Page 5 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

The festival grounds are a different kind of mayhem at this hour. Most of the tents and structures have been erected by now except for the main stage, and the air is thick with the smell of booze and campfire smoke.

I weave through the crowd of partying event staff and roadies, unsure what exactly I’m looking for. Maybe a familiar face or maybe just a sober one.

The sky has darkened and the temperature has dropped a little. Enough to put on a hoodie.

As I pass the main stage, the crew there is still lugging heavy equipment, shouting orders to each other over the din of buzzing generators.

When I arrived at the band’s tour bus earlier, Jett was absent. Instead of searching for him, I walked in on their guitarist, Griffin, and lead singer, Kian, playing poker. They looked positively high, and the interior smelled like weed. And of course the beer can tower was there as promised.

"Wendy, babe! About time you showed up," Griffin said, giving me an overly familiar hug. His fingers lingered a bit too long on my lower back.

"Where's Jett?" I asked, extracting myself from his grip.

Kian shrugged. "Probably already in the VIP tent, getting a head start on the party. You know how he is."

They showed me to my bunk bed and retreated from the sleeping area to continue playing. I took a quick shower, then tried to nap, but sleep never came. My mind was too wired. And the muffled voices and raucous laughter from the front of the bus made it even harder.

I changed into a pair of clean jeans and a fresh tank top, then grabbed my passport and some of my jewelry and shoved them into my gym bag.

Not a chance I was leaving my valuables unattended with these clowns.

Kian is more or less of an okay guy and doesn’t try to grope me, but Griff is a disgusting piece of shit who was once arrested for stealing a pack of chips from the grocery store. On a dare.

"Hey, Wendy, wanna join our poker game?" Kian called out when I walked out of the sleeping area.

"Yeah. One round," Griff added. "We can make it interesting. Play a little strip poker..."

I rolled my eyes and gave them both the middle finger before heading out.

But even now that I’m out of that stinky tour bus, frustration continues to build in my chest. I was excited to fly out here when Jett asked me, but something tells me I’m not going to have a good time this weekend.

It’s this stupid gut feeling that I try to ignore because it’s gotten me in weird situations before.

I fish my phone out of my bag and dial Jett's number. Straight to voicemail. Fuck.

Spotting a harried-looking festival staff member, I approach her. "Hey, sorry. Can you tell me where the VIP lounge is?"

She barely glances up from her clipboard. "Down that path, past the trailers. Look for the white tents behind the red velvet rope."

"Thanks," I mutter, already heading in that direction.

I walk for a good ten minutes before I finally see the lounge. It’s just like the girl said—a collection of a dozen pristine white tents on a neatly trimmed lawn. Even from a distance, I can hear the throbbing baseline of music and the laughter of groupies.

I wave my laminate at security and pass into the roped-off area with no issues. Thank God. Inside, the space is divided into sections, and each section has its own tent dedicated to a specific artist. Most have flags or signs up front indicating who the artist is.

As I get closer to the center of the lounge, I spot a banner fluttering above the entrance to my right.

The Deviant.

A second set of ropes and two security guards stand nearby.

Of course Jett would be hanging out where the headlining band is, probably ready to kiss their very famous asses. I don’t have any illusions about him being an opportunist. I mean, everyone in this business is.

As I draw closer to The Deviant's tent, my curiosity gets the better of me. It's them, the infamous band members, each living up to their scandalous reputation.

Justice, the brooding frontman, is sandwiched between two scantily clad girls, their hands roaming his naked chest as he throws back a shot.

Chance, the wild-eyed guitarist, balances precariously on the bar, a bottle of vodka teetering on his head as he slurs out some words.

And then there's Zander, the cutie of the band. Of course a gaggle of admirers swoon at his feet. I don’t see the bass player.

I can’t remember his name. He’s usually the quiet one.

It's a trainwreck I can't look away from, a glimpse into the glamorous world of the filthy rich and famous that Jett so desperately wants to be a part of.

"Move along, miss, if you don’t have an invitation," a security guard barks.

"Yeah, sure."

Chance Hollowell chooses this exact moment to lose his balance, tumbling off the bar in a fit of drunken giggles. The security guards and people in the tent rush over to help him up.

I don’t know what happens next since do as I was instructed—move along because I just spotted a Sonic Trash sign.

My heart pounding, I duck into the tent and scan the crowd. It's a sea of leather, skinny jeans, smudged eyeliner, and tousled hair.

Finally, I spot my wayward boyfriend.

He’s sprawled out on a white couch in the back of the tent, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from his fingertips.

I push my way through the throng of musicians, roadies, and hangers-on, ignoring the slurred greetings and drink offers.

Mostly, it’s just people working in the industry and their friends, and I’ve met some them.

When you date a guy in a semi-popular band, every other person on the scene soon becomes your buddy.

As I draw closer to Jett, I realize he's not alone. He seems to be in a deep conversation with two men I don't recognize.

"Jett!" I call his name over the noise as I approach the group.

He lifts his head, his face splitting into a sloppy grin.

"Wendy, baby!" he slurs. "You made it! C'mere.

" He shoots up from the couch, swaying under the pull of gravity and too much alcohol.

His arm is thrown over my neck and a sloppy kiss lands on my cheek.

"You’re looking gorgeous, babe," he whispers in my ear, then shoves me toward the couch.

"I want you to meet my new partners." He gestures wildly to the man beside him, sloshing whiskey onto the already stained fabric.

"This is Mick." The bottle in his hand moves to the other guy. "And his associate, Clem."

I plaster on a smile, unsure of what to make out of these two.

Mick’s easily pushing fifty. He’s in an expensive suit and has an oily smile and graying temples.

Clem’s twitchy stick, about the same age as Jett, and has that weird darting gaze that makes a guy stand out.

And not in a good way. A slightly crooked front tooth winks at me when he smiles.

He looks like a dollar-store version of Eminem.

"They're gonna help take my brand to the next level, baby," Jett says, dropping onto the couch.

He yanks me down to sit on his lap, but he’s too drunk to make it work. Instead, I bypass his legs and sit next to him.

"So you’re the famous Wendy," Mick purrs. He’s got some sort of accent, but I can’t quite tell what it is.

Definitely European. And I bet Mick isn’t even his real name.

"Pleasure to meet you, beautiful." Mick’s hand snakes out to grasp mine.

His palm is clammy, his grip a little too tight. "Jett's told us a lot about you."

I pull my hand out of his. "About me?" I eye Mick, surprised. "I don’t know what there is to tell."

"You're even prettier than he described. Like a little rock ’n' roll Barbie doll."

Excuse me, what?

"You’re a dream," Clem mutters.

"I don’t think we know each other well enough for you to call me a dream," I immediately tell him, then turn to Mick. "Or Barbie."

"Come on, babe. It’s all just friendly talk," Jett says. He pours a shot and hands it to me. "Here. Relax a bit. You’re probably tired."

No shit.

I take a sip and force a smile, trying to ignore the unease churning in my gut.

Something about these guys feels off. But Jett is too far gone to notice, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Right now, as he beams at me, he reminds me of a kid who did something wrong and is trying to be cute to avoid harsher punishment.

I think this cuteness is what drew me to him in the first place.

He’d be the asshole of the year, but then just wash it all away with a silly smile like the one he’s flashing me presently.

"Sorry, darling," Mick supplies. "Didn’t mean to offend you in any way."

"Be nice, babe," my drunk boyfriend demands. "Mick and I are gonna be doing business together."

I’m not sure what to make of all this. Jett’s been talking about his own vodka brand for several months.

I have no clue where he got the idea, but he’s been making a fool out of himself in front of every potential investor.

And they’re getting worse and worse. Now, we’ve got googly-eyes Mick and his icky buddy Clem, who look nothing like people who’d know how to manage a new brand of alcohol.

Unless, of course, consuming it is their main marketing strategy.

"Isn't this great, babe?" Jett says, nudging the shot I’ve barely touched yet closer to my mouth. "Let’s celebrate."

My earlier frustration gives way to a sinking feeling of dread.

I plaster on my best supportive-girlfriend smile and grit out, "Can we talk? Privately?"

"We’re all friends here."

"Not really, hon." I slink my arm around his elbow and yank him to the side. "I just need a minute." To Mick and his sidekick, I say, "We’ll be just a sec, guys."

I lead Jett a few steps away toward the quieter corner of the tent. "What the hell, Jett? You said you'd meet me when I got here. You didn’t show up."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Wendy. You know I'm always working, even on my days off. I'm hustling for both of us."

"You said you were going to have free time."