I drift without direction for a while longer, the sting of my bandmates’ words still fresh and raw. Mistakes? Sure, I made them—enough to fill a song or two with shame and regret—but they're not the apocalypse lurking in my thoughts.
No, that shadow belongs to Jett Vice and his treatment of Wendy—a real issue tangled with moral dilemmas that need confronting.
And honestly, she probably doesn’t need saving. The way she inserted herself between us when Jett blew up was a real turn-on. She’s a force to be reckoned with, all five foot five inches of her small stature.
You’re screwed, Velez.
And then I find myself standing in front of the Sonic Trash tour buses. I spot Wendy’s silhouette by the gear trailers, herbright orange hair hard to miss in the darkness. She's leaning against the side panel of the vehicle, a beer dangling from her fingertips, her posture relaxed yet alert.
My heart stutters in my chest, and I pause for a bit, watching her. She looks like she's waiting for something—or someone.
I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves before I approach. "Hey."
She turns to the sound of my voice, her eyes meeting mine. There's a flicker of surprise in her gaze, followed by something else—something warm and inviting.
"Oh… What brings you to this neck of the woods? I thought oil and water don’t mix."
I shrug, erasing the distance between us until I'm leaning against the trailer beside her. "Just out for a walk. Needed to clear my head."
Pause.
"Hey," she blurts out heatedly. "What the hell was that during ‘Release Me’?"
"Oh, that." I scratch the back of my neck. "Bad day."
"You’re a bass player. It’s like the easiest instrument."
"You’ve heard that too?"
"Yeah. You really did your boys dirty."
I chuckle, unsure if she’s seriously pissed off at me for those mistakes or simply pulling my leg. "Are you saying I played like shit tonight?"
She nods, taking a swig of her beer. "You did play like shit. You came in late a few times. Your lead singer looked mad."
"Ah, yeah, all bands have that one guy who’s always upset at everyone and everything."
"I know."
We lapse into silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air between us. I can feel the heat of her bodybeside me, the faint scent of her sugary perfume mingling with the smoke from the distant campfires.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, taking in the way the scattered light plays off her hair, the curve of her lips around the bottle. She's beautiful in a raw, unfiltered way that makes my heart ache inside my rib cage. Such an odd, unfamiliar feeling.
"I'm sorry about earlier," I say, breaking the silence. "With Jett, I mean. He had no right to treat you like that."
She shrugs, her gaze fixed on the bottle in her hands. "It's not your fault. Jett's always been...intense."
I frown, not liking the way she says it. Like she's used to his anger, his outbursts. Like she's resigned herself to being treated like shit.
"You deserve better," I say. The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. At first, I think she's going to brush me off, tell me to mind my own business.
But instead, she smiles. A real, genuine smile that lights up her whole face. "That’s right. I do."
Something hot that has nothing to do with the alcohol or the post-show high spreads through me. It's her, plain and simple.
Wendy. The girl with bright orange hair and an unshakable attitude. The girl who's crawled under my skin and taken up residence in my thoughts in less than a day.
