Page 7 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

My mind’s still swirling with thoughts of Wendy as I step into the poorly lit tour bus. Her bright orange hair and those huge brown eyes.

Be careful, Cruz.

Ramses warned me she was Jett's girl, but while we were talking at the bar, not once did she mention that boyfriend of hers.

I met him.

Jett fucking Vice.

What a tool.

Even his name screams douche. His band sucks ass too. No talent whatsoever. The singer isn’t bad, but he won’t make it with the other three.

The muffled sounds of laughter and movement drift from the back of the bus as I move along.

I sigh, frustrated. All I want is a moment of peace, away from the swarming groupies.

It was nice at the beginning. When the first wave of fame hit us.

You play a gig. You drink. You find some cute girl.

You spend the night together. And you move on.

And most of these girls have no expectations of any strings.

They’re ready to sell their soul to sleep with a rockstar at least once.

And then, after a few years, it becomes redundant.

And boring. And you just want to play the gig and get some sleep.

"...the fuck, bro!" someone who sounds a lot like our guitar player snorts out drunkenly.

I make my way down the narrow aisle and toward the laughter that grows louder and louder. At the back of the bus, I'm greeted by the sight of Chance and Zander, digging through our scattered belongings. No guests. Thanks God.

"Cruz, my man!" Chance pauses whatever he’s doing to call out with a skewed grin on his red face. "Where you been hiding?"

"Yeah." Zander’s hand whips out to pat my shoulder, but he misses and pats the air instead. "We've been looking all over for you."

I exhale slowly. "Needed some space, that's all."

Chance attempts to raise an eyebrow, but instead, his whole forehead scrunches up with exaggerated surprise. "Space? On a tour bus?" He returns to fumbling through someone's clothes littering the couch. "You’re in the wrong line of work then."

"I thought you were all out partying," I say, watching my bandmates and their restless rummaging for whatever elusive item they've misplaced.

"You look too serious, man," Zander comments as he continues his relentless pursuit without looking at me.

I shrug. "I’m a serious dude, you know."

"True that. Every band needs at least one serious dude," our drummer supplies, flopping onto the couch. "Come on, sit down. Tell me your worries." He seems tired and tired Zander is better than hyperactive Chance.

"You’re gonna try to psychoanalyze me? In your condition?" I ask, shaking my head, leaning against the wall of the bus opposite the couch.

"Alcohol flows through these veins." Zander raises both arms and imitates one of his signature moves on the drums. "Lay it on me, brother."

I take a moment to think. "So if you're chatting up a cute girl and you know she has a boyfriend, but she never mentions him during the conversation... What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know my position on chicks who belong to someone else," Zander mutters past a hiccup.

"We. Don’t. Fucking. Touch." Both he and Chance say in unison. They sound surprisingly sober for being three sheets to the wind.

I get it. The loyalty code drilled into us since forever.

But Wendy is like a complicated web, and I find myself tangled in it pretty good. Because her image refuses to leave the forefront of my brain.

"The way I see it," Zander slurs out, "she’s either so comfortable in her relationship with that dude that she doesn’t need to validate it by saying she has a boyfriend. Or—" Our drummer pauses for effect. "He’s a douchebag, and she wishes she had someone like you."

"Dude, I know for a fact he’s an asshole," I grit out.

"Monkey ass balls," Chance grumbles under his breath. "I swear it's here somewhere." He yanks the drawers open and tosses aside the contents, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"Goddamn it, man. What are you looking for? You’re giving me whiplash," I say.

"My stash, bro. I need it. I'm seeing shit."

I step closer and place a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should take it easy."

"I need it. Jet lag is killing me."

"I think what you need is to sleep it off."

Chance jumps to his feet, our faces level now. "And who are you, my mother?" His eyes are wild and bloodshot. "Don't tell me what I need. I gotta keep things going, and coke helps. You should be fucking grateful. Without my riffs, all our songs would sound like donkey shit."

My gaze shifts to Zander for a brief second. He just shrugs at me from the couch as if to say, 'Let him be.'

I've seen Chance spiral before, seen the way the drugs consume him. It’s not pretty. And trying to send him to rehab is impossible. Angelo managed it twice, and both times, Chance ran away.

"Fuck, I’m just worried for you," I tell him honestly as he prostrates himself on the floor, trying to reach under the folding table.

"Worry about yourself," he mumbles, then immediately after that, he lets out a triumphant shout.

"Got ya, motherfucker." He begins to stand and, of course, hits his head on the edge of the table.

Back on his feet again, he kicks the table with his Converse a few times as if the poor piece of furniture is guilty of all the crimes in the world.

"See, Mom." Chance shoves a small baggie filled with white powder in my face. "We’re gonna party for real now."

I swat his hand away from my nose. "Come on. Cut it out."

He simply laughs, the sound harsh and grating. "Relax. It's just a little pick-me-up. Nothing I can't handle."

He pours out some of the coke on the table, separates it into neat lines with his laminate, and snorts them all one by one.

He even has the audacity to offer some to me and Zander, but we both decline.

Zander hit a rough patch with this shit a couple of years ago but cleaned up real fast after he started fucking up some of his drum solos.

And I’ve never really been into hard drugs, period.

Growing up where I did, I saw firsthand how it ruins lives.

"There we go," Chance says, jumping back up from the couch. His voice is buzzing with artificial energy. "Now I'm ready." He jerks his chin toward the door on the opposite side of the bus and looks at Zander. "Let’s go."

I shake my head, disappointed. I want to say more, to try and talk some sense into him, but I know it's a losing battle. Chance is too far gone, too lost in the haze of his addiction. And my words alone won’t work. He needs to want it himself. That’s when it will stick.

"Let’s roll." Zander nudges me in the direction of the door as he and Chance file out into the aisle.

"You guys go ahead," I say, my voice tight. "I think I'm going to hang here for a bit."

"Nah." Chance moves to stand next to me and throws his arms over my neck. "A brother won’t let a brother be alone. Especially if someone else’s girl is involved."

The decision made, I let myself be literally dragged out of the bus and back to the VIP area. There, the music is turned up to nearly unbearable decibels. The tents are all flashing lights and gyrating bodies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol.

The three of us navigate through the crowd, through the hot press of people against us, with Chance shouting greetings and other nonsense to almost every person we pass.

But even in this chaos, my eyes are drawn to her. Like she’s some sort of lighthouse in this stormy night. Wendy. I thought she was long gone, but she’s here again and she’s not alone.

She’s with Jett fucking Vice.

Something is off.

Even from across the packed VIP lounge, where flickering strobe lights cast elongated shadows on leather and lace, I can sense the tension simmering between Wendy and Jett.

They're facing each other like opposing forces in a tight circle of curious spectators, who inch closer with every heated word exchanged.

I’m already wrestling out of Chance and Zander’s grip, urgency driving me past clusters of bodies until their confrontation comes into full view.

The first thing I can make out is Wendy yelling, "I'm not your goddamn property, Jett!"

Her small frame is vibrating with anger as she jabs a finger at his chest. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

Jett grabs her wrist, his knuckles white. "The hell I don't. You're my girl, Wendy. Mine." His drunk, possessive words slur together.

She wrenches her arm free, defiant. "Fuck you. I'm done with your controlling bullshit."

Jett goes for her elbow, but she manages to avoid it, then turns on her heel.

"Where the fuck are you going, bitch?" Jett roars.

The dude is not big. Or tall. But he still has five inches on her, and this is such shitty dynamics. I fucking hate cowards like him who think just because they’re quasi famous, they can treat girls like crap.

I don’t even understand why I’m pissed. I just met her. But it’s like there’s some kind of protective instinct that suddenly woke up in me when we crossed paths. Like something was dormant until she came into the picture.

"Fuck you, you fucking cunt!" Jett shoves his fist in the air, yelling in the direction of storming-off Wendy.

As she disappears in the writhing crowd, a knot tightens in my gut. I can't just let her go, not with Jett in this state. Ignoring Zander's curious look from afar, I push my way through the masses, determined to reach her.

Sweat-slicked skin presses against me from all sides, and for a moment, I’m lost in the abundance of colored lights strobing across faces twisted in ecstasy. But my eyes stay firmly locked on that shock of orange hair moving toward the tent’s exit.

"Hey, Wendy, wait!" I call out, but my voice is swallowed up by the surrounding noise. She doesn't hear me—or doesn't want to. I quicken my pace, shouldering past drunken revelers, not giving a damn who I piss off.

This need to protect her suddenly consumes me, drowning out the nagging voice that whispers I barely even know this girl.