"Fuck off, like for real."
I block out his words. Wendy just doesn’t seem like that kind of girl, like someone for a one-night stand.
My hand is resting on the body of my bass as I edge closer to the curtain, putting myself into the circle we usually form right before the set. An awkward group hug takes place.
Tonight is our last night performing here. Justice is right. Most bands and their crews will be returning home or getting back on the road in the morning. As for us, after a couple of days off, the endless hotel rooms and late-night partying will resume. We just started this tour leg. And somehow, we’ll have to suffer through the rest of it with Sonic Trash as our opening act.
What a fucking disaster.
But for now, we play. We play until our fingers bleed and our voices give out. We play because that’s what The Deviant does. We entertain.
10WENDY
All the hypeabout The Deviant is real, including the dumb rumors about them being an actual cult.
And every single person gathered in front of the stage is a devout believer. They know every lyric or when a song will change its pace or when Justice Cross—the stupidly sexy lead singer with his devil-may-care grin—will croon and gasp seductively into the microphone. They’ll moan and jump with him. And it’s hard to tell if he’s pretending or having an actual orgasm.
It's this kind of alchemy that makes The Deviant concerts feel electric.
I’ve been to plenty of gigs—dragged by Jett to nearly every Sonic Trash spectacle imaginable. But compared to The Deviant? Sonic Trash lives up to its name, mere background noise. And yes, trash.
I have no idea why I never noticed it before.
Maybe all that nonsense Jett’s been saying about a glorious future together blinded me, but now that I stand side stage, watching The Deviant’s brooding bassist playing for a hundredthousand fans and being so cool about it, my eyes have finally been opened.
Jett and I don’t have a future together.
You’re drunk, bitch,a voice in the back of my mind whispers. It sounds a lot like my mother’s—condescending, with that raspy edge from years of smoking.
It’s all those cocktails you downed earlier talking.
I shake it off. I want to enjoy the show, enjoy it without Jett’s obnoxious hugging and screaming.
Even though the sound here isn’t the same as out there, the music still pulses through me like a second heartbeat.
On stage, The Deviant move in a darkly seductive dance, like otherworldly creatures in layers of gothic glamour. I sway on my feet, the vodka from earlier buzzing pleasantly in my head, softening the edges of my surroundings into a neon blur.
Some guy with a loopy smile hands me a drink.
"For me?" I mouth at him, hesitating. I know better than to take drinks from strangers. What if it’s spiked?
The guys nods. "You look lonely, hon."
I open my mouth to object, but he shouts, "I promise I didn’t roofie it."
I take it gingerly.
The girl next to me, who witnessed the interaction, leans in and says loudly into my ear as if to reassure me, "That's TJ. He throws cash around like confetti. Buys drinks for everyone. Solid dude."
When I glance back to where the guy just stood, he’s already long gone. His silhouette is somewhere further down the side stage, shaking hands with some heavily tattooed guys.
Fuck it.
I take a sip. The alcohol slides down my throat like a warm river. For a moment, I lose myself in the primal energy of it all. I’m allowed to have fun, and if you’re at the festival The Deviantis headlining and have an opportunity to watch probably one of the biggest bands in the world right now, it would be dumb to forego it in favor of Jett’s drunk, boring, and awfully suspicious company.
The band is three songs in when my phone lights up in my hand. Jett's name flashes insistently on the screen, and reality comes crashing back in fragmentary texts.
where r u?
