"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.
4CRUZ
My mind’sstill 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 tosleep 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?"
