have here tonight if you don’t go on? I don’t want a repeat of St. Louis in ’91. Do you?"

"We’re better off asking Jeff or some other guitarist," I persist. "We’ve got options. It’s not like we’re the only band on the bill."

"Not when we have to be on stage in the next ten minutes."

Another insistent knock.

"What?" Angelo barks.

The door cracks open and a face pops into the room. I’ve seen the guy around. He’s with the organizers. "Hey, guys. Everything good?" he asks with heavy German accent. "It’s getting pretty wild out there. People are starting to get a little anxious."

I check the time on my phone. It’s five minutes past the announced set time.

"We’re almost ready," our manager replies. Then as soon as the door closes, he turns to us and says, "Get me some H. Now."

"Are you serious?" I blurt out.

"We'll bring him back just enough to play," Angelo says.

"No way." I grab Angelo's arm. "More drugs? That's what got him here in the first place!"

"You want to flush everything we've worked for down the toilet?" Angelo yanks his arm free. "He has to get through the set, or these people are going to destroy the entire field." He’s waving his index finger in the direction of the door as he speaks.

"Cruz, we don’t have a choice," Zander says solemnly, and the finality in his voice twists my insides.

Deep down, I understand what a hundred thousand drunk, disorderly fans can do to a venue if they aren’t given what they came for.

It isn’t only about the destruction of property.

It’s about people ending up hurt, with broken bones and concussions.

But I also don’t want to see my friend falling further into the void.

"Cruz," Justice whispers from across the room, where he’s standing with his arms folded on his chest. "We have to play, and we have no time to look for his replacement. Even if we can get someone who’s just as good on a guitar, what are the chances they know our songs? Having someone fuck up the entire set would be worse than giving him what he’s already taking.

" Justice jerks his chin toward Chance still splayed out on the couch.

"And what about all the women in the audience when things get wild? "

I clench my fists, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is wrong, so fucking wrong. But I can hear the crowd chanting our name, the energy electric and dark even from back here.

"Fuck," I breathe out.

"Let's get this over with before it's too late," Angelo instructs.

Zander leaves the dressing room, grabbing one of the security guards who’s standing just outside to go with him.

He returns a few minutes later and presses a small baggie into Angelo's palm.

I can’t watch it. Can’t watch how they shoot my friend up. I turn around and stare at the wall, waiting for them to be done.

"Come on, buddy," I can hear Angelo murmuring. "Just a little taste to get you back on your feet."

Then there’s a sharp inhale. I turn around, bile rising in my throat, and see Chance's eyelids flutter. Angelo sits him up and slaps his cheeks lightly.

"There we go, champ. You've got this."

Chance sways, his eyes glassy and unfocused at first. I step forward and grip his shoulder. "You okay, man?"

"You think you can play?" Zander asks quietly, raking his hand through Chance’s hair to push it off his forehead.

Chance grins at us and slurs out, "S'all good, m’dudes. M'ready to rock…" His pupils are now big and black and scary. The drugs are working.

I step aside and move to stand next to Justice as Angelo and Zander help Chance get up from the couch.

"This is fucked, man," I whisper at our lead singer. "He needs rehab, not another fix."

"Don’t need a lecture from you right now. You know we have no option but to play."

On the other side of the room, Angelo claps Chance on the back, shooting us a triumphant look. "See? He's fine. Now get your shit together. We've got a show to do."

I watch them stumble out into the corridor as my stomach churns with fear.

I take a deep breath and follow, praying that we make it through the night unscathed. But deep down, I know we're just postponing the inevitable crash.

And when it comes, it's going to be ugly as hell.

The stage plunges into darkness. and the roar of the crowd behind the wall of props is an ominous echo that demands attention.

When the lights flicker teasingly, I'm pacing restlessly in the corner, observing Di fussing over Chance.

He's somehow on his feet, looking all fidgety.

The paint somewhat covers the dark circles that ring his eyes, but his hands tremble as he reaches for a bottle of whiskey.

I turn away, unable to watch him poison himself further.

The chaos of the pre-show prep—techs rushing by, groupies with smeared lipstick and hungry eyes standing around, management screaming orders—all seems so familiar, yet tonight, it feels sinister.

Like we're wobbling on the brink of something terrible.

And it’s not because we’re running behind.

I'm rooted in place before the gear stand, my arms rigid at my sides. My tech is securing my bass guitar against me when, suddenly, a blazing flash of orange explodes in the crowd of guests gathered backstage.

Wendy.

"Hey, give me a sec." I clap my guy on the shoulder and push past the guests to get closer to her.

She smiles as soon as our eyes meet and then shifts uncomfortably, clutching the band pass I gave her with one hand and pulling at the short dress she’s wearing with the other.

I'm beside her immediately, and I feel like I'm back in my awkward teenage years, likely blushing beneath the face paint. "You came," I say, my voice unintentionally turning it into more of a question.

"Yes," she replies, her eyes darting around briefly. "It's hectic back here."

"We're behind schedule," I tell her as I gently place my hand on her lower back and pull her slightly closer to let a stage crew member rush past.

I’m not trying to find ways to touch her. It’s an honest attempt to keep her out of harm’s way, but this sudden closeness amplifies all my senses.

I do my best to ignore the way her hair smells like vanilla or the soft warmth radiating off her skin.

Now isn't the time for distractions, but I can't help wanting to shield her from all of this—the drugs, the anarchy, the darkness that lurks beneath the glittering facade of rock stardom.

The darkness that has already consumed Chance.

My gaze travels over her, taking in the slightly smudged eyeliner, the bright lipstick, the heavy boots, the leather choker.

She's trying so hard to fit in, and she’s doing it really well, but something tells me she doesn’t really want to.

The uncertainty in her eyes, the way she worries her bottom lip.

"You look beautiful," I say, my voice rough with unspoken emotion.

A flicker of surprise crosses her face, followed by a soft, genuine smile. "Thank you. To be honest, this dress is a size too small."

"Looks good on you."

"I’m glad."

I lean in and whisper in her ear, "But I’m sure you’d look good in anything."

For a moment, we just stand there, lost in our own little world.

But the spell is broken almost immediately by a drunk laugh coming from one of Justice’s groupies stumbling past in a cloud of perfume and booze.

Reality comes crashing back, and I remember where we are. What I have to do.

"We’re on in five!" Angelo shouts from somewhere off to the side.

The pre-show track blasting from the speakers is already playing, whipping the eager audience into a frenzy of excited shouts.

The lights flicker again a few times. I know that out there, in front of the stage, people are getting glimpses of what they’re about to witness.

I know some have seen us before and some are here for the first time, and it’s my job to give these people what they want, to get them moving, to allow them to experience our music with every fiber in their body.

I squeeze Wendy's hand before letting it go. "Enjoy the show. I'll see you after, okay?"

She waves the pass in front of my face. "You sure they won’t be kicking anyone out again like last night?"

"Not with this. Wanna come hang out with us when we’re done?"

She hesitates for a heartbeat.

"I promise we’re cool," I reassure her.

Finally, she nods. "Yeah. Okay."

"Awesome. Then I’ll see you after the set."

With one last lingering look, I turn away, steeling myself for the ninety minutes that are about to follow.

"So that's where the pass disappeared to," Justice rumbles to my left as I start walking toward the stage entrance. Entitled asshole sounds a bit too cheeky. He even has the audacity to elbow me in my ribs. He must be high too. Sober, he’s a grump.

"None of your business," I mutter, elbowing him back.

"If you plan on getting into her panties, you better hurry up and make a move. She could be gone tomorrow."

"Fuck off, like for real."

I block out his words. Wendy just doesn’t seem like that kind of girl, like someone for a one-night stand.

My hand is resting on the body of my bass as I edge closer to the curtain, putting myself into the circle we usually form right before the set. An awkward group hug takes place.

Tonight is our last night performing here.

Justice is right. Most bands and their crews will be returning home or getting back on the road in the morning.

As for us, after a couple of days off, the endless hotel rooms and late-night partying will resume.

We just started this tour leg. And somehow, we’ll have to suffer through the rest of it with Sonic Trash as our opening act.

What a fucking disaster.

But for now, we play. We play until our fingers bleed and our voices give out. We play because that’s what The Deviant does. We entertain.