"Listen to me," I say in a low voice. "Jett's a big boy. He knows he needs to behave if he wants to keep playing these gigs. If that happens, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with his attitude."
She looks away, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. I want to reach out, to smooth my thumb over her mouth. But I keep my hands to myself, curling them around the beer bottle instead.
"His temper," I supply, "is going to be the end of him one day. I’m not telling you this out of spite. I’m telling you this because guys like him rarely last. So just remember. That's on him, not you."
Wendy tucks an orange strand behind her ear. "I really should go," she murmurs, but she doesn't move.
"Yeah," I agree, even as every cell in my body screams in protest. "But listen, if you ever need anything... If you ever want to get away for a bit..." I swallow hard, forcing the next words out. "You can always come over to our tour bus. No questions asked. No strings attached."
"Okay," she whispers. "Thank you."
With that, she slips the pass into the back pocket of her black skinny jeans and turns to leave. My eyes trace the sway of her hips, the bounce of her hair, and the night air feels suddenly cold against my skin, bereft of her warmth, as I watch her walk away.
8WENDY
On Saturday,I wake up to a vacant tour bus and the smell of stale cheap coffee. The thin mattress squeaks beneath me as I roll over. A spring jabs into my back. Another glamorous morning in the crew vehicle. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Still, it's better than sharing a bus with high and drunk Sonic Trash guys.
I rub the remnants of last night's mascara from my eyes and fumble for my phone. A text from Jett glows on the screen.
Need ur help landing the vodka deal today, babe. Don't flake on me.
I sigh, tossing the phone aside. Flake on him? That's rich coming from the king of empty promises.
As if on cue, Cruz's words echo in my head.
You deserve better.
And deep down in my gut, I know it. But a greater part of me that’s been scared to be alone, scared to be what I was before I met Jett, keeps whispering things at the back of my mind. Things that speak of depressing solitary nights and no permanence.
Jett needs me.
He’s not really denying that, and I suppose it’s true what they say about us women—we love with our ears and not our brains. Because my brain has been screaming for me to run ever since I got off the plane, but my ears adore all the cheesy words the prospects of a better future.
I think I am becoming my mother, I conclude as I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind the lids like psychedelic fireworks in the darkness.
LA is calling me home, but I can't bail now. Not yet.
I throw on yesterday's crop top, hoping the lingering scent of cigarettes and sweat will blend in with the festival crowd for the time being. I decide to take a shower and change later in the day when the band’s bus is empty and no one is creeping on me from the common area.
Jett's already in a pissy mood when I find him by the press tent, surrounded by his band of merry dickheads.
"…believe that shit?" He kicks a nearby amp, feedback screeching.
Several crew members turn their heads at him, probably wondering what his problem is and what the amp has to do with it.
"Fuck 'em," Griffin says. "They think they're hot shit just 'cause they headline."
"Their drummer can't even keep a beat."
Jett is definitely wrong.
You don't need to be a drummer to recognize when someone's got that kind of magic. I've been around enough bands to tell who's got it, and The Deviant? They've got it in spades. Meanwhile, Jett's got his own mess to sort out, always tearing others down just so he can feel an inch taller.
This all loops through my mind as I edge closer to the Sonic Trash guys, this odd mix of heat curling in my chest—partfrustration for Jett’s nonsense and that cringeworthy second-hand embarrassment gnawing at me because he's my boyfriend.
"Amateurs," Jett snorts out as I hover at the edge of their little bitch-fest. "I'll show them how a real rockstar parties."
Is this really what I signed up for? Babysitting an oversized toddler with an overinflated ego? Somehow, I won’t feel guilty if these guys get kicked off the tour for real.
