Page 17 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

"It won’t be fun for me." My tongue feels heavy, and I don’t sound like myself.

The part of me that’s scared understands that I’m at a disadvantage here, and if they want to fuck me, they will, and there’s not much I can do about it.

But my drunk mind always likes to make everything attainable, and my focus is on the door.

"It’s not like you’re a fucking virgin, Wends," Jett slurs.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shove at his chest with my fist to put some sort of distance between us. My head’s spinning and I’m shaking.

It’s the fear and the anger that’s raging through me.

"You want that fucking vodka deal so bad? Huh, Jett? So bad you’d let those stupid jerks gang-rape me? "

"Whoa, whoa, honey, don’t call things what they aren’t," Clem's voice drifts lazily from the couch, thick with false calmness.

"We’re all adults here," Jett adds, leaning in my direction. "Just having a good time."

"You." I stab my finger at him, but my heartbeat is fast and uneven, and it’s hard to speak all of a sudden. " You’re having a good time." I spin around toward Mick, who dares to inch closer. "And you! Don’t you fucking dare touch me again."

The air is so taut with tension that even the leather couches seem to exhale unease.

Jim Morrison's gravelly hymn wafts from the hidden speakers, dancing against ears that are already too raw from shouting disputes.

Every surface feels sticky—a blend of old whiskey spills and unspoken threats lingering beneath fingertips.

And there's a pungent scent—cigarettes smoldering down to ghosts of themselves, mixed ominously with something sharper—sinister sweetness that’s almost like betrayal distilled into aroma.

"I think you should chill, Wends," Jett speaks.

Mick, the old crank, nods toward the table, where a solitary white line of cocaine waits to be sniffed. "Why not take the edge off, darling? It’ll feel better."

"Shut up!" I snap, needing a moment of silence to put my thoughts together. My eyes dart around the bus, measuring the narrow spaces on either side of Jett’s frame. He’s not a big guy. I can easily knock him down. A knee to his balls and I’m free.

"Don’t be a difficult cunt, beautiful," Mick hisses. "Your boy here said you’re cool."

"I told you to shut up!"

I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe, and I won’t be able to stand on two feet for much longer. I can feel the pull of gravity amplified by the effects of the alcohol.

Jett says something else, but I'm not listening anymore. I snatch a half-empty bottle of beer from the table and crack it against the edge. Glass shatters. Beer spills to the floor and onto my boots.

"The fuck, Wends!"

"Hey, there’s no need for that," another voice says. I can’t tell if it’s Mick or his sidekick. My vision is swimming. They’re all just blurred shapes now, sounding like robots.

I punch out the broken bottle into the empty space in front of me. "I’ll fucking maim you if any of you motherfuckers tries anything."

I press the dress and the laminate to my chest and make a break for the door.

Sheer terror propels me forward, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jett's furious shouts chase after me as I burst out of the bus and sprint through the cool night air, wearing nothing but my bra, panties, and boots.

But I don't stop running. I can't. All I know is that I have to get as far away from that nightmare as I can.

I run without looking back for what seems like forever. I’m so afraid that if I pause to look back and see if Jett’s following—even for a second—I’ll get dragged back onto that bus.

My legs are burning from exertion and my pulse pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out all the other post-show sounds.

I'm dizzy, disoriented, and my mind’s spiraling from too much alcohol and adrenaline.

Still, I don't stop running. Some primal instinct keeps my feet moving against the pavement and grass as I flee deeper into the labyrinth of trailers and equipment.

Everywhere I look, debris from the festival litters the ground—discarded cups, crumpled setlists, broken glow sticks trampled into the field.

Lights flicker and buzz, painting the night with chaotic hues.

But the crowds are dispersing, and the crew’s working hard to clear the space and pack up the equipment.

It's like I've stumbled into some dystopian aftermath, a world after the party ends.

"Looking hot there, cutie." Someone in a group of guys I pass laughs. A whistle follows.

I round a corner and finally come to a stop near an empty media tent, my chest heaving.

It takes me a few moments to realize that it’s actually pretty cold.

My skin prickles from the temperature drop, goosebumps rising on my arms and legs.

I'm suddenly acutely aware of my own state of undress as I stand there in nothing but my underwear.

With trembling hands, I pull my dress back over my head. The fabric feels insubstantial, but it's better than nothing. I zip it up with clumsy fingers, willing my rapid breaths to slow.

I glance around while attempting to get my bearings. I'm on some kind of access road behind the main stage, hemmed in by looming scaffolding and idle equipment trucks.

I start walking before someone spots me. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Fuck, I can hardly get enough oxygen into my lungs.

I walk and walk and walk until I can make out a collection of buses parked further down the path.

One of them is clearly The Deviant's bus.

I know because the band’s name is painted in huge shiny letters. It’s impossible to miss. Even though I’m drunk.

It’s like they want everyone to know who they are.

I start toward it on shaky legs, my progress slow and faltering. But with each step, my doubt grows as my stomach clenches with anxiety.

If you still think Jett is going to give you the future you want, you’re one dumb bitch, Wendy Fields.

Run while you can.

So I do.

I run to where every drunk hormonal twenty-two-year-old girl runs when she finds out her man is a total shithead—into the arms of another man.