Page 3 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops," Angelo, our manager, says to the crew from German rock ’n’ roll magazine Uber Rock . "Busy schedule for the boys today." He glances at his watch and gestures for the makeup artist to move out of the frame.

The press tent smells like stale coffee, spilled beer, cheap pizza, and anxiety.

The air is filled with the hum of generators and the distant thrum of drums bleeding through the canvas walls.

Someone’s in soundcheck , I note to myself, slouching on a worn leather couch, my boots propped up on the edge of the scarred wooden table in front of me.

"They look fine, Di." Samantha, the PR girl traveling with us on this tour, snaps her fingers impatiently, wanting to get this show on the road. Our public relations team thinks we should continue to do all on-camera press in makeup. Sometimes, I feel like they have something against showing our real faces to the crowd. And then I remember that’s the whole shtick of our band. Hiding behind stage personas.

It creates mystery.

"Come on." Angelo claps his hands. "Time’s money."

We flew in last night, still jet-lagged and disoriented, but that’s nothing new when you’re constantly touring. Weeks turn into months, and one day, you wake up a year older and a couple of mil richer.

Works for me.

So I do what I’m told. I’m just a backdrop anyway. Most bass players are.

The interviewer from Uber Rock adjusts her mic, her red lipstick smudged just enough to make her look like she’s been up all night.

She’s got that wide-eyed fan-girl vibe, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze too, like she’s looking for cracks in the facade.

I don’t blame her. We’re all cracked here. Some of us just hide it better.

Justice, our lead singer, sits to my left, his elbow brushing mine as he leans forward, already owning the room without saying a word.

His black hair catches the dim overhead light, framing his sharp jawline like a goddamn rock deity.

Or rock royalty. Everyone knows who his uncle is.

We just avoid discussing it. Angelo forbids it.

Our drummer, Zander, is sprawled out on my right, all golden-boy charm in his vintage band tee and ripped jeans, drumsticks twirling between his fingers.

Chance is perched on the armrest next to Justice, his guitar pick flicking against his thigh like a nervous tic.

He’s the one with the anxiety issues, and it’s coming off him in waves.

I don’t know why he’s so nervous. Asshole has always been a natural in front of the camera.

"Alright, boys," the interviewer starts. "Since time is limited, let’s dive in. Your new album, Saints & Sinners , it’s been called your most raw and personal work yet. What’s the story behind it?"

Justice doesn’t hesitate. "The album is about losing your old self to find your new self." His voice is smooth and low, like he’s sharing a secret with the world. "It’s about the chaos, the highs, the lows—the moments when you’re so far gone, you don’t know if you’ll ever come back.

" He flashes that trademark smirk, the one that makes everyone in the crowd lose their minds. "But, hey, we always come back."

Chance chuckles, his fingers still tapping out some invisible rhythm. "Yeah, and sometimes you come back with a killer riff or two."

Zander snorts, tossing one of his drumsticks into the air and catching it effortlessly. "Or a killer hangover."

The room laughs, but it’s Justice’s laugh that fills the space the most. I stay quiet, my fingers tracing the edge of my bass strap where it rests against my thigh.

My mind drifts, not to the album or the crowds or the fame, but to the streets I came from—the cracked pavement, the graffiti-tagged walls, the sound of sirens cutting through the night.

I remember the first time I picked up a bass, how it felt like I was holding on to something real in a world that kept trying to knock me down. I was eleven years old.

"Cruz," the interviewer says, snapping me back to the present. "You’ve got this incredible presence on stage, but you’re also kind of the quiet one in the band. What’s your take on Saints & Sinners ?"

I glance up, meeting her eyes for a second before shrugging. "It’s honest. That’s what matters. We didn’t hold back."

Justice claps me on the shoulder, his hand heavy and warm. "That’s our Cruz. A man of few words, but when he speaks, you listen."

Zander grins, punching my arm lightly. "And when he plays, you feel it. Dude’s got the soul of a beast in those fingers."

I shake my head. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you guys in line."

The room erupts in laughter again, but I can feel Justice’s gaze on me, steady and assessing.

There’s always this unspoken thing between us, this tension that never quite resolves itself.

He’s the frontman, the face, the voice. I’m the backbone, the one who keeps it all grounded.

We need each other, but it’s not always easy.

The interviewer moves on, asking about the tour, the fans, the stories behind the songs.

Justice takes the lead, spinning tales with that effortless charm of his while the rest of us chime in with jokes and anecdotes.

I stay mostly silent, my thoughts drifting again, caught between the world I left behind and the one I’m living in now.

The tent feels smaller somehow, the air heavier, like it’s pressing down on me.

But I don’t let it show.

I never do.

Because I don’t fit in here. Not really.

My boots are scuffed, my jeans are frayed at the knees, and my hair’s a mess, half tied back, half falling into my face.

Even with all this money coming in, I’m used to simple.

My bandmates… They’re polished, effortless, born into this world like they were meant for it.

Me? I clawed my way in, blood and sweat and grit under my nails.

That’s not something you forget, no matter how big the stage gets.

Justice laughs again at something the interviewer says, his voice drawing the room’s attention like a magnet. "Yeah, man. We were in the studio for months, pulling all-nighters, chasing that perfect sound. But when it clicks, you know…it’s like lightning hitting the ground."

Zander grins. "Lightning, huh? More like a damn hurricane. Cruz here nearly broke his bass during the solo on ‘Blackout Nights.’ Dude was possessed."

I glance up, catching Zander’s eye. He’s always doing this, trying to pull me into the conversation, but I’m not built for the spotlight.

I shrug. "It’s what it needed," I supply.

Chance kicks my boot lightly with his Converse sneaker. "That’s my man. All vibe, no bullshit."

The interviewer chuckles, her pen poised over her notepad. "So how do you guys feel about the album’s reception so far?"

"It’s…real," Chance says. "People connect with that. They want something that hits them in the gut, you know?"

Justice nods. "Exactly. That’s what we’re going for. No filters, no apologies."

I lean back, letting the conversation flow around me, a river I’m content to watch from the shore. Zander cracks a joke about trashing a hotel room in Berlin last year, and Chance chimes in with a story about a fan who tried to climb onstage in Barcelona.

The interviewer moves on to the next question, and the next, and the next. And then it finally comes.

She looks directly at Justice and asks with a poker face, "So how much of your Uncle’s success?—"

Angelo steps into the frame immediately. "Let’s keep it about the music, darling." His tone is firm, almost unkind. He’s got that menacing look that means one wrong word from the interviewer will cut the interview short, and the magazine will never get a chance to speak to the band again.

She hesitates, her smile faltering for a split second before she nods, flipping to a new page in her notebook.

I catch the flicker of annoyance in Justice’s eyes, but he covers it with a grin.

After a few generic questions about some of the songs on the album, the interview shifts, and suddenly, the spotlight’s on me.

"Cruz," the girl starts, her voice soft but probing.

"So you were the last one to join the band.

How did it feel to be teaming up with three guys who were high-school friends? "

I feel the weight of the question, heavy and loaded, like a stone dropped into still water.

What’s a kid like you, from the poorest part of LA, doing with these guys, who grew up with everything their privilege gave them?

I decide that making it into a joke is the best course of action here. "Not sure how these guys picked me, honestly."

"Man, you slapped that bass like nobody’s business," Zander says. "We needed you."

The others laugh, the tension breaking like glass, and I let myself smile a little.

Because—let’s be honest—occasional uneasy band dynamics or not, this is still me living a dream. It’s just that no one promised it would be easy.

When the interview wraps up, the guys scatter—Chance heading for the bar, Zander disappearing into the crowd, and Justice being escorted out by the throng of security to who knows where. Maybe another Victoria’s Secret model is visiting him. The guy is the biggest fucking playboy of the decade.

"Here." Di shoves me some makeup remover on a napkin while we’re packing up behind the press tent.

"Thanks."

"I can do it," she offers.

"It’s fine. I’m going to walk for a bit. Jet lag is kicking my ass."

I know if I fall asleep now, I’ll be fucked up the entire weekend, and we have a busy one ahead of us. Need to be in top shape for both shows.

"Don’t forget about the dinner, Cruz," Angelo reminds me as I head for the entrance.

Some European company to schmooze. I don’t even remember what they make. Was it clothes or drumsticks? "I’ll be there," I reply automatically. Part of the job.

"Good. Later."