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. IgnoringZander'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.
Still, I feel it deep in my bones.
Outside the tent, she just keeps walking, away from the people. That same gym bag she carried around with her earlier is now hanging at her side, the strap having slipped down to the crook of her elbow.
I'm close enough to touch her now, my fingers grazing her shoulder. She whirls around and her eyes flash. And then I have to brace myself for the impact, because the gym bag flies at me.
