Page 25 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

"I hope his jaw hurts double," I grit out through clenched teeth.

Cruz's hands are fire against my throbbing fist, his fingers steady while mine tremble. He's quiet, confident, the opposite of everything I've ever known.

We’re in the common area of The Deviant’s bus, and he’s putting an ice pack on my knuckles.

All around us, his bandmates are rowdy, their taunts of Jett rising above the low rumble of background music.

The lights here are blinding, harsh, and I close my eyes against them, imagining the bruises, imagining the memories and how easy it would be to let them both fade away.

"It's not too bad," Cruz says. His voice has that quiet warmth that vibrates inside my chest. He sits across from me on the leather couch, his face in deep concentration, as if holding that ice pack equals launching a rocket into space. "Battle wounds are pretty."

I'm struck by him, by the way he manages to be all grit and tenderness in one tight, inked package. It makes my head spin, especially after a year with Jett, where everything had its own upside-down kind of logic.

"I’m too young for battle wounds."

"Plenty of stories for the grandkids," he chuckles.

"Are you calling me a grandma already?"

He shifts the ice pack a little, the chill of it biting at my skin. "No."

"Brother’s got no game," Chance, their guitarist, says with a playful wink, leaning in for a second. "Like at all."

"Fuck off," Cruz hisses at him.

Chance just laughs. He’s the band’s charmer. A little loopy from all the booze he’s been consuming from that bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hands. But nice. Friendly.

"Jett had it coming," Zander croaks from the couch across from us. He’s on his phone, texting furiously. He’s got wild blond hair, a little lighter than Chance’s.

Their lead singer, Justice, is in the corner, leaning against the wall.

Without the makeup, he is even more intense.

Black hair. Gray eyes. Perfect square chin.

He’s got the dark aura of authority. I can understand why women and men all over the world worship him.

He’s not my type, though. Too out there.

Still, there's a weird comfort in being here, even if they're practically strangers to me. It feels safe with Cruz by my side. Better than I ever felt with Jett and his bandmates. I think of the last thing I heard that piece of shit yell before he was dragged away.

You won't find anyone better than me.

Yeah, right.

"Cruz's got himself a real wild one," Chance drawls with a knowing smirk on his lips.

"Bet Jett's losing his shit," says the drummer.

"Someone needed to give that asshole a reality check a long time ago," Justice comments broodingly.

Cruz stays silent, his concentration fixed on my hand as if willing it to heal. And I appreciate it that no one asks me any questions about what I said earlier. The rapey part. I didn’t plan on spilling it but it just happened and now that it's out, I feel strange.

"He's a real piece of work, your boyfriend, isn’t he?" Zander asks matter-of-factly.

"Ex-boyfriend," I correct him.

Cruz shifts his gaze from my knuckles to my face as if making sure I mean the ex-boyfriend part. There’s hope in those dark eyes. Bright and genuine hope. And then there's this other thing—the concern.

I feel bad. Maybe I was too harsh when I shut him down when he asked for my number.

Maybe not all guys are the same. But Jett was also nice at first.

My thoughts are a train wreck, too fast, too slow, but all headed in the same direction. The door. A way out.

It’s best to leave, because getting tangled up with another guy in a band is not on my to-do list.

Still, I don’t move.

I remain on the couch.

"You okay?" Cruz asks. His voice pulls me back to him, to the soft command in his words. The question feels bigger than it is. The ice burns against my skin, and I nod, even though I'm not sure if it's true.

"I’m fine."

The band returns to their banter—more laughter, more off-color jabs that make me wince and smile at the same time.

They've all got the same vibe, rough and alive, like they've seen everything and still get a kick out of it all, only to build their own thing that’s become this massive mania of worship.

I’m imagining the Sunset Boulevard loft I’m leaving behind.

Jett's drums, Jett's sound, Jett's promises looping on repeat.

It all seems distant now, unreal, like I watched it in a movie and can't remember how it ends.

I wasn't going to do it this time. Wasn't going to let myself get sucked into another fantasy.

But Cruz appeared like a quiet answer to a question I didn't even know I was asking. And now I don’t know what to do with him and his googly eyes.

"We can go look for a medic," he supplies.

"Really, you don’t have to. It’ll be okay."

"It’s not a problem."

"Don’t give that asshole’s jaw too much credit."

"Alright." He laughs a little.

Someone offers Cruz a beer, and he takes it without loosening his grip on me. The bottle sweats between his fingers.

"I’m sorry this weekend was shit," Cruz says, the slightest curve to his lips.

"It was definitely a learning experience."

"You can always hop on the bus with us and tag alone to the next city," Chance challenges. "Have you ever been to Morocco?"

"Yeah. The next stop isn't that far," Justice chimes in in that cold, unbothered manner.

"Maybe she doesn't need the next stop," the drummer teases. "Maybe she needs something else."

Cruz’s cheeks flush. "Shut up, Z-man." He flips him the finger.

They don’t shut up. But they don't mean much by their jokes either. They’re all drunk, catching up on partying before tomorrow.

Eventually, they leave us. Justice exits the bus, and I hear some giggling outside.

Zander moves to his bunk and shuts the door to the sleeping area.

Chance just disappears. I don’t know where or even when.

I noticed that he has this strange habit of being right in your face one minute and gone the next.

Cruz sets the beer down, rests my hand on the table, and fumbles for a piece of paper from one of the notepads on the couch. He then proceeds to scribble something on it.

"I’m not asking for your number since you made it clear you need space," he says, tearing off the piece of paper and offering it to me. "But I’ll give you mine anyway. If you ever need anything, call me."

"I—"

"No strings," he adds quickly. "I had a great time with you today, but I can understand where you’re coming from. I don’t want to be that guy."

With trembling fingers I accept it and look at the digits. They mean nothing to me and everything all at once. Ink, blue and messy, like he scrawled it in a hurry. And now he waits. And waits. And waits.

I stare at the paper, at his hands, at the sharp angles of his jaw and the way he holds himself like he knows exactly where he's going, with or without me.

My eyes start to sting, and I know it’s tears. I know they’re from repressing my emotions this past year. They’re threatening to spill, but I suck in a lungful of air and will myself to remain calm. I can't be a stupid cliché crying on the tour bus of a guy who’s too good to be true.

"Okay," I breathe out. "Thank you."

"I mean it, Wendy. No strings."

And I'm well aware he does. Even if secretly I don't want him to.