Page 20 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

I’m not sure what time I wake up the next day.

All the windows are shut, and the dim bus is empty and quiet.

I stare at the bunk above me for a long stretch of time, trying to piece together last night’s events.

The set itself. The crowd. Chance high and making mistakes on almost every solo—fans will trash-talk him for weeks after this disaster.

Justice being moody and inadequate for no reason, except maybe because of Chance’s fuckups.

Zander in complete denial. Angelo always yelling.

Amidst this jumble of unpleasant memories, there's just one I want to remember—Wendy kissing me.

Wendy as in Jett’s girlfriend.

The idea of that fucktard somehow being in the picture riles me up.

The longer I lie here, the louder it is, my thoughts drumming like the crowd's pre-show noise.

Is she safe?

Where did she go when she ran off?

It’s hard to let it go. I throw off the blanket and roll to the side, then get to my feet. I try to shake off the obsession before it sinks any deeper. Unfortunately, it’s too late. It already has its claws in me.

I clean up, put on a fresh change of clothes, and step outside. The day is gray; the light is thin, hardly reaching from beyond the clouds.

Chance is leaning against the bus, a cigarette stuck on between his lips, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

"Hey," I say as I take a couple of steps in his direction.

He coughs and shrugs, flicks an ash off his sleeve. "Hey, lover boy. Sleep well?"

"Not really." I was too tired when I got back to the bus last night. "You?"

Chance looks up to the sky and takes a long drag. "Like a fucking baby, man."

"No shit. You were halfway dead." I shake my head.

"Yeah. Definitely was a mess yesterday," he mutters, and it’s almost a laugh. I want to tell him to maybe reassess his health, see a goddamned doctor. But motherfucker is stubborn. He won’t listen to me.

"Justice and Zander still alive?" I say instead.

"Out. Went to town. Bar hopping."

That explains why the bus was empty when I woke up. "This early?"

He shrugs, pulls on the cigarette again, and the tip glows for a second like it might last forever, then dies. "What’s your excuse for being here, man?" He smirks through the smoke. "I thought you were right behind them."

"Wasn’t really feeling it."

I want to ask if he’s seen Wendy. I want to, but I can’t. Give our guitarist more reason to make fun of me? No, thank you.

So I stand there and watch him, his focus shifting and scattered like the ashes at his feet.

"Got sidetracked?" he asks, blowing tiny clouds of smoke into the cool air.

"Something like that."

"Or someone?" Chance jabs, teasing, but not all wrong. "Zander swears he saw you with some little fox right before you vanished. Said she was cute. And orange."

The taste of Wendy’s lips burns through me like it’s too fresh, too close. "I guess," I say, a complete understatement.

Chance just grins. The grin that works for the fans.

Cornflower-blue eyes are bright in his worn-out face.

I envy him a little, how he does that, the act—or maybe it’s not an act.

It’s just that nothing ever seems to get to him.

He tears his soul open to write music, then goes onstage like it’s not a big deal.

Like it’s his goal in life—to give pieces of himself to his fans.

We fall into the kind of silence where you can almost hear all the things we won’t say. "Damn, this gig’s nuts," Chance finally mutters, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Tell me about it. We’ve fucked up more times in two days than in our entire career."

"You hear those Sonic dudes talking trash? They think they’re punk, but they’re all talk, man."

"Sonic Trash?" I ask, though I know exactly who he means. Probably Jett fucking Vice.

"Yeah. The only decent thing about that band is your little friend," he goes on. "You trying to stir up shit with their drummer?"

"Not really. Besides, I’m way out of his league."

"String bean can punch, I hear."

"He can try."

Chance jerks his chin toward the festival grounds stretching out in front of us.

And we’re kids, really. That’s what the fans don’t see, how it’s all games and fake seriousness and going through the motions until it isn’t anymore.

But now, this time, it feels real and unshakeable, this thing that’s got its hold on me and won’t let go. This thing about the girl.

"So what’s your plan?" He needles me again.

I tell him I don’t have one. "I’ll figure it out."

He cocks an eyebrow and pushes away from the bus. "Give Zander and Justice a shout for me when you see them," he says. "I got some stuff to do." He winks, and although his voice was light, his face is drained.

"Right."

I start to leave, then turn back, and this time, I’m as serious as I can fake. "Watch yourself," I say. "We need you."

Chance grins, big and loose, knowing, like he always knows everything. "I bet you do, you three talentless fuckers."

Of course he doesn’t mean it. If anything, all of us are pretty damn good at what we do.

I pass lines of parked buses, techs pushing flight cases and breaking down the massive beast of last night’s show, before I get there. Sonic Trash. Worn stickers peeling from their road cases, ink-scarred bodies, and big egos scattered among the gear.

I should keep walking. Let it go. But Ramses is right in front of me, coiling cables like a prizefighter, his eyes sharp and quiet.

"You heading out today?" I ask him, and it feels like the wrong question.

"Yeah," Ramses says, unbothered. "This evening."

Usually, we wrap up a tour with the opening acts, but this summer has been a complete disaster.

Management booked us for nearly every venue in Europe, with a few standalone shows in Monaco.

But they only wanted us, not the other acts.

Sonic Trash didn't quite match the vibe, and after this weekend, I can't help but feel a bit pleased about it.

I believe the Germans even have a word for it—the joy you feel from others' misfortune.

"What?" Ramses stops what he’s doing. "Gonna miss me?" A roll of cable in his hand, he cracks a smile. "We’ll be reuniting in a week anyway. After your private gigs."

"You wish." Then I can’t help it. I ask, "You seen Wendy?"

Ramses’ face does nothing. He gestures at one of the buses.

"Slept with the crew again," he says with a pause that seems full of more than just the words. He looks at me like he’s sizing me up. I know he is. He can’t be loyal to both me and Jett.

He’s gonna have to choose sides one of these days if things go sideways.

"They were fighting last night again," he adds. "Saw them outside. Fucking loud."

"She leaving with you guys?"

"Don’t think so. I’m flying solo anyway.

Jett has some business in town. Heard he was going to stick around.

Something about a sponsorship. Dude’s always plotting world domination.

" Ramses sets down a massive snarl of cable, turns, and continues working, shoving the next coil into a trunk like he means it.

I wonder what kind of business a dumb fuck like Jett Vice could have in Germany. I think of Wendy, of last night, and get an almost sick feeling that it’s too late.

But I’m asking anyway, "You know what they were arguing about?"

"Same old shit." Ramses makes a sound in his throat. "I mean, he’s my homie and we’ve been doing this thing for so long, but dude ain’t relationship material. And Wendy is too nice a girl to leave him."

There’s an awkward silence, the two of us standing there all the cables and questions tangled around us. Then Ramses shakes his head, laughs, shrugs like it doesn’t matter. This whole scene. This whole life. I almost laugh with him. But I don’t.

I start to leave, and Ramses supplies, "Don’t look so surprised."

I don’t know if he means what he’s saying—or what he’s not saying—and I think he likes it that way. Mysterious.

"I’ll try not to."

"Later."

My frustration turns into something like relief as I pick up my pace. Knowing they slept in separate beds makes it a little less stressful. My booted feet carry me down the line of buses, trailers, all the places she could be until I get to the destination.

I halt in front of the door and wait, listening.

I could come off like a stalker. That’s a real possibility.

But she did kiss me last night. She initiated it. So now I have all these questions.

Why?

How?

Does she remember it?

Was it some sort of revenge against Jett?

And unless I talk to her, these thoughts will continue to plague my brain.

It takes me a few minutes to work up the nerve.

I don’t know if she’s alone. Or if she wants to see me.

She did run away yesterday.

Perhaps she realized her mistake.

Maybe I need a few strings.

Nope, that didn’t sound like a mistake.

I take a deep breath and knock.

Light footsteps sound from inside the bus. The door swings open. It’s Wendy. Orange hair messy and beautiful, eyes as wide and unsure as I feel. Her body is framed by the darkness behind her, her face surprised and maybe relieved. I hope relieved. I really do.

"Hey, good morning," I mumble out.

"Morning," she replies.

It’s a bit awkward at first. Men in their late twenties shouldn’t feel like teenage boys, but she just has that effect on me. I think the last time I was actually this aware of myself in front of a girl was in high school when Carmen Flores, who lived a couple of houses down, asked me to prom.

I have that same strange sensation in my stomach now that I did then. Like I’m suspended in outer space with no gravity demanding my presence anywhere earthly.

"You got a minute?" I ask, trying to sound casual but failing, trying to sound like nothing’s riding on her answer.

She pauses, just long enough to hurt, and I think of all the reasons she might say no and the one reason she might say yes. She looks over her shoulder as if she’s expecting someone else. "Sure," she replies.

"So…" I start, then pause, the word hanging in the air like an echo of an aborted chord. I have to force the rest out. "Want to hang out? May be go for a drive? We’re here until tomorrow. It’s my day off."

She holds my gaze, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing. It’s all I can do to keep standing.

"Day off?"

"Yep," I tell her. "Day off." I want to move closer, but I don’t. I want to say more, but I can’t.

Wendy doesn’t move or say anything either.

She keeps looking at me, all orange and doubt and a little bit of something else. Finally, she breaks the silence. "Okay."

I can breathe again, and maybe she can too.