Page 2 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

The entrance to the fenced-off festival grounds is right across the parking lot, and once I’ve gotten enough oxygen into my lungs, I square my shoulders and start walking.

Alright, Jett. You want me to come to you? Fine. But you better be ready for the hell I'm about to bring.

Turns out, bringing hell past security isn’t that easy.

"Pass?" a beefy guy at the entrance asks.

"I’m with Sonic Trash," I supply.

"Sure. Still need a pass."

"I haven’t gotten one yet. I just flew in."

I'm jostled from all sides by a group of people rushing to get past the guard. They wave their laminates and disappear inside.

"Look, mister," I say flatly, "I had a really long flight. I’m tired.

I need a shower and a nap. Do I look like a band stalker to you?

" I gesture at my luggage. I’m feeling all the things I just described to the beefy guy.

Filthy and exhausted. And lacking enough mental capacity to solve the pass problem right now.

"Look, lady." The guard’s face remains a mask. "No one’s allowed inside without a pass. Including artists."

"My boyfriend’s band is play?—"

"Sorry, sweetie, but festival rules are rules.

" Another security guy—clearly with more compassion—steps in.

"Too many big names on the bill for us to be risking our necks for you. Your boyfriend should have arranged for the pass in advance if he knew you were coming. Nothing a quick call can’t solve. "

Easy for you to say, buddy. Your partner probably doesn’t hang up on you every time you try to get them to talk to you on the phone.

"Holla at your guy inside," the nicer security guard instructs. "Have him meet you here."

My temper’s fraying at the edges at the thought of Jett.

I'm pretty sure thinking about your boyfriend is only supposed to bring joyous feelings, so I blame my strange emotions on exhaustion.

You’re tired.

Any woman who just flew across the globe would be cranky.

That’s right. Makes total sense.

Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I fish out my phone and dial Jett's number. Again.

This time, he picks up.

"Hey!" I don’t bother with a greeting. The more minutes I use, the higher my cell phone bill will be. So, no, not wasting time on pleasantries. "I'm at the artists’ entrance, but they won't let me in without a pass. And you weren’t picking up your phone. Can you come sort this out?"

There's a long pause. "Wendy? Yeah, yeah, I'll handle it. Just...just wait there, okay?"

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in disbelief, then shove it back into my pocket with a mumbled curse.

Minutes crawl by, each one ratcheting up the tension in my shoulders, the ache in my arms from lugging around my overstuffed bags. I shouldn’t have brought so much stuff, but I wanted to look nice for him. At this point, I don’t think he cares.

"Wendy Fields?" a scrawny roadie shouts from the entrance. There’s a laminated pass dangling from his fingers.

I wave at him from my spot by the fence. "Here."

He jogs up. "Hey, how are ya? You Jett’s girl?"

I nod, reaching for the pass emblazoned with the Sonic Trash logo. The word Staff is printed in bold letters underneath it.

"You good?" the roadie asks. "Cuz I gotta get back."

I really hope he’ll be a gentleman and offer to help with my bags, but he runs off.

After I loop the pass around my neck, I haul my luggage through the entrance and inside the fenced-off area.

I’ve been to these things back home plenty of times.

Jett’s been touring nonstop ever since we met, and he’s been dragging me along to quite a few festivals all over the States. From California to Florida.

The chaos in Germany isn’t much different from the chaos in America. Just a lot of foreign speech.

Construction for some of the festival's entertainment is still in progress. Vendor stands, food trucks, a couple of smaller stages. Some of the signs that direct traffic into correct zones are still being erected, and navigating the field while prep is unfinished is a bit challenging.

That's when I realize I don't know where to meet Jett. He mentioned a hotel when he told me about the tickets. I better ask someone. With that thought, I stop the first guy I see.

"Hey, do you know where the hotel is?"

The guy scratches his head, looking uncertain. "Hotel? Pretty sure that's outside the festival grounds, mate." He’s got that heavy British accent I sometimes can’t understand. "Bands are all staying in the tour buses and tents back here." He jerks his finger to point behind his back.

No hotel? My stomach sinks. "Right… Okay. Can you just point me in the direction of Sonic Trash’s camp, then?"

The guy gestures vaguely toward a cluster of vehicles and tents on the far side of the backstage area. "Over there. Can't miss it. Look for the one with all the empty beer cans piled outside."

Wonderful. Fucking fantastic.

"Thanks."

"Have fun, mate."

Fun? Fun is the last thing I’m having right now.

With a sigh, I start trudging in the direction he indicated. All I want is to dump my stuff, take a shower, and sleep for about a year. I’ll sleep on a couch without a pillow at this point.

And then, when I’m rested, Jett and I are going to have a serious talk about his idea of "taking care of me." Because this? This is bullshit, and I'm not putting up with it anymore.

I just hope I can keep my resolve once I'm face to face with him again. Jett has a way of making me forget why I'm angry, of sweet-talking me into forgiving him no matter how badly he's fucked up.

But not this time. This time, things are going to change.

They have to.