Page 4 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

I swipe the napkin across my cheek, feeling the gritty residue of paint stubbornly clinging to my skin as I step out of the tent. The open air wraps around me like a familiar embrace—wild and untamed, smelling faintly of trampled grass mixed with smoke—the quintessential concert scent.

Legend has it that the idea of the band was born when our lead singer messed with his sister’s makeup one reckless night.

Whether he was tipsy or stone-cold sober during that stroke of genius remains our little mystery.

And thus, The Deviant emerged—a wicked reimagining of what Kiss immortalized back in the seventies but with our own twisted flair.

And I knew it when I auditioned.

I knew I had to wear this war paint on my face night after night whenever we took the stage. I thought it was some poser shit, but I needed a steady gig badly. And musically, these three had it together.

"Yo, Velez!" someone calls from behind, pulling me out of my head.

I turn, squinting into the setting sun, and spot two familiar faces—Tommy and Dex, my buddies from the days before The Deviant.

I know Dex has a band of his own now. Not signed, but they get booked locally a lot.

Tommy’s always wanted to be on the road, doing lights.

I’m actually surprised to see them here.

Back in LA years ago, we were all just scrappy kids trying to claw our way into this industry.

Tommy’s got a red bandana tied around his head, and Dex is holding a coil of cables.

Tommy jogs up. "What’s up, man?" He grins, slapping my shoulder. "Long time no see. You’re running with the big dogs now." He jerks his chin in the direction of my face.

"Yeah, something like that," I say, rubbing the napkin a little harder over my cheek and jaw, wondering if I look like a clown. "What about you guys? Still hustling?"

"Hell yeah." Dex’s voice is sandpaper raspy—from too many cigarettes, no doubt. I remember him smoking two packs a day even back then. "We’re with Black Haze now. Tommy does lights for pretty much half their bands, and I work for Atlas."

"Houser?" I ask.

"Yeah," Dex replies, the pride in his voice evident. "Taking care of all his guitars."

"Dude hauls at least a dozen when he’s on tour," Tommy chimes in. "You should see his trailer."

"Not bad." I nod my approval. A young guy like Dex getting a gig with someone as big as Atlas Houser is a rare occurrence in this industry. People sometimes work their way up for decades before a major band hires them to tech directly for their stars.

"Label’s got us working double shifts, if you know what I mean." Tommy laughs. "But, hey, it’s a paycheck."

"True that."

"Remember when we waited tables at that Mexican diner not far from your grandma’s place?" Dex asks.

"Fuck, it’s embarrassing to even remember," I admit. I lasted two weeks at that joint. It was the first and the last time I worked in customer service.

"We’ve all gone through that shit," Dex says philosophically. "You think you’re born a fucking rockstar?"

"Except for your singer," Tommy adds knowingly.

I shut down that topic for discussion immediately. "Black Haze, huh?" Everyone knows what happens when your bandmate has a famous relative. They all want a piece of you so they can have a piece of him as a direct line to the superstar. "Solid label. I’m happy for you."

"Thanks, man," Tommy says, his grin widening. "But seriously, Cruz, you’re killing it yourself. Saw you on stage last month in Canada. That bassline on ‘Broken Chains’? Fucking unreal, bro."

"Just doing my job."

We exchange a few more words, the kind of small talk that usually happens when you haven’t seen someone you used to be tight with for years. Then I’m moving again. Their voices fade behind me, swallowed by the hum of the fairgrounds.

I don’t look back.

There are no answers in the past, only more questions.

Up ahead, I spot Ramsey leaning against Sonic Trash’s bus, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He goes by Ramses. His long hair is tied back, and his dark eyes catch the light like polished onyx.

There’s something about him—quiet, intense.

Unlike the rest of his band, he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t need to say much to make an impression.

He nods as I approach, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls into the late afternoon air.

"Velez," he says. "How’s the grind?"

"Ah, same shit, different day," I reply, leaning against the bus beside him. "You?"

Ramses takes a drag, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Can’t complain. Just keeping the rhythm alive."

"You think you’ll ever get sick of it?"

Ramses turns to look at me like I just sprouted a pair of wings or something. "You’re already tired of being rich, Velez? Cuz if you are, I’m ready to take your place."

"Just curious. You know how all these old-timers are now touring less and less."

"Nah," he says, flicking an ash onto the ground. "It’s in my blood, you know, the music? I can’t just walk away. I’ll be sixty and I’ll still be itching to go on the road."

I know exactly what he means by the music being a part of him. The bass isn’t just an instrument—it’s a fucking anchor, something that keeps me grounded when everything else is spinning out of control.

"I saw your new Fender," I compliment his new bass that he’s been sporting on this tour.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Found it in a pawn shop in Detroit. Guy had no idea what he was selling."

"Lucky bastard," I mutter. "Neck’s a little wider than the newer models, though. Takes some getting used to, right?"

"True," he agrees, offering me the cigarette.

I decline with a shake of my head. I’m trying not to get sucked into the oblivion like Chance has. One bad habit on top of another, and then you can’t go on stage unless you’re strung out, because your body doesn’t function without the stimulators anymore.

"But once you get the hang of it, there’s no going back," Ramses goes on. "The tone’s richer, deeper. You can feel it in your chest."

I nod, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Like it’s part of you."

"Exactly."

For a moment, we just stand there, looking at the chaotic fairgrounds and the Ferris wheel in the distance rising above it all.

Tomorrow, this place will be flooded with fans, and lines will be drawn between the bands and the attendees, but tonight…

tonight we have this entire field to ourselves to explore.

Ramses eventually breaks the silence. "I’m serious, though. If you’re tired of touring, holla at me first, yeah? Get your boy a recommendation letter." He cracks a loopy grin.

"I’ll keep that in mind," I say, knowing that I will not be stepping away anytime soon. It always feels like something is missing, but it’s not enough to make me want to stop touring with only the biggest rock band on the planet and give up that massive paycheck.

No one said being in a band with three entitled assholes would be a walk in the park.

And I’m a pro at beating the odds.

The smoke from the cigarette is curling around me like a ghost of my own thoughts when she catches my eye. I don’t even know where she came from. One minute, she wasn’t there, and the next, she’s directly in my line of vision.

A sparkle of orange in the colorless chaos—bright, untamed, like a little candlelight cutting through the darkness of a room.

She’s walking with purpose but also a kind of uncertainty, like she’s not entirely sure where she’s going, but damn if she’s not going to get there anyway.

Her hair is short, cropped at just above her shoulders, and it glows under the recently turned on festival lights like molten copper.

It’s wild, and I can already tell it’s as much a part of her as the ink—old and new—on my skin are a part of me.

"Who’s the girl?" I ask Ramses, my voice casual, like I’m not already hooked.

She’s small, but she carries herself like she owns the ground beneath her feet.

Her gym bag swings at her side, and I notice the way her arms flex slightly with the weight.

There’s strength there, hidden beneath the soft curves of her figure.

She’s wearing a tank top, and her jeans are ripped in all the places that matter.

Her eyes—Jesus, her eyes—are wide and searching, the color of whiskey in dim light.

They’re sharp, like she’s always one step ahead, but there’s a vulnerability there too, something raw and unguarded.

Ramses follows my gaze, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "That’s Wendy. Jett’s girl."

Jett’s girl.

The words settle in my chest like a stone.

I didn’t peg Jett as the type to keep someone around long enough to call them his.

He’s more of a hit-it-and-quit-it guy, the kind who leaves a trail of broken hearts and empty promises in his wake.

But Wendy…she doesn’t look like someone who’d let herself be left behind.

"Jett’s got a girlfriend?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Since when?"

Ramses shrugs, his expression unreadable. "A while now. They’ve been…steady, I guess you could say."

I snort, shaking my head. "Steady? Jett? Didn’t think your drummer was the settling-down type."

Ramses snorts. "He’s not. But you know how it is. Girls who date rockstars either don’t know better or they don’t care. They stick around anyway."

I glance at him, grinning. "You saying she’s one of those?"

He shrugs, flicking an ash off his cigarette. "Who knows? Maybe she’s just riding the wave. Or maybe they have some sort of agreement. Beats me. Girls like her—they’re not exactly simple."

I watch her take a long swig of water from the plastic bottle she’s holding.

"What about Jett’s…extracurriculars?" I ask, keeping my tone light.

Ramses gives me a sideways look, his smirk widening. "Doubt she knows. Or if she does, she’s playing dumb. Either way, she’s still here, right?"

I shouldn’t care. It’s the world of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, and no girl in her right mind should be expecting exclusivity if she’s seeing a dude from a popular band.

But, damn, thinking about this shit makes me sick to my stomach.

I don’t know why, and I don’t know why now.

Besides, I’ve never been a man of virtue myself.

But I’ve never really had a girlfriend either.

"Man, Jett’s got it made. Girl like that…" I let the words linger in the air.

Ramses grins, clapping me on the shoulder. "That’s life, hermano . You’d know if you weren’t so busy being Mr. Responsible."

"Responsible?" I snort. "Since when?"

"Since always. You’re the guy who actually shows up to soundcheck on time. That’s practically a sin in this business if you’re a headliner."

I laugh, but my eyes drift back to Wendy.

She’s moving again, disappearing into the crowd, her orange hair the last thing I see before she’s swallowed by the sea of bodies.

Something about her sticks with me, though.

Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, like she’s got something to prove.

Or maybe it’s just the way she looks, all fire and attitude, like she could burn you if you got too close.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m curious.

Really curious.