Page 26 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

The next morning, I’m back at the Munich International Airport, ready to board a plane to take me back to LA.

The terminal buzzes with a soulless, electric noise while I stand in the center of it all, a tiny dot drowning in a flood of steel and glass and plastic chairs, feeling just as inadequate as I did when I arrived.

Faces blur into a featureless mass as I clutch my luggage and try not to think about what happened over the weekend.

I got assaulted. More than once.

Broke up with Jett.

Slept with The Deviant’s bassist.

Oh, and I’m homeless now.

In the privacy of my mind, I’m cataloguing all my friends who might be able to help with a temporary place to stay, but I know I can’t be couch-surfing like I did right after my move to the city.

It’s different now that I’m in school. I need a room where I can work on my portfolio, and I can’t be doing it in my friends’ living rooms.

The thought of going back to my mother’s and just commuting to classes from Antelope Valley has my stomach churning. I have too many shitty memories tied to my childhood home. I told myself I’d never return there unless I was rich so I could throw some bills at Catherine Fields and prove her wrong.

Yes, I can do it on my own. I don’t need to be some guy’s possession to do well in life.

But as it stands right now, I can’t do it on my own.

And it feels like the Universe is laughing at me.

"Next?" the airline rep shouts my turn.

I reach the counter and hand her the boarding pass.

She tries to scan it, and a frown appears on her forehead. She wiggles the pass in front of the scanner a few times, then checks something on the computer. "I’m sorry," she says, "but it seems that your ticket has been voided."

"What do you mean?" My grip on my gym bag tightens.

"It’s no longer valid."

"But I need to go home," I counter in disbelief.

"You’re welcome to purchase another ticket. Would you like me to check if there are any seats left on this flight?" She smiles at me from behind the counter like this is just some small hiccup, but I’m not having it.

"I don’t want to purchase another ticket," I hiss out. "I had a ticket. I want to use it."

"I’m sorry, but once it’s voided, we can reverse the transaction. You’ll need to purchase a new one."

"I don’t think you understand." I lower my voice because I don’t want to feel even more embarrassed than I already am. "I don’t have the money to buy a last-minute international flight ticket."

"Hey, young lady," some man behind me shouts. "You’re holding up the line." Someone adds something in a foreign language.

"Would you step aside, please?" the airline rep asks, fake politeness and all.

I don’t want to make a scene. I made plenty this weekend. So I do as I’m told and move to the side, then start pacing around my luggage. Sweat beads on my palms as I call Jett’s number. It goes to voicemail. I redial again and again, wishing for him to just answer the fucking phone.

It’s not a mistake.

I know that piece of trash did it. He bought the ticket, and he had the audacity to cancel it too.

My fingers are numb from the constant tapping, each call ending the same way. Jett's voice on the recording, taunting me with its calm, artificial tone.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against a cold pillar, feeling the vibrations of the place pulse through me.

How many times have I stood in a spot like this, caught between escape and the reality that he controls everything?

I open my eyes and stare at the blank faces of people passing by, all of them rushing toward something, none of them caring that I'm stuck in this limbo.

It's supposed to be different this time. I walked away.

An announcement blares over the speakers, flight numbers and gates blending into a meaningless hum. The noise grates against my nerves, setting my teeth on edge. I try to focus, to keep moving forward, but the lights stab at my senses, leaving me disoriented and drained.

I shove the boarding pass back into my bag and I dial Jett's number again, more out of habit than hope. The line clicks over to voicemail once more.

A plane roars to life somewhere outside, the sound reverberating gently through the glass. I press my forehead against the window and watch it taxi. I wonder if it’s the one I should be on.

After a few minutes of painful contemplating, I reach into my gym bag and pull out the crumpled scrap of paper with Cruz's number. I smooth it with trembling fingers and stare at the digits. Yes, I’m stalling, not wanting to be pathetic.

Call. The words form in my mind, soft and insistent. Call him.

I bite my lip and hesitate, fear and doubt battling inside me. What if he doesn't answer? What if he regrets giving me the number in the first place?

Another boarding announcement echoes through the terminal.

Ah, fuck it.

I punch the keypad.

It rings, and I can barely breathe, waiting for it to go over to voicemail like all the rest. But it doesn't. He picks up on the second ring.

"Yes?"

My heart lurches at the sound of his voice.

"Hey, it’s me," I mumble tentatively.

"Wendy?"

I hold the phone tight against my ear and spill my desperation in a rush. "I know I said this was a one-time deal, but Jett’s voided my ticket back to LA. I'm stuck at the airport."

There are no questions. Just a brief "I'll be right there."

Somewhere in the background, I hear Zander’s voice. "Where are you going, dude?"

"Gotta take care of something," Cruz tells him, his voice a little distant, as if he’s placed a hand over the microphone.

"Yo!" That’s Chance. "We’re about to leave."

"Go without me. I’ll catch up in a rental."

I can’t make out the rest. Instead, I hold my breath, afraid to trust what I'm hearing, afraid to believe that he really means it.

"Wendy," he says again, this time to me, soft and resolute. "Wait for me, yeah?"

"Okay…yes, I will. Thank you."

It can't be this easy. Nothing is ever this easy. Right?

The connection cuts out, and I stare at the screen, my hand trembling. The world around me stands still, everything suspended in my uncertainty whether I did the right thing.

Thirty minutes later, as I shift in the hard plastic seat with my foot tapping a restless rhythm on the floor, I see him coming.

He’s weaving through the crowd, his strides long and sure.

He looks a little wild but solid, like he was made for me.

My personal wall to protect me from the outside—all muscles, leather, and ripped jeans.

A baseball cap low on his forehead. But, of course, the hair gives him away.

My pulse quickens, and I find myself grinning from ear to ear.