Page 16 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

All the hype about The Deviant is real, including the dumb rumors about them being an actual cult.

And every single person gathered in front of the stage is a devout believer.

They know every lyric or when a song will change its pace or when Justice Cross—the stupidly sexy lead singer with his devil-may-care grin—will croon and gasp seductively into the microphone.

They’ll moan and jump with him. And it’s hard to tell if he’s pretending or having an actual orgasm.

It's this kind of alchemy that makes The Deviant concerts feel electric.

I’ve been to plenty of gigs—dragged by Jett to nearly every Sonic Trash spectacle imaginable. But compared to The Deviant? Sonic Trash lives up to its name, mere background noise. And yes, trash.

I have no idea why I never noticed it before.

Maybe all that nonsense Jett’s been saying about a glorious future together blinded me, but now that I stand side stage, watching The Deviant’s brooding bassist playing for a hundred thousand fans and being so cool about it, my eyes have finally been opened.

Jett and I don’t have a future together.

You’re drunk, bitch, a voice in the back of my mind whispers. It sounds a lot like my mother’s—condescending, with that raspy edge from years of smoking.

It’s all those cocktails you downed earlier talking.

I shake it off. I want to enjoy the show, enjoy it without Jett’s obnoxious hugging and screaming.

Even though the sound here isn’t the same as out there, the music still pulses through me like a second heartbeat.

On stage, The Deviant move in a darkly seductive dance, like otherworldly creatures in layers of gothic glamour. I sway on my feet, the vodka from earlier buzzing pleasantly in my head, softening the edges of my surroundings into a neon blur.

Some guy with a loopy smile hands me a drink.

"For me?" I mouth at him, hesitating. I know better than to take drinks from strangers. What if it’s spiked?

The guys nods. "You look lonely, hon."

I open my mouth to object, but he shouts, "I promise I didn’t roofie it."

I take it gingerly.

The girl next to me, who witnessed the interaction, leans in and says loudly into my ear as if to reassure me, "That's TJ. He throws cash around like confetti. Buys drinks for everyone. Solid dude."

When I glance back to where the guy just stood, he’s already long gone. His silhouette is somewhere further down the side stage, shaking hands with some heavily tattooed guys.

Fuck it.

I take a sip. The alcohol slides down my throat like a warm river.

For a moment, I lose myself in the primal energy of it all.

I’m allowed to have fun, and if you’re at the festival The Deviant is headlining and have an opportunity to watch probably one of the biggest bands in the world right now, it would be dumb to forego it in favor of Jett’s drunk, boring, and awfully suspicious company.

The band is three songs in when my phone lights up in my hand. Jett's name flashes insistently on the screen, and reality comes crashing back in fragmentary texts.

where r u?

babe?

come back

Wendy, srsly?

whr r u?

need to close this deal baby come help ur boi

guys want to hang with u

please

please my pretty pretty girl

I stare at the glowing screen, squinting to make out the words through the haze of intoxication. In my head, I can practically hear Jett’s petulant voice.

this is for us

we gonna be rich

help me out

Mick got us our own bus come on over

I have this dreadful gut feeling. I didn’t like that Jett ignored my pointing out that Mick got too handsy. I left for that reason alone—I ejected myself from the situation I wasn’t comfortable in. But where did I go? To watch other men pretty much simulate sexual acts on stage.

Does that make me any better than Jett?

Probably no.

I hate this conflicting emotion in me, and I suppose the good, loyal Wendy wins.

With an exasperated sigh, I shove my phone back into my pocket and push my way through the crowd.

I stumble through the labyrinth of backstage, where roadies and techs run around, where the occasional VIP lounges against a wall, and where everyone’s awash in frenetic energy from the show. I feel unsteady, the floor seeming to shift beneath my feet as I walk.

I’ve had too much to drink, I realize.

Once I'm far enough from the pounding of the instruments to hear myself think, I fumble for my phone and dial Jett's number. I can’t be bothered with roaming charges right now. If he closes the deal, I’ll just ask him to cover my phone bill.

"Where are you?" Jett yells on the line. "Come on, Wendy. It’s no fun without you."

"On my way back." Do I tell him I went to see The Deviant’s set? No, probably not. He’ll blow up.

"We got our own bus." Jett proceeds to explain where I need to go, and I do my best to memorize it.

Merch stands.

VIP lounge.

To the left of the Ferris wheel.

"You got it?" Jett asks when he’s done screaming instructions.

"Yeah. I think so."

"Then get your perky ass in here. Everyone’s waiting for you."

"For me?"

"Seriously, baby, just come back. I wanna get this vodka deal done tonight. It’s for you."

I know better than to believe a word he’s saying. Nothing has been done for me this entire weekend. But he’s my boyfriend, and if he’s asking for help, I’ll do it. I’ll go and smile prettily and pretend that I like the attention of his disgusting business partners.

I’m afraid to think beyond the idea of what may happen if I tell him no. I do live with him. He feeds me, clothes me, lets me do whatever I desire in his place.

It’s an even trade-off.

That’s how our relationship works.

When I finally locate the bus Jett mentioned, I have to grab onto the doorframe for balance before hauling myself up the steps.

Inside, I'm greeted by a typical scene of debauchery. Jett, Mick, and Clem are sprawled out on the couches, drinks in hand, a haze of smoke hovering in the air. There’s a hookah in the middle of the table, which is littered with empty bottles and lines of coke.

They look up at my entrance, three predatory gazes zeroing in on me.

"There she is," Jett slurs, and a lazy grin spreads across his face. "My ride or die."

He reaches for me, pulling me down onto his lap before I can protest. His mouth finds mine, his kiss sloppy and aggressive. I taste vodka and cigarettes.

I try to pull back, but his grip only tightens as his hands roam possessively over my body.

I don’t mind him doing this when we’re alone, but I don’t know how I feel about the other two men being present in the room.

"Jett, come on, stop," I mutter, finally getting enough leverage to draw his face away from mine. "I don’t think this is appropriate."

"What are you talking about, Wends?"

"There are people here?" I whisper at him over the noise of the background music.

"So what?" He blinks at me blankly, and I wonder if he hears what I’m saying at all.

"What do you mean so what?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mick rising from the couch across the room and moving to sit on ours. He slides closer, his hand creeping up my bare shoulder.

An unpleasant shiver runs down my spine.

"Jett," I mumble against his mouth as he kisses me again. I’m trying to squirm away, but all the drinks are hitting me hard now. It’s like I’m on the outskirts of my own consciousness, sandwiched between the two of them, their touches growing bolder by the second.

Jett's lips brush my ear as he whispers, "You'll enjoy taking on three dicks. I want to fuck your ass, Mick'll take your pussy, and Clem'll fuck your mouth."

His words hit me like a bucket of ice water, and a chill of revulsion rushes through me. But it's like I'm observing it all from outside my own body, too drunk and disoriented to mount a proper defense.

Their hands are all over me, tugging at my clothes. I make a feeble attempt at batting them away, but it's useless. In a matter of moments, they have me stripped down to my bra and panties, and

I find myself standing in front of the couch. Jett’s face is swimming in my line of vision, fuzzy and distorted. Behind me, Mick presses himself against my back, and I can feel his erection.

My stomach churns.

His hands snake around and grab at my breasts. Jett drops to his knees and starts to lower the zipper on my left boot.

"No," Mick says. "Have her leave them on," he instructs.

I'm trembling now, acutely aware of my own vulnerability as I watch Jett ripping off his own shirt. When I look at his inked chest, I feel absolutely nothing. He doesn’t turn me on like before. He disgusts me.

"I don’t wanna do this," I say.

"We'll all make you feel good," he insists, his voice impatient. "You're gonna enjoy this."

"I don’t wanna do this," I repeat.

"You’ll love it," Mick says in my ear. "You’ll love having all your tiny holes stuffed." His hands are still on my breasts, pawing. Asshole doesn’t even know what to do with a woman’s body.

It's then that a surge of clarity pierces the drunk fog in my brain. The full magnitude of what they're proposing hits me. Gang rape. That's what this is.

Panic rises in my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs. I can't do this. I won't! With a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, I swipe Mick's hands away and lunge for my dress and Cruz’s laminate on the floor.

"What the fuck, Wends?" Jett shrieks as I elbow him in the stomach.

"What the fuck, Jett?" I blurt out, taking a step back.

My eyes dart to Mick, who’s observing us with cool indifference.

Clem is laughing while sipping on a beer. "Real feisty, that one," he comments.

"Relax, baby girl," Mick says, unbuttoning his shirt and taking a step in my direction.

I glance around the bus nervously while clutching the dress and the band pass. I have to go through Jett and Mick to get to the door.

"I’m leaving," I declare and start walking.

Jett puts himself in my path and grabs at my shoulders. "You’re not. We’re gonna have some fun."