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.
