Page 6 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

"Yeah, to do some goddamned business. And I need you with me on this one. Can you play nice for a few minutes?"

His words sting, the implication clear. He's the one putting in the work, while I'm just along for the ride, living off his dime.

"You didn’t have to pay a penny to get here. Got you the ticket, didn’t I?"

Does that make me an ungrateful cunt if I don’t feel much appreciation? He can sometimes be so convincing that I get confused.

"You made it sound like you’d have a lot of downtime and we’d spend that time together. And there's no hotel," I whisper angrily. Although I’m not sure if I’m angry at him or myself.

Jett's eyes flash with annoyance. "Time together? What, so you can complain about my potential business partners some more? They're my shot at the big time, babe." He slams his chest with his fist as if he’s trying to prove something. "I need this investment from Mick. For our future."

He reaches for my hand, but I pull away, glancing around to make sure no one's watching. No one is. Everyone’s busy partying.

"That potential business partner "—I use air quotes—"of yours doesn’t even know me yet, but he was ready to suck my fingers in front of you," I grit out.

Jett's expression shifts, and I can’t tell if he’s understanding what I’m trying to say or if he’s too drunk to put two and two together.

Then he leans in close and says quietly in my ear, "Come on, babe. I know they're a little weird, but we’re in goddamned Europe. Everyone’s weird.

I need you to be my ride or die like you promised. "

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my beating heart. I want to believe him, want to trust that he knows what he's doing. But the doubt lingers, a strange bitter taste in the back of my throat.

"You know what?" I take a step back to remove Jett from my personal space. "Find me when you’re sober."

His face twists. "What?"

As I spin on my heel, I can't resist one last parting shot. "Oh, and thanks for the heads-up about sleeping with your farting bandmates in that shitty trailer. Real classy, Jett."

I don't look back as I shove my way out of the tent.

Goddamn Jett and his empty promises. Hotel room, my perky ass.

I’m fuming as I stomp through the VIP area in the direction of the exit. My combat boots thud against the narrow asphalt pathway snaking between the sections, and I’m kinda hating this damn gym bag I’ve been hauling around with me. And I'm cold. I should have grabbed a hoodie.

Expectations vs reality—the eternal struggle.

I pictured fluffy matching robes and room service, not bunk beds smelling like it’s a dispensary.

Honestly, I can’t even remember doing anything like that with Jett. Ever. He’s more of a Netflix and chill kinda guy. Doesn’t put much effort into it.

Life's a bitch, then you die. Or in my case, get murdered by obnoxious fumes from Griffin's lactose-intolerant colon.

Why am I here again?

It’s not like I expected things to be any different in Europe. Jett Vice is still the same jerk no matter the continent.

As I round the corner, a red burst of neon to my right catches my eye. It’s one of the bigger tents in the area, buzzing with somewhat more relaxed activity and no security guard. Its sign reads Bar.

Screw it.

I deserve a drink after the day I've had. The world's shittiest boyfriend, handsy investors, looming flatulence—time to drown my sorrows in some overpriced booze.

I hitch my gym bag higher on my shoulder and march forward, determined to salvage something from this flaming dumpster fire of a day.

I elbow my way to the front through a group of men discussing someone’s latest album. At the bar, I signal the handsome bartender with a no-bullshit glare and the flick of a wrist. When you’re a small girl, you really gotta know how to make yourself seen in a crowd of giants.

"What's it gonna be, miss?"

"Cosmo, please." I mean, if I'm gonna suffer through this weekend, I'm gonna do it thoroughly buzzed. And on my own terms.

"Coming right up."

As he slides the drink my way a moment later, my mother's voice echoes in my head.

Find a man who'll treat you right, Wendy. Someone who'll take care of you. Someone who’s got a fat wallet and a place of his own.

Oh, the irony. Jett was supposed to be that man, but instead, he's just another disappointment in a long line of letdowns.

Settling on an empty stool, I take a swig and let the sweetness warm my throat a little before taking another one.

"Rough night?" a male voice asks from somewhere.

I turn, ready to verbally eviscerate whatever drunken douche is trying his luck, but the wrong words come out. "When is it not after an international flight?"

"Not a frequent traveler to Europe, I take it." The man offers a small smile, and I swear to God, he looks familiar. I’ve met him before. But that can probably be said about half the people here tonight. It’s the scene.

"No, honestly, it’s my first time," I reply. I don’t know why I don’t tell him to fuck off. Maybe because—contrary to my expectation—he appears to be the only sober person in the entire VIP area.

He's tall and muscular, with clear obsidian eyes that seem to pierce right through the night. His hair is dark and long, and his ears have small black tunnels in them. Makes him look like he has just enough edge without being too flashy.

Recognition sparks in my brain again, but I can't quite place him. And now it feels like a personal challenge—to remember where we’ve crossed paths before.

"You get used to it eventually," the man says.

He gestures to my nearly empty glass. "Can I buy you another?"

"Oh." I hesitate, the urge to drown my sorrows warring with the instinct to keep my guard up. But there's something calming about this man. Fuck it. "Sure, why not?" I shrug, aiming for nonchalance.

As he steps closer and signals the bartender, I study him from the corner of my eye. The tattoos snaking up his arms, the way he carries himself with quiet confidence.

"I’m Wendy," I say while we wait for my cosmo and his beer.

"Cruz," he offers.

And then it hits me.

"Wait." I lean a little bit closer to him as if saying what I’m about to say is supposed to remain top secret. "You're Cruz? From The Deviant?"

A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing a single dimple. "Guilty as charged."

I laugh, the sound foreign to my own ears. "I almost didn't recognize you without all the paint."

"That’s the idea."

"To keep us mortals confused?"

"Haha."

"I think I saw you earlier with Ramses." I motion at his face. "You still had some of the facial palette on."

He chuckles. "Palette?"

"You know what I mean."

He nods, then whispers a question, "So what do you think? Disappointed by the real me?"

I tilt my head, considering. "Nah. You look like a big ol' teddy bear."

Cruz throws his head back, his laughter rich and warm. The sound wraps around me like a cozy blanket, chasing away the chill of Jett's indifference. What is this even? I just met this guy.

"Have been called many names," he says. "Never a plush toy."

"I won’t tell anyone what’s under that mask." I take a nervous sip of my second cosmo the bartender just set in front of me.

"I hope you don’t."

"Ruined reputation?"

"Exactly."

"So what brings a teddy bear like you to a place like this? I’d think you’d be hanging with your bandmates in that tent security’s patrolling like it’s the national treasure."

"So you’ve seen how they are?"

I nod. "They’re exactly like one would expect guys making millions would be." They’re even bigger clowns than Griff and Kian, with the exception that they have it made.

"Not all of us."

"You think?"

"I know," he says, a bit too serious, but his tone changes to a lighter one immediately. "What brought you here?"

I want to tell him the truth. To tell him that I have a boyfriend and that I’m with him, but it’s like my tongue just stops functioning.

Jett paid for this ticket, Wendy. The brain signals, but the body doesn’t follow through.

"Whatever everyone else is doing here this weekend. Listening to music, hanging out." I pump my fist in the air. "Palmdale gotta represent too." Why did I say that? I don’t ever reveal where I’m from. It’s the crappiest part of LA County. Unless you don’t count some parts of South LA.

"No shit? You're from Palmdale?"

"Born and raised in the armpit of California," I quip, the alcohol loosening my tongue.

"You say it like it’s a bad thing."

"Palmdale is trash, dude."

"Trust me, I know all about growing up in a poor neighborhood. I’m from East LA." Cruz grins, holding up his fist. I bump it with my own, a gesture of solidarity. "Guess we're both from the wrong side of the tracks, huh?"

"Peas in a pod, my friend. Except, you know, you're probably wiping your ass with hundred dollar bills these days."

He chuckles, but there's a hint of something else in his eyes. Something that looks a lot like understanding. "It's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Believe me, only rich people say this shit, but they would never give up their money."

"You'll get there. Where you need to be."

Either I’m drunk or he’s that good a talker. His words hit me like a sucker punch. How can he be so sure? How can he have so much faith in a stranger he just met? As I search his face, I find nothing but sincerity.

We fall into an easy rhythm, trading random stories of our childhood for the next fifteen minutes. When I drain the last of my drink, Cruz motions to the bartender. "Another round?"

My head is swimming, and I feel like if I don’t stop right now, I may end up doing something stupid. "I probably shouldn't..."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "No worries. I probably need to head back anyway. Early press tomorrow."

We linger for a moment, neither of us quite ready to say goodbye. But eventually, I slide off my stool, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder. "It was nice talking to you, Cruz."

"Likewise, Wendy."

For a second, there’s this awkwardness between us. Why, though? We didn’t do anything wrong. We just talked.

Yes, bitch, and you failed to disclose you’re Jett’s girlfriend.

"Ah…mmm." Before I can think of something better, I whip out my hand.

A handshake, Wendy? Really? What, you in some executive meeting?

Without missing a beat, Cruz shakes my hand, his slightly calloused fingers sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. "I'll see you around?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. And as I walk away from the bar, I feel a strange sense of lightness, a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

How can a person you hardly know have this effect on you?

Is that what they call stage presence and charisma, or is it something else?

Just when I’m about to exit the VIP area, I hear someone calling my name. "Wendy! Baby! There you are."

Jett.